This time last year I met a boy.
I’ve never been a one night stand kind of girl. That’s not for any moral reason; I just never thought a complete stranger could do anything for me in the bedroom. I’m all about the intimacy and passion and I couldn’t comprehend the notion that someone I’d just met could ignite these in me.
Anyway, here I was, talking to a guy in a bar. He was Australian and would be heading back home in six months. I had little interest in him, but I was suffering a serious drought in my love life and, before I knew it, we were kissing. I remember how heated things got while we kissed in that bar, and it didn’t take long for him to ask me back to his place.
“Well… ok. But I’m not having sex with you.”
I genuinely believed myself as I said these words. I had done it many a time; gone back to a guy’s place and just talked and cuddled. In fact, I quite enjoyed being a tease. I liked the idea of a guy thinking he had got me just because I’d agreed to come back to his, and then his inevitable frustration when I turned down any sexual advances.
So we went to his place, laughing and joking as we walked the London streets. We went inside, he showed me around, we got into bed. He kissed me gently, told me how sexy I was, and attempted to seduce me. For a while I declined, but there was something different this time. It felt unnatural to reject him. Something inside me decided I wanted to give the whole one night stand thing a try. My friends did it, why shouldn’t I? Eventually I allowed it to happen and to my absolute shock… I was enjoying it.
I refused to stay the night and called myself a cab, despite his requests for me to stay. There was something about this person that I liked, though I was too intoxicated that night to feel the true extent of my lust for him, and I knew, despite the cliché that a guy won’t call you again if you sleep with him too quickly, that I would see him again. I wasn’t surprised when I received a text from him immediately after getting in the taxi, and another one the following day.
This was a situation that I knew was dangerous. I knew it could never go anywhere. He was here for six months, and the idea of me leaving with him was completely unrealistic. And yet… I wanted to see him again. I knew I couldn’t do casual but I decided to anyway. I’m a masochist that way; I detect red flags and then ignore them. Once I’ve started a story I get wrapped up in the excitement of seeing how it plays out.
He came over the following weekend. I wasn’t sure of him at first. It was bizarre; here was an almost-stranger in my house that I was about to have sex with, and we were sober. We talked for a while and got to know each other a bit, and then the inevitable happened. Instantly, I felt an intimacy I hadn’t felt in years. I’m not someone who immediately feels attached to someone after sleeping with them, but on this occasion it was like a switch had been flicked on in my brain. The chemistry between us was unquestionable. We were a perfect fit between the sheets. When he left in the morning, I could think of little other than his body, his skin, his touch… and every time we saw each other, my desire for him got stronger. I was drunk on lust.
I would hear from him every day and think about him all the time. This filled me with anxiety. He was leaving, I knew that, but I was already addicted to the situation. I had never felt such a strong physical attraction for someone so quickly.
Abruptly, less than three months down the line, that boy I so desired ended our fling. He said there was no point in carrying it on, that it would end horribly, that it was best to finish it now before things got messy. I knew he was right but I was crushed. It was already messy for me.
This felt like heartbreak, yet I knew it wasn’t. All I could think of was that closeness, that desire, that high that he gave me. I strived to find it again, going out with my friends all the time, kissing boys on dancefloors. Nothing ever came close. No one excited me. I missed him so much that I struggled to think of anything else, all the while knowing that it wasn’t love. It was lust. I wasn’t missing our conversation or our silly jokes about our cultural differences. I was missing his body and the feeling he gave me when he touched me. I longed for him to change his mind. I yearned for a late night “I miss you” phone call that never came.
It took months and months to get over that feeling, just like a real heartbreak, but I don’t have any regrets. It was a learning curve. I’ve learnt that the power of lust can be just as intense as that of love, and I’ve learnt that that undeniable, sexual spark you feel with a perfect stranger can leave you broken and confused, regardless of your emotional compatibility with that person.
So now I’m still not a one night stand kind of girl, but that’s not because I think a stranger can’t do anything for me in the bedroom. It’s because I know that they can.