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Ladies Who Don’t Hate Casual Sex: we’re all familiar with the various risks and pitfalls of online dating, right? Broke-ass weirdos, STD’s and possible organ theft, oh my! We follow the basic protocols of safety (e.g. don’t make your handle your real name, as in Yolanda_Smith_of_223_Bleeker_Street_Apt#3_Is_Vulnerable4U).
We are aware that we must temper our raging appetites for carnal dalliance with a little precaution. Because there’s some crazy mutherfuckers out there and we don’t want to end up drugged out of our minds by one of them, staring listlessly at a lame poster on a smudgy wall, intercoursing in a way we never would have consciously chosen. That would just prove all the haters right, and it would suck. Right?
Except for when that kind of works out. I came face to face with this last scenario, and I have to say my reaction was not what I expected.
I went out with a guy who seemed a little…not-quite-together. Maybe it was his fantastical job, which seemed to come out of an episode of HBO’s “Carnival.” Maybe it was his off-color reports on late night “wanking,” delivered to my inbox when I woke up in the morning, followed by statements of deep regret and embarrassment. But whatever, he was hot, and I was sick of boring guys. I met him at a park, during the daytime. Safe, right?
Well guess what. He WAS hot. And he was into me. I dutifully left after 90 minutes, but when he asked me to get together again later that night, I made it happen. I felt like having sex, with him, and -- I rationalized -- it wasn’t really the first date anymore.
I picked him up (online dating guys generally don’t have independent modes of transportation) and whisked him away to an apartment by the beach. It was raining. It was romantic. We had loads of sex.
An hour or two into the sex, it began to dawn on me just how…remarkable it was. It was the best sex of my life, I realized. And I had had a lot of sex. Things would be different now that I knew this level could exist, I thought, somewhat discomforted by the thought.
After another hour and oodles of multiple orgasms each (yeah, each), I returned to metathink about the sex I was (still) having -- “How is this possible? This is fucking amazing! What the fuck is this, it’s like we’re connected by a live wire, it’s like we’re taking turns playing the puppet master. We’re even using our feet and elbows here.”
I’d never felt anything like it, and it’s not like we had that serious chemistry I’ve-known-this-person-my-whole-life feeling going on.
Slowly it dawned on me: I had possibly been drugged. Break for more sex. Back again to metathink thread -- “This must be ecstasy. I’ve never tried it but the ridiculous phrases occurring to me about live wires and puppet strings, I’ve heard that kind of shit before and that’s how people describe it. And the feet and elbows, that’s not normal. So this guy thought it would be cool to slip me a mickey without asking? That’s so not cool (break for more sex) -- but how could he have done it, it was impossible? Oh right, he brought me my glass a couple hours ago -- more sex -- okay I’m definitely not seeing him again, that’s a major shady move -- more sex -- I wish he had asked me first because I might’ve been into it.”
So eventually I kicked him out without any serious attempt at confirming my suspicions. I then submerged myself into a fitful post-coital hole of exhilaration and shame. I only told my best friend, and not many details at that. The next day I emerged from public transit at said friend’s house, carrying a baby food jar full of my urine in the back corner of a tote bag. She happens to have access to urine testing services, so I knew she would use her powers for good (she is a great friend and this is just one of her perks).
I spent the next 48 hours not sure what would be the more troublesome result -- that I had in fact been drugged (and therefore truly violated, despite how enjoyable the result had been); or that I had not… and therefore had to deal with this mind-blowing sex deal for what it was.
During this time the guy continued to contact me, politely, even gallantly, asking if we could “hang out” again and see “if we click outside the bedroom.” As much as I was aware this did not resemble the behavior of a drug-date-rapist, I was nonetheless still pretty sure I had been drugged. Maybe he was just completely looney bins. I was lucky he didn’t take my wallet too, I mused.
Then the results came back clean for everything. Clean. Oh.
I ended up going out with him a few more times. One of those times we had more hours of mind-blowing, catastrophically good sex (and I made damn sure he had no access to anything I consumed). After that we attempted to hang out for an hour. During which time I confirmed that we had pretty much nothing in common and he may even have been unusually vapid. Thank God he left the country shortly thereafter.
In the end I think it was a combination of great physical chemistry, and our respective …sets of technical expertise… lining up in rare and extremely mutually fulfilling ways. My sexual repertoire and capacity for orgasm actually expanded as a direct result of this foray, and I’m happy to report that the expansion has been fully transferable to another foray or two since, including solos.
Moral of the story? Online dating is a risky place. There is nothing preventing what I thought had happened from actually happening. And that would have been ghastly, not to mention probably criminal had it happened.
But since it didn’t, the moral of the story is that I had great sex. Just kidding. But it kind of is.