This is something that's been on my mind for a while, so I can only assume that it's been an issue for other ladies as well. I've received lots of advice on the subject from friends and Cosmopolitan articles, none of which did a damn lick of good for me. It took me about two years of confusion, insecurity, and repeated, crippling blows to my sense of self worth to figure out a good solution to my problems, and now I'm out to give equally confused and insecure women a pep talk (and maybe some dudes too, who knows).
I'm sure you're all familiar with the situation, for the possibilities are legion. Maybe you recently met somebody and started dating. Maybe you've known them for a while and are venturing into that dark territory that is Friends with Benefits. Maybe you're drunk and met this person at the bar. The circumstances are different but the question remains the same. Should you fuck them? Sure, why not.
Now I'm going to digress for a moment and let you know that I am not a doctor, or a psychologist. I'm not an expert on sex or relationships, I didn't write the book "How to Get Men to Stay with You". I have a terrible track record when it comes to dating, but I haven't fucked enough dudes to achieve the mystical status of 'slut'. I'm not even sure how many dudes that is. I think it's half your age plus seven? Or is that how many days you're supposed to wait before returning a text?
This conveniently brings me to my first point: "dating etiquette" is completely and totally lost on me. Because nobody seems to know what the fuck to do with, or about, a potential romantic interest, we, as a society, have created a whole bunch of rules which make no sense, contradict one another, and are total bullshit.
Some of the rules I've observed in my short life include but are not limited to:
- wait three (sometimes as many as seven) days to call or text a person after the first date
- don't divulge too much personal information on the first date
- don't kiss until the second date
- the youngest you can date is half your age plus seven (who the fuck thought this up, seriously)
- don't get dinner on the first date
- dont' get drunk on the first date
- if you do get dinner on the first date, McDonald's is not appropriate
- he pays the bill (I always wondered how the fuck this was supposed to work if you're not, you know, heterosexual...)
- you should split the bill
- don't fuck until the third date. Sometimes this is the fifth, or seventh, or some other pleasing number, but never, ever on the first
... and so on.
None of these 'rules' have any basis in logic insofar as I can tell. So, you know, barring actual laws (like say if the person you want to get naked with is twelve, or a sheep, or doesn't want to fuck you for any reason (or no reason at all), then you should not fuck them), my first piece of advice is throw the rules out the window.
I have fucked guys on the first, second, and third dates. I was with my ex for a couple of months before I fucked him. I have fucked guys with whom I had been friends for years, and strangers. I have fucked guys in a drunken haze, and I have avoided fucking guys because I was in a drunken haze. Once I even responded to a sex ad on craigslist because let's face it, I may be many things but classy is not one of them. Generally speaking, I felt pretty bad about myself afterwards.
Observing my acute distress, my guy friends dispensed sage wisdom: the reason I have trouble with guys is that I jump into bed with them too fast. If I just made them wait they would respect me more. How could I have overlooked that? Obviously the reason the guys I chose to sleep with were acting like insensitive, disrespectful jackholes* was because of something wrong with me. I was putting out too easy.
Which brings me to my second point: for whatever reason, sex is regarded as some highly sacred ritual, bestowed upon men, begrudgingly, by women, who are supposed to act like innocent, chaste little mice. That it is something to be granted or denied in order to control power. That it is, unequivocally, the most intimate experience two people can share.
And I guess it can be for some people, and that's fine for them. Honestly, I find the sharing of my innermost thoughts, dreams and fears way more personal and more terrifying. I'd be way happier having a guy stick his junk in my junk than sitting down, looking him in the eye, and telling him all the things I lie awake worrying about. I don't want anybody to know about that shit.
Don't get me wrong - fucking somebody you truly care about and who also cares about you is really, really nice. Like, super awesome. However, sex can be really fun even if you're not doing it with "that special someone". It feels great. It doesn't have to be anything else. It's also a pretty good way to get to know spomebody and decide if you like them. I've been in a situation where I really dug a dude and spent months trying to get in his pants and when I finally did it was just such a clusterfuck, I kinda wished I'd gotten that out of the way beforehand. It turned me off the guy. Never mind that he was being a total fuckweasel. If I'd known that the end result was going to be a kinda shitty lay, I probably wouldn't have chased him around, tolerating the fuckweasely head games.
That, however, is not the situation where I figured all this shit out. No sir, I kept right on trucking, assuming that it was still my fault that he was being a fuckweasel. If only I'd not fucked him, or not shown interest, or not deviated from the innocent mouse-woman mold with my vulgar language and blowjobs and stuff.
My epiphany didn't come until later. I was out at the bar, wrecked on rye and looking fine. I met a feller, he was nice, good looking, fun, and we danced most of the night. It was great. At the end of the night, he asked me to go home with him. At first I was all like, "oh fuck yeah, hot guy sex!". But then the voice of reason came crashing into my mind. "You know, if you have sex with him, he'll think you're a ho and act like a douchenozzle. Surely you don't want that! That simply will not do" It seemed I had a dilemma on my hands. I really wanted to fuck this dude because a) he was hot; and b) I hadn't got laid in a month and was hornier than a jungle duck (I'm fucking twenty two, you guys). But, you know, he might think I was a slut or whatever and god forbid that should happen.
Let's think about the ways this is fucked up.
1. I wanted sex but didn't want anybody to know I wanted sex, least of all the guy I wanted to have sex with. We aren't supposed to want it. What the hell kind of mindset is that?
2. I didn't even know this guy. Why would I give two sweet fucks what he thought of me? What was he going to do, call my grandmother up and tell her, "oh yeah, I didn't even buy her dinner"? And even if he did, my grandma would probably just be all, "nice" and high five me like the badass bitch she is.
I still didn't know any of this yet. As far as I was concerned at the time, I was doing myself some great injustice by even entertaining the thought of letting some man defile me. Wracked with paroxysms of anxiety and self doubt, I went home with my roommates, probably ordered pizza, and definitely fapped myself to sleep.
It's important that I state that I'm not suggesting anybody go out and get drunk and go home with random guys from the bar. If the guy has Rapey McStabbist written all over him, you should in no capacity allow yourself to be alone with him (or her, for that matter. That's a thing). In fact, if you're going out with the intention of getting waaaaaasted, you should have a contingency plan. I never go out alone, or with people I don't trust implicitly to keep an eye on me and not let me go home with creepy lookin perverts.
This guy did not have Rapey McStabbist written on him anywhere, and the thought of getting raped and/or killed was not the reason I didn't leave with him.
Anyway, I gave Friendly Not-Raperson my number. That's what you're supposed to do. Sweet little mouse-woman, making the man wait for sex. We exchanged a few texts later, and he was (and still is, I presume) a very pleasant, decent human being. Nothing came of it.
Sooo even though I went through all that self induced, nerve wracking brain-wankery, I didn't get laid. Fuck.
And that, my friends, is when my magical revelation dawned on me. The guys I chose to sleep with were not acting like like insensitive, disrespectful jackholes because of anything I did. It was because they were, in fact, insensitive, disrespectful jackholes. Holy shit. There was (and is) nothing fucking wrong with me, except that at one point in time I worried a bit too much about what people thought of me.
With that, here comes my final point. Ready? If somebody doesn't respect you, whether or not you fuck them is not going to change that. To reiterate, if a guy or girl thinks you're trashy, or a slut, or just a piece of meat they can use to get off, they're going to think that if you fuck them on the first date, the fifth date, or the eightieth date. To that point, if somebody actually does have a modicum of respect for you, they're not going to lose that because you wanted and got the same thing as them. And wouldn't you like to have that out of the way earlier on? I know I would.
So, ladies, if you're going out with a guy or girl or whatever the fuck you're doing, and you want to get naked and do the locomotion, just fucking go for it. Don't play the fuckaround game because it's what we're programmed to do. If you're genuinely not comfortable enough with a person to want to fuck them then by all means don't, but if you want to, you go right ahead. And if they turn around and start acting like a dick, then to hell with them. Move on. You got some sweet booty, don't worry about it. And hey, maybe they'll be totally cool about it. That's just a fucking bonus right there.
(*disclaimer: I have fucked one, maybe two guys who were exceptionally kind and considerate, and I appreciate it, I really do, but guys, this post isn't about you. It's about all the other stunned tossers. Sorry)