I’m Not So Sure What This One-Night Stand Taught Me

I caught the nod he gave me with his chin toward the front door: Come outside, I want to talk to you.
I caught the nod he gave me with his chin toward the front door: Come outside, I want to talk to you.
I had already dealt with the fact that my parents had to have had sex to create me; but this was bigger than that. Did they do things like this together?
As we near our destination, we’re stopped by three attractive strangers who hold us up long enough to necessitate introductions. I catch the gleeful look in Alex’s eye upon their approach. I know I’ve signed up for a night worth remembering, so I follow her lead as she proceeds to lie about just about everything.
He suggested I meet him for a drink in SoHo; a curious offer on his part, given he didn’t know what I looked like. To be fair, my impression of him was based on icon-sized photos attached to social networking profiles and strings of author bios…
When it comes to the lurid details, there is a fine line between poorly written romance novels and the admittedly boring reality: sex is seldom glamorous.
“Hey, nice to meetcha. I’m Preston.” I give him the once-over. He’s pale and skinny, wearing leather loafers without socks and khaki shorts. His outfit is better suited for a day at the docks than an evening of East Village bar slumming.
The mound of soft hair beneath the cotton caught me off guard. This was my first exposure to a viable thicket of pubic hair in the wild, both intimidating and sexy now that it was attached to a young, lithe body instead of the older women changing in YMCA locker rooms.