Last summer, after showering and getting dressed for work, I received an email from my then-manager advising the team that the network was down for the day and that we didn't need to come in for work. It was only 10am and I was ready to do something. As all of my friends were already at their respective offices, I shrugged and decided to peruse the casual encounters section of craigslist. Most people would probably go out for breakfast and read the paper over a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs; me, I decide, "I'm going to fuck a total stranger." I wasn't about to let my freshly shaved pussy go to waste.
It took but a few minutes to write an ad. Soon after, the responses began to clog my inbox. Despite my request that nobody send me photographs of their penises, I was flooded with visions of cock. There's something alarming to me about seeing random body parts, images of genitalia close up without some reference. Visually carved up through photography, I find the random dick pic a study in violence; it is something long argued by feminist theorists about the inherent dehumanization of women through media when advertisements focus on a model's backside or bosom, using her assets to promote a product generally unrelated to her perky tits. Much has been written on this, and if you're interested in reading further, I suggest Jean Kilbourne's Can't Buy My Love for an intelligent and informative discourse.
But, I digress. After I waded through all the poorly written missives, I finally connected with one responder who, as it turned out, lived only a few blocks away from me. Unfortunately, he was at work, but we continued to exchange emails, promising what naughty things we would do to each other once we were finally in the same room. However, arousal is never tempered by promises of future fulfillment so I went with the second best thing: I agreed to meet up with some random guy who had started to instant message me.
I headed toward the subway, feeling my upper thighs slick with excitement as I walked with brisk steps. His building was a luxurious one in the east village, complete with video surveillance. I tried to hide my face when I rang the bell because I am always awkward when aware of being captured by the camera. The door buzzed and I bounded up the steps to his apartment where he greeted me in a towel.
"I just got out of the shower," he apologized. "I'll go put on something now. In the meantime, may I offer you a bottle of water?"
I sat on the couch, nursing a Poland Spring and admiring his living room, when he stepped back into the room, clad in a tee shirt and madras shorts. He was well-built, extremely muscled. This is not my preferred body type, but he would do.
"Listen," I began. "I don't want to know your name. I'm going to call you Matt. After we fuck, you can tell me your name, but right now, you're Matt."
He laughed.
The fuck itself was awkward, sweaty, and leather-sticky. He'd poured out half of the contents of a glassine envelope's worth of cocaine for us to share, and I, having not partaken in nearly three years, relented because I was already feeling rather tawdry; why not go for the gusto? He had trouble maintaining an erection, but I somehow managed to eke out a less than earth shattering orgasm. We lounged naked afterward, chatting, when he admitted that his name was Mike. Whatever.
I stood up to go, buttoning my Liberty print dress. "Thank you for everything," I said, kissing him on the cheek.
"You're much prettier in real life," he blurted out. "When I saw your pictures, I thought you were like, a five or a six but when you got here and I saw you on the camera, you're easily an eight or a nine."
I didn't know how to respond so I tried to smile winningly, and shoved my feet into my shoes and left.
Home, still not fully sated and now twitchy from the drugs in my system, I thought it would be a great idea to drink a bottle of wine alone, as its soporific effects would counter the cocaine. Three glasses in, and still feeling a bit restless, is when the first man contacted me. "I'm taking a cab home. I'm going to come over and fuck you," he promised.
He arrived with another bottle of wine. By now, I was completely drunk and probably not the most charming. I'd changed into an oversized black tee shirt (one left behind by my former live-in boyfriend, making it particularly not sexy) and a pair of denim cut offs. Before I even managed to let him into my apartment, he had me up against the wall of the foyer, my entire body lifted up against his with my thighs wrapped around his waist.
This seemed promising.
Ultimately, it wasn't, because I was a drunk mess (finishing off the wine he'd brought), but we managed to connect despite that, and are now, well, he's my go-to "I want to have a threesome" guy. Doesn't everyone need a friend like that in their social circle?
