Fuck Or Flight

“Sex appeal is fifty percent what you’ve got and fifty percent what people think you’ve got.” –Sophia Loren

It’s Saturday, and Wolf wants to “hang,” but I have plans. “Maybe tomorrow,” I suggest although I hold more than a tinge of reluctance. At first I don’t know what it is, but then I realize a pattern developing. It started with Dan. If I have a recurring hook up and no emotional connection with the guy, I begin to resent them. I pick apart every little thing I don’t like about them. But if an emotional connection does develop, I like all of their dirty little habits to the point that they amuse me. So I decide in my mind that I really don’t want to sleep with Wolf anymore. But do I fuck or do I flee? I’m really in need of a good lay, so I think we know how this story goes…

After spending the day with a friend, I return Wolf’s call. “Want to get dinner?” He asks. “Sure,” I say. “Alright come over.” I’m tired and a little sick of always going to him, so I ask him to come to my part of town. “But I wanted to ‘hang out.’ Do you just want dinner?” I’m confused by what he’s saying. “No, we can do whatever,” I say. “Then why are we going to your place? Don’t you live with like five people?” I’m not really surprised by this. “No, I live alone.” “Oh, I thought you lived with Chase and all them,” he says. Chase is in his early thirties and lives alone in Hollywood with his boyfriend of a decade. I don’t say this, but you understand what I’m getting at.

Wolf says he’s on his way and I begin preparing my usual deadly chicken dish with broccoli when I realize I’m out of lube and condoms. Wonderful. I race out to the grocery store and see that they are in a glass case by the pharmacy. As I slide the glass door open, it makes a screeching sound. I don’t see the usual lube I buy…probably because I’m buying sex supplies at a grocery store. So I spend a minute evaluating the inventory. Finally, I grab one and decide I need a few more food items, so I dash through the store, receiving some uncomfortable glances. I manage to avoid one of those awkward price-check moments and run home, but when I walk through the gate of my apartment building, the landlady, an elderly woman with a hint of Betty White to her, is there. “How are you?” She says with a warm smile. “I’m great!” I say. “Just about to cook dinner.” “Oh! Wonderful! What are you cooking?” She asks, looking at the bag. Grocery bags are mildly see-through. She totally sees the condoms, but I don’t have time for this. “Chicken,” I say as I continue toward my apartment. “It was good seeing you! Have a good night,” she says waving. What a hoot.

Wolf takes a while to finally arrive, but when he does, he tells me he’d been drinking–not that he was drunk, but there’s a little buzz going. He tells me how my building should change the structural integrity of its stairs (“It would only cost them a few thousand dollars”) and maneuvers his way into the position of captain of the kitchen. Not that I mind. Cooking is not my forte. As we know. “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask politely. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a vodka something.” I make it for him, knowing this will likely be the end of him for the night. He’s not going to be driving home.

We eat the uneven meal and both enjoy it–that fucking chicken is a homerun! But while we’re eating, he drinks more, getting flush in the face. We make out on the couch, and he rests his head on me before actually passing out on my lap. I’ve never watched someone sleep so closely with the light on before, and his REM is insane. I’m totally infatuated with watching the creepy movement of his irises through his eyelids…for about thirty seconds. And then I’m bored. So I slowly lift his head and switch out my lap for a pillow. I go into my room and decide I’m going to play dress up. I put on a gold bikini/speedo thing from American Apparel that my friend got me as a (sort of) gag gift for my college graduation. It doesn’t cover much, and stuff is popping out from every angle, but I’m amused. Peeking out my bedroom door, I check to see that he’s still asleep and tip toe into my living room. I’m extra quiet as I approach the couch and slowly mount him doing some kind of ridiculous pelvic thrust lap dance. He wakes up, smiling before his eyes open. I put my hand over his eyes as he feels me up. “Guess what I’m wearing.” He removes my hand from his face. “I was guessing just that!” He says laughing. We make out some more as he feels me up and down. “I want to do a body shot off you,” he says, so I comply, laying on my back. His tongue slurps on the vodka slowly, then drips down on my stomach. “I’m drunk,” he says with an embarrassed smile.

We go back in the bedroom, and I find myself doing more work than usual, which displeases me considering my reluctance for this night in the first place. Wolf is kind of hammered and keeps pseudo-apologizing despite my promising that I don’t care. As long as he can keep it up, we don’t have a problem. And luckily that problem doesn’t occur. (I’m kind of a fox like that.) We’re going at it when he stops for some more lube. “Hey, we buy the same products,” he tells me incoherently. “So we do,” I say impatiently. We start going at it again, and it’s good. Real good. But not as good as last time. Maybe he’d be trying harder if he knew this would be the last time we’d be doing this. I think about telling him, but I’m not serious about it–it would kill the mood. “I like fucking here,” he says to me in a dazed voice. “Why’s that?” I regret asking almost immediately because I’m sick of conversing. “You like to take control here,” he answers. Actually, I have to because you fell asleep on my couch, but I suppose I should be putting in my fair share. We both finish and hop in the shower. I get out fast and get in bed. Wolf comes out in a towel and seems expectant of a toothbrush, but goes for the mouthwash when I don’t offer one. “Sorry I got so drunk,” he says again. “Really, you’re fine,” I assure him from my bed. He climbs in next to me as I read a book, and he passes out pretty quickly. I don’t want him to touch me, so I sleep on the edge of the bed. Not that it matters. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t move all night.

The next morning I wake up before my alarm goes off. I take another shower (because I always have to take a shower in the morning) and get dressed. Taking my computer into the kitchen, I read the news and drink some coffee. A few minutes later, I go back in and wake Wolf, who is still sound asleep. “I have to go to work in ten minutes,” I tell him. “What?” He seems disoriented. “I heard you stirring, but I didn’t think you had to leave!” He throws his clothes on and we leave together, going out opposite ends of the building, and I drive to work. I’m an hour early.

*     *     *

I think about my pattern of booty-call resentment. I don’t like it, and I realize that the real reason for pretty much all of my hook ups since I’ve moved here have been motivated by low self-esteem. And for the most part, I feel like they’ve been bad decisions for my friendships, my mental health, etc. It’s like your mom says when you’re little: “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Only it’s more like, “If you can’t make good decision about sex, don’t have sex at all.” I decide I’m going on an indefinite vow of celibacy. The first leg will last two weeks, and I’ll reevaluate things from there.

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One Response to Fuck Or Flight

  1. Alex Henke says:

    This was the first post, selected at random, that I’ve read by the author. I loved it–the irony and the frank self-exposure and the lot. Brilliant, so well-written!

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