|ONE NIGHT STANDING ROOM ONLY.|
|Kelly Mills, Darci Ratliff, Jami Attenberg, Jen Hubley, and Katharine Davis||
Sometimes the urge is irresistible: It's a gnawing, grating, prickly feeling that we just can't get rid of that thrusts us into situations that we'd otherwise be wary of in normal (read: SOBER) circumstances. However, these things happen and, well, sometimes a girl's just gotta eat. We fully support a woman's right to hump more so than most other websites and therefore we gave our Black Table ladies free reign to discuss their one-night stands in their not-so-glamorous-glory for all of the internet world to see. Lucky you!
Regardless, we're sure these women are still pristine as new fallen snow. (At least, that's what they tell their boyfriends.) However, on some occasions, well, they were not. Enjoy. Spank us later.
For much of my life my philosophy of break ups has been 'hair of the dog': treat a broken heart with a little faux-love. This was the plan when I went back to Jeff's (or whatever his name was) apartment, a week after a painful split from my boyfriend Dave.
Jeff and I met in a bar, and only talked long enough to establish that we were both just out of relationships and seeking refuge from the weeping with an alcohol-fueled tumble. He had been dumped the day before, and hadn't even had the time to take down the photos of his ex-girlfriend. She looked a little like me, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when, a few minutes into the undressing, he asked, "I know this is crazy, but could I call you Karen?"
Since I'm not a call girl, I'd never before been asked to pretend to be someone's lost love. I started to feel creeped out, and then got inspired. "Okay," I said, "If I can call you Dave."
Things were proceeding nicely, and he was doing the good work, when I started laughing. "This will never work." I said. "Dave was never that good at going down." "Yeah, well Karen would just lie there." Said Jeff. "It was like giving head to a dead tree." We both snickered, and I instructed him to make high-pitched little grunting sounds like Dave would have. "Think baby pig." I instructed. "Well Karen, you might want to rub a little garlic in your armpits, because you aren't nearly as funky as you usually are," he laughed.
We went back and forth, demonstrating all the stupid things our exes did when they screwed and how stupid they looked and sounded when they came. "Here, doesn't it look like I'm having a grand mal seizure?" I asked, as I mock-humped his leg. "You have to make a stupid pouty face when I ask you to be on top," said Jeff. By the time we were done, we were sweaty and teary from laughing, and the mood was pretty much dead. I no longer missed Dave so much. It was the best one-night stand I've ever had.
The most disturbing part of this month's assignment was the multitude of various humiliating and hilarious one-night stands I could have written about.
Should I tell you about the guy who came home with me even after I threw up strawberry margarita all over the Mexican-wrestler-themed Seattle bar? Maybe you'd like to hear about the time I was caught naked in a crawlspace at a warehouse party, and so embarrassed that I didn't throw a shirt over my body, but over my face instead. Then there's the guy I tried to get rough with in a New York dive bar. When he told me, "I don't want to hurt you, I want to hug you." my response was, "Uh, dude, I didn't drink all that tequila and drag you into the bathroom for a hug. That's not what this is about."
But I thought about it and the choice was an obvious one, because I lost my virginity in the most retarded and ridiculous way. I was at a New Year's Eve party in high school and hooked up with somebody's older brother's friend from college. I thought he looked like Barry Sobel, who I realize, in retrospect, is neither attractive nor famous enough to be worth mentioning. And yes I was a little drunk, but a fully aware and willing participant.
The brilliant part is that the entire population of my small town high school was on the other side of the bedroom door, attempting to break in and save me from myself -- sure that I was making a drunken mistake. After the third time the lock was picked, "Barry" and I started fucking up against the door to prevent any more interruptions. Kids were screaming at me from the next room -- others trying to climb in through the window. It wasn't the "very special episode of Blossom" you might expect. No Judy Blume novels were inspired that night. Instead my first time was more like watching X-rated Three's Company.
Am I serious? Not at all, Dad. Someone paid me to write this and I had to look up most of the words in the dictionary (I love Jesus so fucking much!).
Having just been dumped for the second time in a month, I went to the neighborhood dive bar with a friend. She introduced me to a regular she knew, whose nickname was "Evil." Evil seemed anything but. He was good-looking and boyish, if a bit slight. He didn't say much, so I'm not sure why I chose him to cheer me up.
Evil walked me home at the behest of my friend. I invited him upstairs to play guitar, which from our limited conversation I gathered was the only thing we had in common. We sat on my couch and took turns strumming half-heartedly. I waited for him to make a move, but he didn't. Finally, I straddled him. We made out until he broke away and said, "Are we going to go all the way?"
I sat back on his knees. Was he fucking kidding me? After a moment, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. English was his second language maybe it was an idiom problem. Whatever. We fumbled at each other again. Then, all of a sudden, there was a finger in my ass.
"Whoa, Cortez. Wrong port."
He apologized, embarrassed. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I thought, "I'm not drunk. If I fuck this guy, it will be a decision." I went back to him and we began to have sex. After a while, I said I was tired and wanted to stop. He seemed confused but didn't try to persuade me otherwise.
We woke up around ten. He tried to finish what we'd started, but he was still wearing the condom from the night before, and I'd had quite enough. I waited for him to leave, but he lingered, saying he didn't have to be anywhere until noon. We made shallow conversation for a few minutes before I suggested we get started with our days.
"Oh, I didn't get your phone number," he said on his way out.
"I'm sure I'll see you at the bar," I replied, closing the door.
And since then, I have. It's really awkward.
A friend of mine recently had a one-night stand with a woman who informed him -- mid-makeout -- of one of her rules: she only gives blowjobs to her boyfriends. This seems inherently wrong -- if you're going to have a one-night stand it is the exact time all of your rules should go out the window. Why be coy? You're already being a slut.
I've had my own fair share of slutty experiences -- not so much anymore, I'm far too old and cranky to play those games, but I do support the right of the younger generation to carry on in decadence -- and many have been great. But of course the ones that stay with us are often the worst, and my most memorable happened during college with a guy named Reed, who, as it turned out, was aptly named.
I remember making out with him, feeling his groin pressed up against my thigh, and getting this strange sense that something was wrong, or missing, as it were. As it turned out, his penis was like a roll of quarters short fifty cents, and not only that, the sex was over before I even got started. (He blamed it on all the weed he had smoked that night, and then asked for a massage. I kicked him out of my apartment.)
This event led to the creation of the "if it lasts less than two minutes and you can't feel it, it doesn't count" rule, which lives in harmony with the "if you do it in a foreign country it doesn't count" rule, a cousin of course to "if you do it on vacation it doesn't count" rule. Now those are rules I can live with.
I find sex with strangers just about as hot as a trip to the gynecologist. In fact, if my current beau tires of my days-of-the-week underpants and tendency to break small household items during sex, I fully plan to become a nun. Of course, I didn't always feel this way. What changed my mind? Let us review the evidence.
One night stand #1: Shortly after breaking up with my college boyfriend, I decide to seduce a casual acquaintance who is visiting town for a few days. No big deal right? You can say that again. Our liaison consists of: ten minutes of awkward sex, six hours of waiting for him to wake up so he could leave, fifteen minutes of fitful sleep, broken by ... the sound of him watching CNN at 9:00 in the morning. "I'm sorry," he says. "But I can't get my day started until I see what's going on in Israel."
One night stand #2: It's a big mistake to sleep with one's coworker. Everyone knows this. Everyone who knows me also knows that I have no common sense. Hot coworker and I go out and drink Irish Car Bombs. Incredibly, this does not act as the anti-Viagra. Five minutes after sex, hot co-worker gasps, "As long as we're on the same page here, I think this will be an awesome arrangement." That statement? Is the female anti-Viagra. I remove myself to the couch. Shortly thereafter, hot coworker removes himself to another job.
One night stand #3: I develop a crush on a boy in another city. After months of flirtation, he's in town and so I invite him home with me. Unfortunately, all this build-up has aggravated my panic disorder, which in turn aggravates my alcoholism. More unfortunately, the excess of beer aggravates my bowels. The evening is thus somewhat marred by my very real fear that I will poo the sheets. This, of course, would have inevitably led him to refer to me forever as "that girl I banged in Boston who shit everywhere." You try to relax under those circumstances.
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