I’m the girl who has sex on the first date. That’s me! Not like always, I’m not crazy. I don’t need to. I just am open to it. I’ve been sexually active since I was sixteen in a totally healthy way. I’m familiar with my body, I’m safe, and I know what I enjoy. After several relationships, one-night stands, hook ups, booty calls, drunken nights, and sober days, I’ve found something that makes me feel really uncomfortable.
A swipe became a conversation and a conversation became a date. The date became one round of drinks became another and another. The drinks became a kiss and the kiss led to your bed.
I wanted to leave after. Not because I didn’t want to form a connection with you, but because I liked my pillow. I had to wake up early. I had a dog that needed to be walked and a roommate who had a hard day that I wanted to see.
You told me to stay. Stay the night, stay with me.
I didn’t want to be close to you. Cuddling is intimate. Morning kisses are intimate. Sex is pleasurable. But you wanted that. You wanted me to wake up sober in your bed and find my way home. That’s what you wanted.
And now your texts get infrequent, or nonexistent. Your interest drips away.
And maybe you’re progressive and open minded and liberal. I can tell from The New Yorker on your dresser. I can tell from the fact that you “liked” Planned Parenthood on Facebook, and from the Bernie sticker on your laptop. Maybe you think women should be in charge of their bodies, and all love is love, but something in your head, something trapped in there, makes you think less of me because I had sex with you. Something in there makes you think I’m a whore. A slut.
And maybe that’s not bad. It’s just what you think. I’m not the woman you want to date, the girl you want to live with and marry.
But here I am, complying. Regretting it. Walking around the morning after with a knot in my stomach. Feeling like I made a mistake. Not because I didn’t like you, and not because it wasn’t good, and not because I did anything wrong.
Here I am, complying. Letting your lack of a text sink into my throat. I let it be heavy in my chest. It’s not you, you’re not what bothers me. That’s the worst part. It’s me. It’s the fact that I abide by these rules. I understand them to be truth. I pretend I understand them.
Here I am, complying. Not going home with you even though I want to. Not having sex with you even though I desire it. Because I know it will be the end if I do.
But here I am, the girl who wanted to have sex on the first date.