I did not go into the night thinking this would happen. I went into the night exhausted, dreading being out at all, and planning to be home in bed at 10 pm.
But isn't that how all the best stories start?
It was a friend’s birthday, we started at a wine bar. Just some girls and their wine flights. I had been at work late and got there after several flights had taken off and landed so I was behind. This seemed perfect—it’s so much easier to keep to your going-to-bed plans when you are already behind the drinking game.
“But you never go out! You should just have fun! You don’t have to work in the morning!” They were right. Why shouldn’t I just have fun? I can do this!
I caught up pretty quickly when the second stop was a Don Pablo’s for margaritas (#tequilaweakness), and started to fly right along with them when we made our way to the local 20-something-graduated-college-young-professional-still-trying-to-be-in-college bar.
We met when he dropped his beer bottle and it spilled all over one of the girl’s designer jeans. (Incidentally, she took this rather seriously and left soon after…ladies, don’t wear your designer jeans after 11 pm to a bar if you are gonna freak out when they get breathed on wrong.) I flirt-sassed him pretty hard and he went with it. Something about the laid back I-can-keep-up-with-you ease about him drew me in and made me look past the zip-up hoodie and embrace the Converse sneakers. We had a mutual friend who encouraged the banter and kept us talking and flirting. Then he casually mentioned he could dance, proceeded to spin me (quite well I might add) around the bar to the beat of the music, and I was hooked.
Three years prior I had a bad breakup. Bad. Crying in my bed for months and losing 20 pounds bad. I hadn’t had sex since that guy and was starting to wonder if I ever would again. Or if I’d ever talk to a boy that would spark any interest. Or if any boy would actually have an interest in me. (A thought that still plagues me daily but that’ll just have to be another blogged rant.) But this guy had interest in something. Enough interest to get my number, start texting me as soon as I left the bar, and convince me to come back to that bar later that night.
Was this interest just a ploy to get in my pants? Yeah, it probably was. But interest is interest and it was mutual so why not just go with it?
I sort of knew the minute he walked through my front door what was gonna happen. But it was bizarre to me that there was no discussion. Just a sudden ravaging of clothes and stumbling towards my bedroom. My last boyfriend had also been the first guy I slept with and it had been a discussion. A question. A respectful and loving situation for which I will always be grateful.
I was mentally so torn. Is it ok for me to be doing this? Is it ok that we didn’t have a spelled out conversation? Is it ok that I’m ok with that? Is it ok that I want this? Should I stop this making out to talk about it? Should I be saying no? Should we use a condom? (The answer to this question is ALWAYS YES, do NOT be the stupid me that I was and not use one, no matter how much you tell yourself it’ll be fine). Should I feel guilty about doing this? Is it ok that I know this was probably his plan the entire night? Was it MY plan the entire night? Should I know his last name? Should I be more certain of his first name?
I was losing my mind. This went against every Catholic girl born-and-raised instinct I had in my brain. But if I forgot about thinking with my brain and thought with my pants (or without my pants is probably more accurate), I wanted this. There was some other instinct that’s probably the one men are accused of listening to that was screaming inside me. I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to be thrown onto my bed, stripped naked, and fucked. When I stopped telling myself this is wrong and reminded myself that I was the one who walked back to that bar, found him, and let him follow me home (with an obvious pit stop at McDonald’s because late night drunk eating is priority number one), I suddenly was able to have of fun. Like, a lot of fun. And if the length of the activity is any indication, he did, too.
The next morning, I did freak out for a minute. More because I wanted him out of my bed so I could call my best friend and then go get Plan-B than anything else. But once I got myself a Starbucks latte and downed that pill, I couldn’t stop smiling.
I was expecting to feel dirty. To feel used and icky and regretful. I thought I would want to go to church and then upon entering, fear being struck down. I was afraid I would decide I had made a huge mistake.
I didn’t.
Was it a high? Maybe. Like a post-exercise high. A post-sex high. I felt desired again. I felt like a woman. A woman who still knows how to bite her lip and flip her hair and get a guy to pay her attention. A woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go for it.
Which is how we all should be about all the things we want. Sex shouldn’t have to be the exception to this.
Yes, you CAN go out and decide you want to score. You can, and should, be forward when you want to be. Be sassy. Be snarky. Play the game. Make eyes and touch his arm and flip your hair. Walk away to get his attention, or walk away to get away. Get what you want. And if what you want is to have sex, have it (safely). And if you wake up that morning, and decide, “Hey, that was fun but I don’t need to see or talk to you again,” don’t see or talk to him again. Or walk away from the start and end the night warm and snuggled in your bed with Netflix and your Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal from your fourth grade DisneyWorld trip.
Your empowerment as a woman doesn’t have to end with your sexuality. It is just as much your right and privilege as a woman to flaunt and embrace your sexuality as it is any man. Let it make you feel confident. Let it make you feel beautiful. Let it make you feel like you can walk into any room, be who you want to be, and get what you want to get. Whether it’s a latte, a pizza, a raise, or a man.
Now, go put on your black leather jacket and red lipstick (or whatever makes you feel your best, sexy self) and show ‘em what you got.