The Casual Sex Thingie

                                                            Expectations vs. Reality

                                                           Expectations vs. Reality

I answer the door and crack it open an inch. Just an inch. Because I’m wearing a lacy black lingerie number— stockings, garter belt, red bottom shoes, the whole shebang. And I am so nervous that I feel sick. The kind of sick that you feel when you’re coming up on mushrooms where your whole body is clammy, your eyes are shaking, and you’re sweating out of every gland of your body. Oh wait, that’s ecstasy too. Anyway. It’s the first time I’m doing this whole thing: the whole casual sex thingie. 

His name is Samuel and we had talked for a whole day before deciding that we would rendezvous at my place in the evening to bow chicka wow wowwww. Which is kindergarten speak for SEX. I had been single for awhile and my gay friend Bev put me on to Tinder. “GURL, it’s just like GRINDR but for straight people. Get yours and get on with your life. No hassles, so strings, no problem.” It sounded pretty slutty and I knew I would probably judge myself later for it, but I’m at a point in my life where love seems bleak, also my vibrator needed a well deserved vacay so I hop on the app, swipe right to every asian fuckboy I find and 15 hours later I’m in this ridiculous get up, waiting for my Tinder prince to help me get my groove back. 

I poke my head through the crack and see nothing. I lower my gaze— an inch, two inches, 4 inches. Finally, two almond eyes peer up towards me. He’s cute but fuck me in the ass, I’m over dressed, er under dressed.  FACK. I slam the door shut in his face and quickly kick off my Louboutins. WHY DO I WATCH SO MANY MOVIES? Girls do not actually answer the door wearing lingerie, even if they’re expecting to get FUCKED. It’s so cheesy. Oh god why am I so fucking LAME? I hop to my bedroom while trying to rip off my stockings and garter belt. Frantically I scan my room in search for anything that resembles normal, non-fuck me clothes. Yesssss, an oversized, cropped Wu-Tang hoodie. I throw it over my head and slip into some yoga pants (when in doubt, yoga pants, always). I glance in the mirror on my way out and smile: fresh as fuck. Nice save. On my way back to the door, I grab a pair of pink socks with pom poms on the heels and jam them on my feet. 

I fling open the door and he’s standing there clutching his phone, looking like a confused chump. It’s actually kind of cute. “I’m really sorry, I forgot I left the whatchamacallit with the asdfjawoeifhwoh….. “ I trail off on purpose because I’m really bad at lying. I pull him in with both arms into an embrace and shut the door behind him. “So are we going to do this?” I whisper in his ear, trying to be seductive. A piece of spit gets caught in my throat and I end up coughing in his ear. He flinches and pulls away. I catch a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, or maybe it’s disgust. God damnit, Kat you fucking hack. I’m so embarrassed that I try and reset everything awkward that’s happened in the last 3 minutes by grabbing his face to kiss him. I catch him by surprise because he jumps back and puts his hands in front of himself in a defensive gesture. 

“WHAT. THEFUCK.” 

He says it exactly like that— with a pause between “what” and “the fuck.” I silently admire the way he says it and make a mental note to start saying it like that. Hehe.  

“This is what we—I mean— you were coming over to— so I thought we could start by—“ I literally can’t get a complete sentence out. I mean, all I really want to say is, I thought you were coming over to bang. But I’m a lady. But also, mostly I’m a coward. 

Finally I gain some composure and shrug, “Do you still want to come in?” My face is all twisted and red, probably swollen too, from humiliation. I look down at the floor and I’m staring down at my Wutang hoodie and pink pom pom socks. Suddenly my whole get-up looks less fresh as fuck and more suburban urban Baby Gap. To my surprise he slips his hands around my waist and puts a finger under my chin, “Slow down baby girl, why you rushin?” “Not Russian, Chinese,” I retort and chuckle. Oh my fuck, Kat, why do you insist on cockblocking yourself? The song “My Own Worst Enemy” (by Lit) loops in my head. For tonight, it is my anthem.  

We’re hanging out on my sectional listening to Wu-Tang, making out and sipping box wine. We don’t have much to say to each other, but there’s definitely chemistry. We’re feeling over each other's clothes and right when I start wondering when or if they are coming off, he removes his shirt. I follow his lead and pretty soon we’re both naked and then BOW CHICKA WOW WOW, right on the couch. Fireworks, symphonies, and doves erupt into the ceiling. First comes love then comes marriage, then come Samuel Jr. in a baby carriage. 

Just kidding. As if. Shit like that doesn’t happen to people like me. 

I start on top, we switch, and he finishes on top of me ten minutes later. Welp, that was extremely underwhelming. I grab my clothes and run into my bedroom to get dressed. Now all of a sudden, I’m modest. Not like I just had sex with a complete stranger on my couch.

I tiptoe out when I’m washed up and he already has his shoes on. He leans in for a hug at the same time that I stretch out my hand for a handshake. I end up half face palming him Heisman style and he takes that as his cue to swivel around and leave. “Later babe, it was fun” he says non-commitedly as he steps out the door. I say nothing and just wave, but he doesn’t see me. He’s already gone. 

I stand there staring at the door. I feel a little gross, a little sad, but mostly I feel nothing. 

“What. THEFUCK” I say out loud. Exactly like that— with a pause between what and the fuck. 

 

 

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