I Think It’s Better the Second Time Around

24 May

As she fumbles to get the key into her front door, the realization occurs that this is the best part of the night. The bits that occur after the idle twenty minute chatter in the kitchen is what brought me here, but isn’t the knowledge or feeling that this person is eagerly and willingly walking you into their bedroom equal to or better than the physical sensation of the act? If that weren’t the case, it wouldn’t matter who was on the other end of that sensation, would it? We’d fuck like blind rabbits. Isn’t the person in question usually carrying out some sort of role or aim we’ve concocted for them? Isn’t that the point?

I am more alone here than if I were by myself in my bedroom. The drone of my fan is missing. The person warming the back of my neck with her breath is a stranger. The most she can provide for me is a prop body for me to close my eyes and pretend it to be the one I would rather be with. I sold myself out there, recognizing her excessive giggling and brushing of limbs. I said things I didn’t mean and censored opinions and laughed at dumb jokes and ignored inane commentary and did nothing but prove to myself that being myself isn’t the reason I got here. And for what? What have I sold my character and time for? A mediocre drunken blowjob? Twenty minutes of thoughtless, distracting pleasure? This is far more shameful than paying for it monetarily.

I peel her arm away from my body and slip out into the quiet night, the slush of wet snow making a squishing, sucking sound as I walk. We often choose these partners on the merit of a thoughtless interaction – no phone numbers, no breakfast, no strife. But this is never the case. They are serving as an antidote to loneliness, an assurance. A replacement to disperse affection on and fuck when we can’t be with the ones we want. The situation cannot be casual and mutual, as neither party understands the other’s thought process. A disconnect exists that prevents comfort and flippancy.  I used her while I thought of someone else. She was no different than a walking, talking, flesh-and-blood masturbation tool – a blow-up doll with a pulse.

I stop into the gas station to grab a pack of cigarettes and to get the sting of feeling back into my numb fingers. The skinny middle-aged man behind the counter is the same one who sold condoms to us a few hours earlier, rolling his eyes as we stumbled and howled near the coffee machine. Now he gives me a sly smirk and a wink as I hand him a five.

It all comes down to the desire to love and be loved. Without that passion, that seeking of affection, that hazy sense of romanticism, you are merely fucking a stranger, and with every stranger I fuck I feel a little less able to ever believe in those things again. We de-emphasize love while we scrutinize sex, and why are we scrutinizing sex in the first place, outside of the lacking of what we expected it to provide? We attach some grandness to it, some buzz, that it can’t live up to because, well, it’s just sex. It’s mythos lies in validation, in the giggling and high fives of friends, the images of media, our green nature on a subject we have to fight ourselves to frankly discuss; without affection, it is simply a highly pleasurable sensation, something akin to a massage at the spa.

By the time I arrive home my pant legs are soaked halfway up to my shins, rings of salt dust layering around their ends. Seth is asleep on the couch, an episode of Taxi glowing from the television. I peel off my jeans carefully, making sure not to touch the frozen ends to my skin.  The tips of my toes are still numb as I crawl into bed. Every now and again I hear the faint sound of Danny Devito’s animated ranting. I grab an extra pillow and pull it to my chest, drifting off to the low hum of my fan and the canned laughter of a 1970’s studio audience.

Advertisements

4 Responses to “I Think It’s Better the Second Time Around”

  1. Chad May 24, 2008 at 6:58 am #

    I don’t believe that we find love. We look for it. We expect it to appear under the correct circumstances. A notion of love forms in our brains and we pursue it like a dog following a scent that only it can smell. This is not a love search-party even though it may feel like we are hot on the trail. So why do we say things like “looking for love in all the wrong places”, “I found love” and “It was love at first site”? It’s as if love is a treasure hunt and the reward is a sparkling, overflowing treasure chest that stuns us when it is finally found. I admit that a part of me is attracted to this concept of love. It implies that love will make you happy and let you keep and enjoy your new found treasure. I guess this is why we search for love because then its absence only seems to represent a deficiency in skills that are useful for things like Hide-and-Seek. By protecting ourselves during the so called “search” for love we actually hinder the process and growth that results in healthy love. This means that most of our socially acceptable ways to “fall” in love are actually products of the fear of not being loved which in turn makes it more difficult to actually find love. In fact, it almost makes it impossible.

  2. writerchick May 24, 2008 at 7:04 pm #

    What a thought provoking post. I think though, at some point in our lives, we stop looking for something empty to fill the emptiness. At least I did. After realizing that sex for the sake of sex doesn’t do anything for me.

    Writer Chick

  3. threesteps May 26, 2008 at 11:55 pm #

    Hey, I really enjoyed the read, I think I’m going to add you to my blogroll if you don’t mind.

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Posts of the Week & Some Other Stuff | Writer Chick Talks - The Home Planet - May 30, 2008

    […] wandered into the side door of a new blog (for me anyway) and found this rather compelling post about casual sex and […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: