One Night Standing


You’re wearing your tightest dress and some men holler at you from their parked car. You’re simultaneously disgusted and flattered. You dance in a packed club for hours, waste money on overpriced drinks, just for some stranger to come up behind you. You’re sweaty and you know your makeup is running and that dress does not feel right any more. Your friend has found a guy for the night and you’re happy for her. Jealous of her. Hope she makes it home okay.

It’s rude to turn around so you hope for the best. You try to guess based on how well his arms wrap around you and how his torso feels when you press up against it. He’s never quite as attractive as you imagine.

The best guys come into your life when you’re not longing for something as simple as an embrace. A glorified bed warmer who you will cook for and expect nothing in return. At first you want beauty and brains, then you settle for whatever is convenient. It’s all a matter of convenience.

You’re ironically empowering yourself, you say. Women should be able to fuck whoever they want to. You have trouble writing the word fuck. You’re awkward and clunky and extraordinarily self-conscious in bed. You have an ass you just don’t know what to do with. You pull the covers to hide all the crevices and curves that some men find attractive. You don’t think your partner is one of those men.

You’re overly apologetic because that’s how you were raised. You’re breasts are firm and large and you pride yourself in how pleasing they must be for a man to touch. This thought is confirmed on multiple occasions. Breasts are your savior because no man can deny them.

Then there are beautiful moments when your heart wants to burst because something is just perfect. When you find a man you like and can lest in silence and your bodies fit together just right.

When the morning comes, you have crust in your eyes and your throat is bothering you because you forgot to chug water the night before. You have to pee, as you always do, and you feel exposed without your bra and panties. They’re somewhere one the floor. You search quickly with a blanket wrapped around yourself. When you bend down some of the blanket rides up and you see pale and dimpled skin. “Do you want anything,” he might ask. You would like a wet towel and a glass of water. You say that you’re fine.

You casually glance in his mirror and see traces of yourself. Your eyes are glazed over but there are still those flickers of green when rays of sun hit them. Your lips are chapped and tinted white but they still move familiarly. Your hair is in disarray but your bangs hang in the same way and strands comfortably curl under in the same unruly fashion. You feel incredibly sexy and don’t know why.

You walk home and ask yourself why you do this over and over again. There were blissful moments when your lips first met and those drinks paid off with liquid courage. Some Billboard 100 song came on, which you would normally skip on the radio cruising in your car, but it becomes a siren’s call beckoning you deeper in.

Now it’s too bright and you walk through an empty town. Your cell phone is dying and it frustrates you. No one would call at 7 a.m., but it still frustrates you. People are getting up early for work, and you know they are heading to a minimum wage job. You feel a sense of camaraderie because you have a similar journey. Walking towards this American Dream. To deal with the routine and loneliness and sometimes flat out apathy. You’re not honest with yourself any more. 

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