K said, after I detailed my adventures from last night.
So, let’s start by saying that (after a USPS faux-pas in which my costume, which was supposed to be here by Thursday, and is stuck in
purgatory the post office in town) I was wearing my shortest freakum dress (which is luckily partially red, and thus appropriately festive) and four inch studded stiletto pumps; I might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “Fuck me, puh-lease” in flashing red and green letters. And one of my closest gay friends was drunk as shit and after a game of beruit, I started the night off by dancing with him as nastily as I’ve danced with anyone, while he fondled my breasts through my dress and detailed how he wished I made him hard because I’m so fucking hot and he wishes he could fuck me. And then I went outside with a few other scantily clad girls to ask random passerby if they were feeling naughty or nice, and inviting them to come inside and be naughty with us. So that should give you a good idea of the mood I was in.
Anyway, so I was on the dance floor getting my groove on, minding my own business, trying not to awkward dance near people who are dancing together, and then he came up beside me and did a little like, hip bump, which made me laugh, and quickly turned into us like, backwards grinding, ass to ass for the rest of whatever song was playing. When guys have done that with me before, it has led absolutely nowhere, so I’ll admit I was a bit surprised when I turned around and cautiously backed it up, and he was right there ready to actually grind me with.
So we’re grinding or whatever, and I’m pushing back on him and he’s leanin up on me and I realize that this is a BIG dude, because I’m a little over 6’1″ in those heels and he still had inches on me. And when the first song changes, we blend seamlessly into the next, and the next, and eventually his hands start roaming, sometimes to find mine to hold them while we dance, sometimes to run up and down my thighs/torso/chest. He surprised me with an over-the-dress boob-squeeze, which actually caused me to arch my back and moan audibly. He held my hand and started to raise my arm up, and I caught his drift and moved my hand to the back of his neck, both giving myself more leverage and, according to some blog I read once, exercising the universal dance floor sign for I want you tonight. At some point, he decided to make his move and very delicately kissed the back of my neck. He moved from there to my shoulder, up the side of my neck, and finally started to nibble on my earlobe, and I was done. The safety was off and all hell was officially allowed to break loose: I stopped giving a shit about how high my dress was riding up (my friend Kelsey actually came over and reached her hand between my legs to pull it back down, because evidently I was trying to give the whole room a show) and started bending over to grind on him with my hands around my ankles.
When he starts kissing my neck again, I make my move and turn around to face him so I can kiss him properly, and tentative kisses turn into more ravenous kisses with a quickness. (Remember that at this point, I don’t even know dude’s name.) We alternate between grinding and making out, and he wins further cool points when the DJ plays Nelly’s “Ride Wit Me” and I start rapping and homeboy jumps right in–he knew all the words! (Any White guy that knows 90s rap has gained awesome points in my book. Oh, yeah, did I mention he’s White?) As the DJ wound down from the last song, I turned to face him to ask him name and tell him mine. We stayed through Pianoman (as a ritual, my eating club ends every night by singing Billy Joel’s Pianoman in a circle) and he knew all the words to Pianoman as well, and had no problem joining the circle. At that point, I had basically decided I was going to take him home with me. (As C said when I told him this later; he was obviously a keeper if he Pianomanned with us that well.)
But I realize that I have no idea how to tell this guy I just met that I want to keep this going past the party. He goes to the bathroom and I run upstairs to get my coat, and I go back downstairs and he’s lingering, so I start talking to some friends, and then he makes his way over towards me and sort of nods in my direction and I smile and say bye to my friends and start walking towards the door, making sure he’s right behind me. We get out the door and his jacket-less self starts commenting on how cold it is, and I use this insertion of normal conversation to ask a few questions about him: year, major, where he’s from. He was with a friend inside, and I’m wondering whether we’re waiting for that friend or standing here for no reason when he kisses me again, and we make out for a long time in the cold in front of my club before I decide to accelerate this process, and I grab his hand and start walking.
On our way down the street, we pass the guy he’d been with earlier, who isn’t looking all too hot, and he stops to talk to his friend. He looks like he needs to be taken home, or perhaps even to Health Services, and in my officer-of-an-eating-club’s-responisibility-mode, I suggested that we could get him taken care of before we went about our impending business, but he waved us off. [I’m guessing that it’s written somewhere in guy code that a true friend never cockblocks, even when he needs help.] So we left him somewhat reluctantly, and M (which is how dude will be referred to for the rest of this post) extends him arm for me to link mine through as we walk. He asks where I live, and I say we’re going to Edwards, and we chitchat about our majors and plans for the future and whatnot while we walk.
We get back to my room and the first comment out of his mouth is about how high my bed is, so I guess there was no mistaking what was about to go down. I take off my coat and shrink out of my heels, and he kicks off his shoes and throws his sweatshirt in the chair, and suddenly we’re making out again and he’s walking me backwards to my bed. (Shoutout to that awkward moment when he’s laying you down and you feel something cool and rubbery under your hand and realize you left your hot pink vibrator out in your bed, and quickly shove it between the wall and the bed, hoping he didn’t notice.) I’ll gloss over all the details, but despite some technical difficulties in the beginning, I was left incredibly satisfied. It was pretty vanilla, but he was wonderful with his hands, and after I teased him by focusing on myself he gave it to me right. Afterwards I directed him to the bathroom and he called the friend we’d kind of abandoned earlier, to learn that he was basically incoherent and had thrown up a few times, and so after talking about how much of a compelling argument I was providing to stay (even though verbally I was telling him to go play hero), he eventually left many many more kisses to go save his friend.
So I, uh, went to the online roster of the sport he plays to figure out his last name this morning (shameful, I know) and friend requested him on Facebook. We’ll see if anything comes of this…
…but I think the reason I wanted to talk about this, besides the fact that I generally allude or refer directly to my sex life often on le blog, and the fact that K thinks this is particularly interesting because “when do you ever hear about White guys hooking up with Black girls on The Street?” (which I think happens fairly often, but anyway), is that not having known his last name when I fucked him is the only thing I really feel any shame about with regard to this entire situation. Even if nothing happens, and M doesn’t accept my friend request or we otherwise never interact again, I’m pretty sure I’ll have no regrets. I have none now, because there was absolutely no emotional connection. It was really just I’m horny + you’re into me = we can make this work for both of us.
I like, am wondering whether I’m okay with how comfortable I am with the fact that I slept with a stranger. The sociologist in me is all, No Maya, you’ve only been socialized by a hating-ass patriarchal society to believe this isn’t acceptable behavior, and you should be glad you’ve embraced yourself as a responsible sexual being, but still, I wonder. Me from as little a six months ago wouldn’t recognize me from last night, and would be highly judgmental. But I don’t see anything destructive or morally wrong with what I’m doing. It’s…interesting, I guess, how your thoughts on things can change with experience. It’s also funny how much the name we give something affects our reactions to it: “one-night stand” sounds so foul, whereas “hookup” is perfectly normalized.