This is the continuation of this post – my first genuine attempt to meet and connect with girls on campus.
The outcome of the first approach exceeded expectations in every regard. I simply went up to the glass door, knocked, opened, and said “Hey, excuse me, but I thought you’re the cutest girl I’ve seen all day, and I had to come and meet you.” She smiled, we talked, discovered shared passions for psychology and neuroscience, laughed a bit, good shit. The great thing about opening with direct honesty is that there’s zero ambiguity. I’m here because I intend on eventually having sex with you. Naturally, it’s all tact and subtext: I’m not going to say ‘I want to bang you’ right out the gate because any quality self-respecting girl would blow me out instantly. Euphemisms like I think you’re cute and let’s get coffee, balanced with the non-platonic touch on the arm here and a brush against the thigh there, pave the way for the eventual consummation.
This was Thursday last week. We had sex Saturday night. I was hella fucking impressed with myself.
This is the third fastest I’ve had sex with someone I’d never met beforehand. The first was an OkCupid date where I was inside her two hours later. Her name was Taryn. Couldn’t really be proud of it since beer-goggles set me up for regret once the inebriation wore off. Yikes. The second was roughly six hours, with someone I met off Facebook. Her name was Michelle. I saw her thumbnail somewhere, thought she was cute and saw that she’d moved halfway across the country to study medicine, meaning she was both attractive and smart. So I added her. Having noticed that she was an atheist, I sent her a message in jest pretending to be a fundamentalist Christian. Though Poe’s Law won out, we continued to message infrequently for a couple months. Somewhere in June/July last year a post popped up in my news feed declaring her intention to return to my side of the country. I messaged her asking if she wanted to meet up, she agreed, and we exchanged numbers. We ended up pub crawling near my apartment, where all the venues were within walking distance. Good deal of alcohol later, I was inside her, bareback. Considering this was three months after my break-up, the ego boost was huge. We ended up having a fling for a couple weeks before she headed back to med school, during which time we shared so much that I recommended she visit my therapist, which she did. Fun times, man.
Anyway. Me and Angela, having sex. Last week, late Saturday afternoon, I’m lying on my bed browsing through DotA 2 guides on my phone. I get a text asking ‘What are your plans for tonight?”
Oh, shit’s on now, motherfucker.
I wait exactly six minutes before I reply. Nothing, I say. I considered making up some bullshit where I was going to do something fun and cool with friends that don’t exist. But I decided against it: honesty had carried me this far, I could still get some mileage out of it yet.
She tells me we can meet at a bar. Where she’s going to be with other people. My best friend is moving away tomorrow. I’m pissed. Spending time with a girl I haven’t fucked and her friends presents such a nightmare of logistical problems that I’d rather just cancel and reschedule than endure the constant scrutiny of the inevitable fat friend and token blueballed nice-guy orbiter that is so characteristic of any attractive female’s social circle.
On the other hand, she’d been flirting hard through the texting (a winking smiley face is such a rare artefact that it’s use means you’re pretty much in), and there’s going to be alcohol involved, so I thought fuck it, it was worth a shot. I told her up front that I was slightly apprehensive about going out with both her and her friends. I said that, as long as we had some one-on-one time together (read: sex) sometime during the night, I’d be game.
So I walk to the bar. Black t-shirt one or two sizes too small with funny shit written on the front. Hipster-frame glasses. Jeans. Sneakers. Casual as fuck, not that I cared about getting laid or anything.
I introduce myself to everyone. Firm handshakes, big smiles. Be nice, be pleasant. Angela is sitting on the opposite corner of the table. Good.
When there’s friends involved, I rarely focus the majority of my attention on the girl. She’s agreed to go out with me, she’s subtly indicated through several channels that she’s partial to the idea of fucking me, I don’t need to spend more time winning her over. What will seal the deal is gaining the favor of everyone else. Entertain her friends. Make them laugh. Make myself interested in what they’re saying. I’m here and I’m cool and I’m nice and I’m not a threat to you. Or at least that’s how I think it works. Either way, it worked. Angela told me afterwards that during my bathroom trips, her friends said something to the effect of if you don’t go home with him and fuck him then I will. My ego was briefly launched into the stratosphere.
Then again, there wasn’t really much to overcome. All of the other girls were fat. There were two dudes, one was shy and timid and the other was gay and obese. It didn’t really take much fake extroversion to make an impression.
I know I sound like a narcissist asshole describing them like that, but fuck it, I earned the right to be judgmental dick. I didn’t suffer through all of those gym sessions and botched dates for nothing.
Anyway. We go back to my place. Making out leads to clothes coming off. UNdressing leads to the discovery that she’s sporting a mean bush, as is the case with girls who haven’t had sex for a few months. Nevertheless, I was so close to ending my seven-month dry spell, I wasn’t going to let a wee bit of hair stop me. I could tell that Angela wanted to have sex, but was hesitant because A) she’d only met me for the first time three days ago and B) hadn’t trimmed down under for a while. I dispelled the former concern the standard procedure of smiling, saying haha, yeah, and resuming making out. Getting over the second involved going down on her. Fuck. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing.
It worked. Unfortunately, she insisted I used a condom. The only ones I had turned out to be made from some kind of latex material that absorbed so much fucking moisture it felt like my dick was covered in sandpaper. Nevertheless, I got it in, fucked a bit, but didn’t come. Couldn’t feel shit with a condom on. Didn’t matter, had sex.
Not only that, but I did it three days after meeting her. Three days. Contemplating the possibility of being able to pull this off again and again and again with different girls was fucking exhilarating.
Turns out I might have to. I’ve grown bored of her during the last few days.
When we’re in bed, pre/during/post-fucking, things are great. I’m so flooded with oxytocin and endogenous opioids that my usual neuroses are completely gone. Imperfections go unnoticed. There, in that moment, things are good.
But then, afterwards, we’re at lunch, or we’re just talking and fooling around because she’s on her period. Then I get bored and turned off. The redeeming factor of sex isn’t there. What’s worse is when she starts talking about things like ‘feelings’ and ‘connections’ and I begin recoiling in horror.
This is a FWB deal only. You know this. Don’t make it inappropriate. She’s moving to New Zealand in a few weeks, so I’m more or less safe from being clung to.
On the other end of the spectrum, I can Skype with Karen for hours without seeing anything as much as décolletage and still feel all of the affection in the world. For me to want to pursue anything beyond brief casual sexual relations, the girl has to tick all the boxes. Connect on every level. Fulfill nigh impossibly high standards. Which Karen does.
I’m sure there’s a few eligible candidates on my campus who do too. I’ll likely have to keep wading through one approach after another, navigating past rejections and head games and novel circumstances which will require me to do more than simply sit there and look good. I’ve built myself up enough to be miles ahead of most of the competition; I think I just get how opposite-sex relations work for the most part. But there’s still some work to be done, growth to be had, things to figure out. Competing with other men in my age bracket isn’t going to be easy.
Be attractive, don’t be unattractive. Work out. Dress well. Have immaculate grooming. Excel in your career. Learn an instrument. Be funny. Be different. Dating is a ruthless display of sociosexual Darwinism, there’s no room for mediocrity. Human beings, like all life, are built to survive and reproduce. There’s a reason good sex is one of the best, if not the best, experiences that can be had. But it comes at a price. Be attractive, don’t be unattractive.
Angela’s coming over in an hour. I’m running out of alcohol with which to numb out the boredom. I wonder that Karen’s doing.