Day 61 of 66 Days of No Sex (date of incident was Day 55)
(Previous week here)
I’m splitting a pitcher of Budweiser with a friend and two of his buddies at Side Bar, a divey joint in the heart of downtown Boston.
“So you’re on what, Day 50 or something?” one of them asks with a grin like young Simba.
I met this guy a year ago at an ugly Christmas sweater party when I tried and failed to get in his pants. He left after we played a few games of beer pong. Our interactions after that were limited to a Facebook friend request and reciprocal picture likes. I’m surprised he’s aware of the challenge.
“Why are you doing it?” he asks.
I push myself away from the bar and sit up as if I’ve prepared something more polished than what comes out of my mouth.
”I just feel like I was doing a lot of dumb shit. Every person I was hooking up with was a mistake in some way: coworker, had a girlfriend, so on. And I wasn’t behaving in a way that was in line with what I wanted. So if I figured if I couldn’t have sex responsibly, I shouldn’t have sex at all.”
They always ask if it’s hard.
“The first few weeks, but then you get used to it.”
“And you can always touch yourself.” He doesn’t look at me when he says that, just hovers his hand over the top of his beer, rests his fingertips on the edges of the plastic cup.
“Right.” I take a sip. “You guys single?”
Of the three guys, two of them are, including Christmas party guy.
“I’m picky,” he says.
“Me, too.” I smile and hold my beer up to toast the early night. “Cheers,” I look at the taken one, “to your happiness.”
Literally two Budweisers later, I’m sitting on the lap of a blond dreadhead at Highball Lounge, sucking on the side of his neck because it felt so good when he kissed mine.
Two months without any real physical contact does wonders for heightening the senses—the baby hairs of his neck under my tongue, the brush of his thumb on my thigh. It’s euphoric.
Dreadhead and I shamelessly make out in one of the oversized armchairs, and I have no idea where my friends are or if they are watching my live action hypocrisy.
When I consume more than 2 ounces of alcohol, I act like it’s the first time I’ve ever encountered a member of the male species.
Dreadhead whispers in my ear, “I really want to fuck you.”
I bite on his lip and press my cheek against his.
“That’s not going to happen.”
I’ve gotten good at saying that. I have to say it a lot at work when my prospective candidates have unrealistic salary expectations near the end of their interview processes.
The words sound harsh aloud, but putting hope to rest is one of the nicest things you can do for a person.
So I kill Dreadhead’s fantasies before he can tell me the details and explain the arbitrary 66 days and magical date of March 8th. I don’t think any of it is sinking in, so I pat him on the shoulder and go find my friends. Exit right.
I rejoin Christmas Party guy at the bar. Another Budweiser. A leggy bartender walks down the length of the tabletop, and pours champagne into my mouth from what looks like a glass bong with the spout of a genie lamp. From that height, it fizzes into my mouth and splashes against my chest when she tapers the stream.
My spaghetti strap top is drenched, and champagne is dripping from my chin and the tip of my nose. I’m the lead engineer and the caboose of the Hot Mess Express.
I dab the wetness from my face and turn to Christmas Party guy.
“I think you’re cute and I want to kiss you,” I say. He gives me that shy Simba smile.
I don’t remember what happens here, how we transitioned from acquaintances to physically familiar. He tells me we shouldn’t, but he lets me. It all happens fast.
I’m grinding on him in the dark and crowded dance floor, pushing him against the wall, grabbing him by the wrists and running his hands along my silhouette and down the front of my sticky, sequined tank top. And although he’s going along with it, I feel resistance in his muscles and a drag in his motions.
At this moment, I’m grateful that double standards are benefiting me as a woman.
Because if I were a guy forcing a woman’s hand over my crotch at a bar, it would be perceived as the rapiest thing ever.
As a woman, I get away with sexual domination in public settings, even when the guy is visibly trying to pump the brakes.
I also consider the hesitation is him protecting himself from the drunk girl who acts bolder than her sober self is willing to claim. He’s immersed in that grey area with me—kissing me back, still holding on to my hips as I press against him.
I feel powerful being the initiator, insulated by societal notions that I am never the predator, no matter what I try or how hard he pushes back.
In a brief commercial break from my own trash reality TV, I think about this season of The Bachelor. Who am I to judge Corinne for trying to fuck Nick on the 7th date? I’m trying to fuck this guy on our 2nd encounter. The only difference is it’s not on national TV, but should people really judge their actions based on how many people are watching?
Exit Highball Lounge. Christmas Party guy offers to drive me home, but we have a quick nightcap at Beantown Pub. He tells me I don’t have to finish it if I don’t want to. I tell him we don’t waste alcohol.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” he says. “You’ll be here when I return?”
I feel like a child, but he’s smart to consider I’d run away.
In the brighter atmosphere, we actually talk. He ended something serious recently. I tell him it’s a hard place to be, when everything around you reminds you of them.
“You’re not a bad-looking girl,” he says. “I just had to leave the party early last time.”
He’s not hitting on me at all. Rather, he’s reassuring me.
We walk to his car and I have to take my heels off on the way. The hard ground doesn’t hurt my feet that badly, but I complain because I want him to know I’m in pain. He offers to carry me and I say I’m fine.
It’s quiet. The windshield frames a 2-D world outside, while we’re in a cube of bright green and white lights inside. The car is moving now.
“I want to fuck you.”
Had I not heard the words earlier, maybe I wouldn’t have phrased it this way. But I want him now.
I want to fuck him dead (to the brink of it, not in the pre-existing state)—make love to him so relentlessly and mercilessly that he will cease to exist as a sentient person on this planet.
“I’m not that kind of guy,” he says. “I don’t do one night stands,” which is the worst thing he could have said because it only makes me want him more.
Tell me how long I need to date you then. Continued: the conflict of him wanting to get down on one knee and me wanting to get down on two.
“You’re so close [to 66 days],” he laughs. “You can do it, Connie. I’m not going anywhere.”
1) Did I just cockblock myself? 2) Did he just give me pre-sale consent?
“I saw you with that guy,” he says. The streetlights color his face in shadow panels as we cruise. “I knew you were wild.”
He doesn’t mean for it to hurt me.
I see myself in his passenger’s seat, almost like an out-of-body experience: Heels tossed on the floor, loose gravel stuck to the bottom of my blackened feet, wishing I had packed my bank statements or annual reviews, anything to show him I was a fully formed adult and not the girl who was begging to fuck him.
This is the feeling I don’t want anymore. I’m disappointed that I make it hard for guys to see the sincere me. I don’t have any right to complain about fuckbois who don’t take me seriously when I act like a fuckgirl who doesn’t take myself seriously.
It means nothing to spark attraction, to grab someone’s hands and place them on your body. I’m the wild card, the girl that guys want in their hands to use, not the one they need in the endgame.
That’s because I choose to be the wild card.
Christmas Party guy idles his car outside my place, doesn’t fully park. He really did just want to drive me home. I don’t wash off my makeup when I get inside.
I’m pissed I am less than 2 weeks away from 66 days and I fucked it up. (This is a violation of Rule #2: not explicitly or implicitly propositioning for sex). All I had to do was keep my mouth shut. Be civilized, and not tell boys I wanted to fuck them dead.
It wouldn’t be so frustrating had I not gone so long without incident, had I not done so well.
I wanted to prove to myself I could change through forced habit, but tonight my character caught up with me.
I’m going to be six feet under and my tombstone will read:
Here lies Connie Chan
Daughter, sister, friend, and writer
Who fucked them all dead.
I blame Budweiser.
Next week here!