I met Elliot* at a restaurant. I was sitting at a table having dinner with a friend when I saw him sipping a bourbon at the bar. My palms got a little clammy, my jaw dropped slightly, and I may have even audibly gasped. “Hottest. Dude. Ever,” I announced to my friend. My mouth started to salivate. He was dreamy.
“Where?” my friend asked.
“There. At the bar,” I said. “The one with the facial hair and the scarf around his neck. The one who is obviously the sexiest guy this place has ever seen.” He was good-looking in the way that would make even the most poised woman act like a horny teenage boy, stopping to do a double and triple take and choke back a catcall.
He got up to use the restroom and on his way back, I shoved my leg in front of him so he couldn’t pass. Looking down at my leg blocking his path, he then turned towards me. “Well, hello,” he said, sort of smirking. He had amazing blue-gray eyes, bow-shaped lips that I would describe as kissable if it wasn’t so cheesy, tan skin, a nice head of dark hair, and all signs pointed to the fact that he probably had dark fur everywhere else too. My favorite. Physically, at least clothed, he was flawless. I felt like how a 11-year-old boy must feel the first time he glimpses the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
“Hello yourself,” I said. “I’m sorry. I saw you sitting at the bar and I decided I just needed to talk to you.” He laughed a little and said I should come join him when I was done eating. After talking for the rest of the evening, we exchanged information before he left. Two days later, he called me to get a drink, but I knew it was just a pit stop on the way to my bedroom. I was cool with that. In the last year of being single, I’ve learned to separate sex from love. So, while I’m ultimately looking for someone to settle down with (to have sex and love with), I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to get naked with the biological mash-up of Johnny Depp and Paul Newman, with a dash of Paul Bunyan thrown in for ruggedness.
Sure enough, after a few drinks, we ended up back at my place, I did my usual, “Hey, wanna check out the view from my roof?” which is my polite way of saying, “Let me give you a quick tour before we f**k,” and then we got down to business. The sex was ahh-mazing. Look, I’ve had sex that I’ve said was amazing, but wasn’t, and this is not one of those times. Not to be crass, but for five days after, I couldn’t sit properly because somehow, someway, my coccyx was bruised. For some people this might be unpleasant, but for me, it was a nice reminder that I got laid good.
Coccyx bruising aside, he was what I consider a “great on paper dude” — gorgeous, obviously, but also exceedingly talented at his craft, well-read, smart, etc. He slept over, we spooned, and had a comfortable rapport. That said, he was a little aloof and I sensed that he wasn’t emotionally available for something more than what had already happened. If we hooked up again, I would be pleased (though my coccyx might protest), but I also wouldn’t be hurt if we didn’t.
Lucky for me, we did meet up for a second go at it, and the experience was just like the first — friendly, super hot, and coccyx bruising. He slept over, we spooned, chatted in the morning, and then he was off. I figured a third time was inevitable — why wouldn’t it be? — but I never heard from him again.
Since Elliot, I’ve had similar interactions with two other guys — hang out, hump, hang out again, hump again, and then POOF. When I expressed my annoyance over this pattern to a girl friend, she kind of laughed and said, “Oh Amelia. You’ve been two-night standed.”
“Excuse me, what? ” I mean, I had heard of — and had — one-night stands before, obviously, but a two-night stand?
“A two-night stand,” said my friend, as if it was obvious. “It’s when you hook up with a guy twice in a short span of time and then suddenly he pulls the disappearing act. One-night stands are so 2009. This year, dudes are going in for seconds before pulling the split.”
This confused me. “Well, why not go in for a third?” I asked. “I mean, what’s the real difference between two shags and three? Like, we had sex twice and it was great! It wasn’t a fluke! Let’s do it again! You bring the condoms, I’ll bring the lube! What’s the problem?”
“Look,” said my oh-so-wise friend, “There may be no difference to you or I, so long as it’s clear that it’s just a casual thing. But I think for dudes, three is a trend. A trend is a pattern, a pattern is consistent, and holy s**t, relationships are consistent. Therefore, you have sex with a girl three times and he starts to freak that it’s getting into relationship territory. Hence, the two-night stand.”
Huh. I mulled this over in my brain and tried to put myself in the position of a guy who doesn’t want any sort of commitment. I guess I could see how sleeping with the same woman three times in a row might, to a particularly anti- (at least for the time being) commitment dude, start to appear routine. And if you’re inclined to believe that a woman you’re sexually involved with will want to make you her boyfriend eventually, well, then, I guess you would have seconds but not thirds.
I do want to “make” someone my boyfriend, I suppose, but the right dude, not always the dude I’m sleeping with. I just have no desire to be celibate until he wanders along. There are some guys I want more than a two-night stand with — but that doesn’t mean I want them to be my boyfriend. Some dudes I just want to f**k. Over and over and over again.
*Not his real name.