The other day, I executed one of my first succesful booty calls. (I hate the word booty call, I wish there was a better word for it. It feels outdated and the word “booty” has no romantic or sexual rhythm to it. It’s awful. I’m going to try and find another word for it in the course of this post.) I’ve had casual sex before, but I never really considered them much of an emotionless sex-date because there were either some sort of strings attached or because we had to watch movies or eat dinner first in order to cushion what we already knew – that we really just wanted to have sex with one another.
With this, even though the person I decided to sleep with and I were friends (work friends, now I guess we can consider ourselves real life friends), we specifically detailed the emotionless aspects of the sexual transaction that would eventually take place.
I was in a space in which I was excessively emotionally connected to someone else. That person was connected more seriously with another person which left me lingering almost constantly outside. My primary romantic interest had a secret – and that secret was me. I wanted to have sex with someone else because I wanted a second sexual outlet. And I too wanted the power that comes from having a secret.
The decision to sleep with the other person happened in an unorthodox way. The person with whom I had sex and I went on a fifteen minute coffee break together during work and as this person left, they yelled to me that if I ever needed a booty call, they were available.
I always make semi-reckless decisions when I’m trying to overcome my emotions for another person. This could have been one of them. I’ve slept with a few people in an emotionally stunted daze only to drag myself through some sort of bizarre scenario in which the turmoil of the actual act momentarily makes up for the specific breed of sadness that comes with permanently being relegated to the periphery. For some reason, whenever I put myself in a situation where I want little more than casual sex, I get bizarre sex. I get kicked out of bedrooms for demanding condom usage. I take ecstasy and attempt to feign intimacy. I sleep with bridesmaids at the bachelorette party and groomsmen at the wedding. At my worst, I even download Tinder and swipe right for distraction, only to find that I don’t really want to swipe right at all. Each time, I reexamine my entire life and then do it all again.
But, perhaps because of how thoroughly it was planned, this bout of casual sex was effective. If my primary sexual interest had a secret, then I wanted one too. It was as simplistic as that, childish really. So, the two of us discussed why we wanted to sleep with each other: for me, I wanted to reclaim some of the sense of autonomy that is lost when you feel more intensely attached to a person than they are to you. And, as she said, “she wanted to fuck.” But before we could solidify the contract, our fifteen minute coffee break was up.
So, throughout the course of the day, as I was monotonously selling my labor as a keg in the hyper-capitalist machinery that is the United States workplace, I made up my mind that I did want to sleep with someone else because I did want a secret and I did want a second sexual outlet. But I wanted to do it at least semi-correctly this time, so that day at lunch I laid out all my intentions immediately, from the start, while eating a strange concoction of sweet potato and zucchini smothered in enchilada sauce and my new “sometimes sex-person” ate a mustard and tomato sandwich because minimum wage does not pay for lunch meat.
“I do want to sleep with you. But I don’t have a lot of free time, and I don’t have much more in the way of emotional space right now.”
“That’s fine,” she responded, “I just like having sex.”
And so, the transaction established, the negotiations began:
“I have a mattress on the floor right now,” she said, describing the venue. “No air conditioner, but there’s a fan. I’ll get wine, but it will be cheap wine. Is that okay?”
“I’ll pay you for half of it.”
“I’m not using you,” I added, even though I guess I technically was.
“It’s okay if you are,” she abruptly responded.
“How do you feel about quickies?”
“How do you feel about sex-toys?”
“Will this be awkward at work?”
“What’s your address?”
“You’re ten minutes walk from me.”
“Convenient.”
Our verbal contract was sealed and we made up our minds to be secret sex partners for an undetermined amount of time.
So, a few days later, I called her. Showing up at someone’s house when you know you’re only there to have sex with them is awkward. I don’t know how to approach the situation, the pre-coital small talk. I’m not sure how to act while meeting the roommate, who’s cooking pasta on the stove, pulls me in for a hug instead of shaking my hand. I suppose when you know someone is in your apartment because she’s about to have sex with your roommate, one outer layer of formality can be prematurely shed.
I was glad we had wine. We sat in her room, on her mattress on the floor, in front of the broken mirror she found in a trash-bin outside her apartment. Mirrors are a luxury item. I didn’t have one besides the one I used in the bathroom. I didn’t know what my entire body looked like anymore – I only saw myself as a headshot, had only seen the my torso and face for the last couple of months. Minimum wage does not pay for full length mirrors.
It doesn’t pay for much more than a mattress on the floor. But besides the wine, that’s all we needed.
I sat awkwardly on the mattress and thought of something to say. She had a book on the bed – Toni Morrison’s Beloved. I talked about that, talked about her exposed brick. She apologized for the mess. I told her I didn’t care.
I barreled through two glasses of wine before she admitted she didn’t know how to approach initiating sex with me when I wouldn’t stop clutching the glass. She didn’t want to make me spill but she also thought it was time to get things going a bit. So I set the glass down and we did.
Post-coital casual interactions are far less awkward than the pre-coital only if you leave almost immediately after, which I did. There’s no waking up smothered and sober. Only a walk home, alone, happy to have the space in which to reflect on if you want the sex to happen again.
And, because our interactions were honest and rooted in some level of respect for our intentions and the particular spaces in which we found ourselves, it was something I wanted to do again.
rallyshoplocal 