I’m just like every other girl on OkCupid. I don’t really want a boyfriend. I just want to go out on dates once and a while, flirt with guys and meet people outside my circle. New York is a hard place to meet guys. I’m a cute girl. I’m smart, funny, charming. I’m actually kind of a catch, but I don’t like when guys try to pick me up at bars.
No, I don’t want you to buy me a drink. No I don’t want to give you my number. No, I’m not going home with you. Sorry, I’m not that kind of girl.
I don’t really like the idea of meeting a guy online either, but at least I have the opportunity to do a little Google stalking before I actually make eye contact with him. Ever Google a guy’s online dating screen name? You should. If he’s stupid, he’ll use the same name for every site he is a member of… match.com, plentyoffish.com, myspace.com, dateacouger.com (yea, that website actually exists). If he’s a real winner, he’ll be registered on every porn, erotica and weird fetish site too.
One Saturday night, after a long day at the bar talking about the woes of dating, my gusband (gay husband) decided he needed to revamp my OkCupid profile. We went back to my apartment, drink a couple bottles of wine through a straw, and voi-la, my new and improved profile began filling up with new visitors and messages.
With my gusband at the controls of the keyboard we begin responding to the guys I deem acceptable. One guy was kind of fun to talk to, so I keep up the convo for a couple of days before he asked for my number. I could tell he was probably a douche bag, but for some reason, I didn’t really care. The next day, I got a text from him, and we made plans to get drinks. We continued chatting between then and our date, and I kind of enjoyed the annoying sarcastic banter. I knew I would hate him.
I met him outside the bar. He was cute, but not my type. I didn’t like his shirt, he wasn’t very tall (I like really tall guys, and most guys in New York are short). Yes, those are shallow things to say, but I’m allowed to have an opinion. We went into a loud fratty bar on the Upper East Side, sat down and immediately begin aggressively ordering cocktails, like we were trying to one up each other by who knew of a more powerful and obscure cocktail than the last.
Our conversation was easy, funny, and very quickly turned to sex. He asked me how many guys I’d slept with, what turned me on, what my cup size was, what my favorite part of sex was, what my secret moves were, if I ever came.
Who asks someone these kinds of questions on a first date? I was mortified, but so tipsy, amused and uncomfortable that I answered some. I dodged some too. Then, he kissed me- in the middle of the bar.
It was a good kiss, an impassioned kiss. I actually wanted to kiss him again. I was that girl who everyone calls a slut, and he was that guy that all of your friends warn you about.
After a few more drinks he did kissed me again, then asked what I wanted to do. He suggested that we go to another bar, get more drinks there, or go back to his place.
We ordered another drink, and another. Then we went back to his place.
I told him I wasn’t going to have sex with him, and I wasn’t. Really. I’m not that kind of girl (unless I’m on vacation or in another country).
We begin fooling around. I used every excuse in the book to not let him touch me down there, and he used every excuse in the book to touch me down there.
Who was I kidding? Why would I have gone back to his place if I didn’t want to have sex with him? I gave in. I wanted to. We had sex. Great sex. We had great sex four times (and he was actually listening when I told him what turned me on, because he had all the right moves).
As I laid in his bed, I couldn’t help but wonder who this girl was who was letting some dude she just met on okcupid, and didn’t even like, fuck her. Four times. I didn’t know who that girl was, but I kind of liked her. I didn’t even care if he thought I was slutty.
At 4am, with my hair tousled like a Victoria’s Secret model, I stumbled down the stairs of his Upper East Side walk up, smelling like tequila and sex, got into a cab and went home feeling empty, but a little proud.
He drunk texts me now and again to come over, but I never respond. I’m not that kind of girl.