I never thought I would be the subject of a ‘drown your sorrows girls night.’ I’ve attended them, hell I’ve hosted them. The kind where you go to an overly expensive bar in the city to order cocktails and shots. Boyfriend talk and discussions of any male acquaintance is forbidden (unless of course he’s a dick, in which case conversation is welcome as you cheers to the descriptions of his tiny inadequate penis. Girls are jerks, realistic jerks) and you all dance the night away. The night ends when the sad, heart broken girl gets super wasted and decides its a super great idea to kiss a stranger and then she’ll cry as she realises she was not ready to kiss the random stranger. He’ll look confused and drunk, she’ll look confused and drunk and we’ll put her in cab.
This infamous night is a dumb cliché and is unfortunately what the female species seem to fall back on when a member of their pack is in distress. It’s an experience that no one really enjoys. Not the dumped nor her flock of helpful maidens.
No one will like the bar, because you go into the city for this special occasion instead of sticking to the beautiful residential fairy-light bar a 5 minute stumble from home that closes at midnight ensuring we can only realistically get to a 6/10 hangover. We order cocktails for some reason although none of us drink cocktails anymore, they are too expensive for 50% of the group whose rent is so high because they refuse to live anywhere past Marrickville and the other 50% of us no longer eat sugar. We pretend to enjoy dancing to the re-re-remixed tunes of pop mainstream music apart from that one friend that likes to remind the group 17 times that she has no idea who the band is because she only listens to Triple J and instead chats to the bartender about their craft gin collection. Personally I’d prefer to be at a shitty pub watching washed up 40 year old dudes rock out a cover of ‘Save Tonight.’ I digress.
But here I was, the subject of a ‘lean on me when you’re not strong’ girls night. My relationship of 5 long years had ended and the girls rushed to my side as if it were my death bed to offer their very best motivational phrases: ‘Now you can focus on you.’ ‘You should go on a holiday, you haven’t done the Europe thing yet.’ ‘Let’s have a movie day, we’ll just sloth all day.’ Or my personal favourite, ‘He was such a dick!’… Cheers bro. Maybe my pack of gal pals have forgotten that one is actually capable of performing all of these activities in a relationship as well as the heartbroken, cynical mess of a human being that forms post break up.
My high school boyfriend was my first real relationship, it lasted 5 years. We were introduced in high school and had the official talk a month after we met and that was it. It was the easiest courting and the easiest relationship and I was blissfully and blindly happy for 5 years. Actually, I was probably happy for about four years. Losing the relationship is bad and it’s very very sad but I know that time heals all high school romance wounds. What I am more concerned about is how to move on. Not emotionally move on and all other romanticised clichés of a broken heart and spending the next two years looking for the final piece of my soul that will put me back together. I am genuinely confused as to how I date. As an adult the politics of courting is not as simple as hooking up at a party, the next week you go to the cinema, he holds your hand in the dark and its official.
In saying that, don’t get me confused for an overly romantic who only wants to date in the hopes of finding her next soul mate. I am actually not scared of being alone nor the possibility of carrying around my European backpack of baggage for the next couple of years. Oh no, that night I wanted sex. I wanted the exciting life of the singleton. I wanted to learn to pick up. I had been with one person for every sexual milestone. I had one reference. So I refused to wade out my post break up blues and cynicism by watching movies and making to-do lists as to how I can revolutionise my life. No! My aim for the girls night was to pick up a dude. I was going to take him home for mind blowing stranger sex that I had spent the last 5 years hearing about from all my more experienced friends.
I devised a plan to help me not over think the whole exercise. I understand the contradiction.
I wish I was better than that, but I am not. I required social lubrication. I am definitely not one to turn down liquid confidence and all the ladies insisted on it being their shout as they walked me to the bar to offer their condolences.
Every girl has that one friend who knows how to make you look hot. She is required to come over to the house pre wake and make you look considerably overdressed against all the others mourners. I am not a beast by any means but 5 years of being in a relationship does make one slightly lazy in the looking like a babe department. I have my face on and my breasts out to a level in which I would not judge but I would most certainly look at even if I were a girl.
To achieve this, see step one and two.
I scanned my sad party room looking for my first test. As a result of my new found gin confidence I walked up to an incredibly attractive twenty something male. I asked if I could buy him a drink and then made some hilarious joke about switching gender stereotypes to which I am sure he found endearing and also an insight to my intelligence and awareness of gender politics. We chatted for about half an hour. I attempted flirting by finding an excuse to touch his arm a couple of times, I saw this in How I Met Your Mother once. He asked what I studied at University. As I struggled to remember what my 3 year degree was I run my fingers through my hair to help me think. He asks if I want to join him for a smoke outside. Of course I will. I find smoking repulsive but I am absolutely nailing the flirting brief so I said something cool like ‘I’ll just grab my lighter and meet you outside.’
As if in a life or death situation I raced over to my swarm of lady friends and demanded that one of them find me a lighter in the next 5 seconds if they ever wanted me to be happy again. A lighter was placed in my hand and I waved off their excited questions. I had 20 seconds to draw on all images of people smoking so I could attempt to pull off being a smoker instead of a girl so incredibly desperate for attention she would pretend to be a smoker.
I walked out into a rather sobering street and attempted my rehearsed slow sexy walk over to him whilst mumbling something about trying to quit smoking. I had not even finished my half-assed lie of a sentence when he kissed me. My first move in the world of being single apart from spin the bottle in year 8.
Let’s play a game called expectation vs. reality.
*In my defence I blame the following: Never Been Kissed, Meredith and Derek, Ghost, The Notebook, Ever After, Crazy Stupid Love, Ryan Gosling in general and the masters of glossy perfection, Disney.
He grabs me outside the bar and kisses me. It’s electrifying and passionate. He grabs the back of my hair and pulls me in close. It takes 10.7 seconds to get into a cab as neither one of us can deal with desire and we must have each other at once. He takes me to his amazing apartment we go upstairs and swiftly undress. He climbs on top of me, I climb on top of him and we have amazing sex, twice. And morning sex.
We are starving from all the sex so we go and have brunch together. He asks for my number and kisses me on the forehead as I leave his house. I strut proudly on my walk of shame through the streets of Sydney, holding my heels in my hand on purpose to show to the world that I am an adventurous, carefree woman. I race to meet my friends and share the story of my wild night of animalistic sex that I never once experienced in my average but adequate sexcapades of couple life.
He grabbed me outside and kissed me.
We were both so drunk we used the wall to support our bodies. I couldn’t help thinking how weird it felt to kiss someone else. Not feelings of sadness and regret of my former relationship, but it just felt different in my mouth. It wasn’t the same rhythm nor the same way he opened his mouth. He used tongue, I’d never quite mastered this. I always just felt like a lizard poking out my tongue purely to absorb the moisture void of any sexual purpose. His hand slid down my front and rubbed me in a slightly sloppy but still arousing manner.
I could not get it out of my head that we were standing on a public street grabbing each others genitals. After I was finished over thinking the whole scenario whilst simultaneously eating his face I broke the standing twister match with the only thing I could think of, ‘want to go to my house?’ I was not even sure if I wanted to do this. He said, ‘mine’s close, let’s go there.’
We joined the line at the cab rank. The spontaneity and excitement of the moment began to fade with each minute we stood in that line. Feeling it too he offered me a ‘you’re so sexy.’ We got to his share house and he closed the curtain to his room assuring me that his housemates were all asleep and wouldn’t hear us. ‘Great!’ I said, in a pitch that only dogs would hear. I lay on his bed and he took off my underwear and left my dress on. I had honestly forgotten about foreplay it had been that long. His head was between my legs and I just felt awkward. I realised it had been a while since I made any noise of agreement or commitment to the whole activity. I mustered up my most convincing moan of pleasure. He pulled me on top and I knew the required transaction. I lowered myself down to his nether regions to see what I was in store for. With a mixture of mouth, tongue and hand I felt I had done a satisfactory job.
The sex… the sex was awkward, weird and excruciatingly long. He eventually stopped and said that he wouldn’t be able to finish because he’d had too much to drink. I said that I had already finished. We both seemed content with my lie and go to sleep.
Here I am, the sun is harsh to both my eyes and to my dumb ideas. We make awkward small talk about feeling hung over and I suddenly realise I am running late for something super important. I scurry all my regrets and fragments of my remaining dignity on the floor and leave. We exchange numbers and I leave with a morning breath peck on the lips. I walk through the streets looking like a disheveled borderline stripper. I have 15 messages on my phone demanding details at brunch. My first wild, crazy, adventurous single night out. I was hoping to feel like an endearing and triumphant Emma Stone. Instead I walk home imagining the possible ways I could have been impregnated by this stranger. Could his condom have been pricked by numerous tiny pin holes? Should I have done the water test on it? How many days till my period? Ok, only a week of torture. Should I just get the morning after pill to be 500% certain?
I need a gatorade.
I feel the urge to buy 6 cats.
Is this what everyone has been talking about? The amazing single life stories I have listened to and longed to contribute to. Either I am doing it wrong or I am not cut out for this.