The One-Morning Stand

Upon returning to New York, I looked toward the internet to find sex and love. My roommate told me about the site he was also looking for love on, OkCupid. So, feeling dangerous, I made my very second online dating profile (the first being the JDate profile I drunkenly made while in college. I spent a month sending cheesy, pre-made Jewish flirts. Nothing happened). Now, it was 2013, I had a mission. I was going to be finding a man, a man better than any man before him. Surely he was out there, and he was on the internet.

Since that perfect person does not exist, I found plenty of lesser men willing to call me pretty and buy me a drink.

I did not look at the available men in New York since I was leaving for what I thought would be three months in Philadelphia. I had been hired to do a show there from March to May, but I was leaving New York in February to go do a workshop of it. So Philadelphia was my OkCupid location. I quickly began writing and texting two guys, one a medical student and resident at a local hospital, and the other, completely mysterious expect for his sexual desires.

I simultaneously flirt with both of them in every form of modern communication, expect voice calls, no one does that. I communicated with Number Twelve, the medical resident, fairly generically, but Thirteen, I disclosed to him my desires for rough sex. I described to him being choked in the shower and tied up by Number Nine, and loving it. Twelve seemed very vanilla in his sexual appetites, but being a doctor with high earning potential is always a turn on… At least a turn on for me. The more Thirteen would write, the more I knew I wanted to fuck him, but terrified to meet someone from the internet purely for sex.

At the end of January, I bid New York farewell. It was an uneventful month, but I would be back. I knew I would move there eventually. Off to Philadelphia I went. The week before leaving, I had secured a couch to sleep on, the couch of Number Eight. He had moved from our small town and from his once proud hole-in-the-wall to a rather enormous Philadelphia apartment that we shared with two other guys.

I met him at the church for which he worked. I always found Number Eight’s love/hate relationship with religion interesting. He was the one who had the Bible on his nightstand while we fucked. But he, like most humans, was a complex person who would frequently put forward only his best self for others to see. But that’s what the digital age is for, showing others only the best parts of you and your life. To demonstrate  how awesome and fantastic your life is, and how enviable it is. I love living in this age. I love knowing that behind every great picture or inspirational status update, there is a less than perfect life of a less than perfect person. Social media is a perfect place to lie to others and yourself. I digress….

That first night in Philadelphia Number Eight and I sat around and chatted with his roommates, and caught up on the last year of our lives. I wanted to sleep, but his roomies were still awake on the couch I was to sleep on, so Number Eight offered his bed. Wanting to crash, I willingly hopped in, and soon enough, he joined me. We talked for a bit longer, but mostly just cuddled. Maybe we kissed, but I remember very warm and comfortable cuddling. It is a small thing, but I really enjoy this little memory of him.

While we did cuddle, we did not fuck. I spent two or three nights there, and we would do the same each night. It was lovely. But, there were two men in that city that I wanted to meet and/or fuck.

So on Friday, the 1st of February, I met Number Twelve for an early-morning date. We both had later obligations, so it was decided on a morning redenzvous. It remains to this day, my first and only 9:00 a.m. first date. We met for coffee, artisanal pour-overs, at a very hipster coffee joint. The conversation was predictable, I told him trivial aspects of my life, and he did the same. This was as generic a first date as one could get, aside from the unusual hour.

After we finished our coffees, we began to walk as light flurries began to fall from the grey February sky. Cleverly enough, he took our walk in the direction of his apartment. As the snow picked up, he suggested we go back to his place. He was cute enough, he bought me coffee, he was someone new and different, so I went.

He lived in a gated apartment complex that was really, very beautiful in the falling snow. We passed the perfect trimmed shrubbery, newly dusted in the falling snow, to reach an inner courtyard where he lived, and in a rather nice townhouse. I believe he shared it with someone, I cannot remember because we were so quickly up the three or four flights of stair to his room. His room was small, cozy, and warm. He wasted no time in starting to kiss me, and the usual dance commenced. Our clothing was quickly removed. Some dirty talk happen, maybe a condom was used. I think I asked for it, and, as usual, was talked out of it. We start to fuck, and it was very frantic and fast-paced. After some furious pounding, he wanted me on top. Not a problem, I like to oblige the requests of my lovers.

Yet, a prolonged stay upon the cock of my partner, to me, is lazy, and laziness is not tolerated in bed. The message that that sends me is that the guy wants to fuck me and feel the sensation of fucking without the effort. It is this position where I can best get myself off, so, if he is completely inept in bed, this would be preferred. It is a position to enjoy for a bit, not the entire time.

As I grind myself on top of him, he continues to tell me how dirty I am, and how I am taking his cock, all things I enjoy hearing while fornicating. But soon enough, he came, and that was that. It was semi-satisfactory sex. I got myself off, while enjoying his dirty words. Nothing specific stands out. I do not tend to remember the details of the more inconsequential fucks of my life. Number Twelve was not remarkable, he was, however, my only one-morning stand.

After laying in his bed post-coitus, the “what next” feeling quickly took over. I did not have to be anywhere for a few hours, but I certainly did not want to stay in this stranger’s bed if we were not having sex. As we lay there, he leaned over the bed to check an electronic device of sorts. He lets out a groan and tells me that he has been paged to go into the hospital. How very convenient. I suppose when you’re a resident this is a good way of saying “please get out” without actually having to say it. Luckily, I had no intentions of overstaying my welcome.

I quickly get dressed as he remains in his boxers. He had no intentions of getting ready to go and respond to his very important page. Nonetheless, I can take a hint, and bundled up for the chill of the mid-winter weather. Perhaps there was a departing kiss, but I am doubtful and I was left to show myself out. That’s a lot of trust, letting someone you just met walk through your shared home. I could have stolen any number of things, but I just walked right out into the blast of cold air.

As I walked away I had familiar thoughts. I asked myself what the fuck I was doing. Did I really just fuck my morning date, and now back outside by myself, and all before noon? Surely that was not the norm for internet dating, because that was not dating, that was hooking up, that was sex. This is where I am led astray in the online dating world. I had a difficult time sorting out the dating from the sex. Now that I had endless faces and possibilities paraded in front of my screen, everything was more accessible, especially sex. Sex could be found with a simple, single click. And for the next year or so, it would be a dangerous game of clicking and fucking for me.

I continued to wander the snowy streets of Philadelphia for a few hours. Knowing I’ll never hear from Number Twelve again, I continued to write and text Number Thirteen. After not fucking anyone new in six months, Twelve and Thirteen came in quick succession. Twelve was a throwaway fuck, something about which I never think twice. When looking back at the significant lovers of my past, Twelve is toward the bottom. Thirteen, however, holds a much more significant place. Number Thirteen was my first true taste of BDSM, and it was terrifyingly exciting.