So this is what we’re doing now?!

At a house party on Saturday, Ginger and I were approached by a good looking British kid. He was one of seven tenants – another being a friend of mine. He thanked us profusely for attending, as the rest was a “total sausage fest”. I wasn’t going to admit that’s what brought me there in the first place.

Admittedly, I tend to peruse guest lists of facebook events to see how many men are going versus women, and then based on those men, pseudo-stalk any seemingly attractive ones to see which are actually available. I then base my likelihood of attendance on this factor. Facebook suggested the prospects were in my favor; a rarity considering DC has twice as many women as men, so we decided to go.

Prior to leaving for the house party, Ginger and I were discussing hook-up likelihoods and she mentioned how she’s my good luck charm. It’s true. Every time we go out together I get hit on or something like it - and by someone half decent.  

We arrive fashionably eight hours late (to a party that started at 1pm). People had trickled in and out all day. So there were a handful of people there by the time we got there, which served its purpose for our pre-bar activity. We’re there for a bit before a tall, handsome British accent – err, I mean – guy comes outside. He thanks us for coming and is particularly grateful that “two, attractive women are [there] to break up the sausage fest”. He sits beside me. We begin to argue semantics. He starts to talk about his outfit and his bright red corduroy pants, which I rather liked. I told him I liked them, but also that I dress for fun/strangely, so I can’t say much. He request I take off my jacket to assess the outfit. He likes it. He takes a photo:

boop!

We sit back down and he asks if he can say something forward. “Okay,” I respond.

“You’ve got exceptional breasts,” he says, sober.

“I know right?! I’ll tell my mom you think so,” I reply.

He begins talking closer to me; touching my leg or arm whenever it never makes sense and then a bit later asks, “Might I be forward again?”

“Uhh…okay,” I said with a slightly uncomfortable hesitation. He leans in to kiss me. I duck my head and he laughs. 1. We’re in front of a group of people and 2. I just met this kid about 30 minutes ago and 3. I’m sober. In response to his dejected blush, I say, “We’re in front of a bunch of people.” (See, I'm nice...)

“Oh, alright,” he says in a charming British accent.

A bit later he calls me back into the yard. He asks if he can kiss me there. I declined again, citing that I might look easy, but I'm not and that my bright red lipstick would make a mess, which wasn’t at all a cop out: That shit gets everywhere and then I just look silly and he’s wearing a bright red badge of face-sucking honor. 

Pass. I’m too sober for this. 

He asks for my number, which I give him – only to have Ginger, who is sitting by my purse, announce that my phone was ringing – as if all of this wasn’t obvious enough what we were doing 20 feet away from everyone. I go back to the patio and take my seat. A bit later, the end of the house party nears and Ginger and I are talking about which bar we want to head out to. The Brit is still going on about how I should stay. The same mantra he’s been playing with for two hours. He pulls me aside again to asks me to stay the night. I decline.

He then asks if he can talk to Ginger and I excuse myself to the bathroom. When I come back out, Ginger pulls me aside – and I begin to feel like we’re at some kind of awkward middle-school dance with a keg and some drunken adults privy to audience this whole charade. Ginger tells me that he told her that he isn’t looking for a relationship but really wanted to have sex with me. “I know, but I’m not going to do that. I’m too sober and I would have to walk of shame tomorrow morning.”

“BUT HE’S SO HOT AND I WANT TO BANG HIM BUT I CAN’T BECAUSE HE WANTS YOU, NOT ME,” my beautiful little man-luck charm pleads.

“I can’t. I really can’t. I’m sober and I would have to metro home tomorrow morning,” I said, realizing that is why people get drunk on weekends. It’s difficult to have sex with a stranger sober. I mean, it’s hard enough trying not to giggle at the ridiculousness of mating rituals and the act itself - the oddness that is intercourse -while in the act with no inhibitions, let alone completely stone-cold sober and unable to gloss past all the oddities of some new person. 

Nope, sober one night stands don’t work here. Sex is funny. And walk of shames really don’t work here. Metro is not funny.

So after the Brit made one more plea, he snuck in a kiss and said "I'm glad you gave me that - don't be surprised if text you around 1:30a". Then off Ging and I went to the bar for drinks and dancing. On the way I opined to Ginger: This what we’re doing now?! No pretense; no frills; just Here's a dick, you want? 

Are we not even going to pretend there’s pretense anymore?! BUT I LIKE THE PRETENSE!

First, Mr. Cuddles and his cuddle/fuck pseudonym. Then, the Diving Instructor in Australia texting: “Honestly, I just want to get you naked and see what happens from there”. And then, weeks later and over a month since our last encounter, HG/Time Warp called me at 3:08am…and 3:11am last Saturday. (I slept through both.) And then Goomba sent me a barrage of text messages, after sitting quiet for months, this past Friday at 2:00am...and 2:23am (which I also slept through).

Why is 2 and 3 in the morning the time for guys to think of me?! And where the fuck has the effort gone? Even if it's just a fling detour on the road to something better/real, it's worth the moment of thought. Is this thoughtless, effortless romp really what we’re doing now?!

I refuse to accept that. I'm not interested. I have turned the corner into wanting more; deserving more. I'm cute, damnit. Act like a gentleman; endeavor a bit. It's what separates a living, breathing, human lady from your average Fleshlight. Otherwise, this is bullshit and men need to get their acts together. I’m a realist when it comes to these things - I have needs too, but I hope this isn't indicative what (single) men are left.

And if there are any 30ish, single, attractive men out there looking to put in a little bit of pretensing effort, it would do me well to just have someone to warm my bed for a minute; say something nice; spoon me; eat cold pizza in a horizontal half-hazed hangover: Now accepting applications. 

(But I’ll be damned if Ginger doesn’t continue to be my little fuck luck charm.)