Maybe I Want More Than ‘Just Sex’ (And Maybe That’s Perfectly Okay)

I liked that it all meant nothing. Whatever it was. However it started. However it ended.

Because I got what I wanted. It was a reminder that I could do whatever I wanted in life just because I felt like it, and the idea of that fulfilled me. Couldn’t attraction just be raw and uncomplicated? Couldn’t sex just be sex?

To me, there was nothing wrong with making out at bars and then being pushed against the brick wall outside my apartment, not caring who might walk by and see us groping each other. And there was nothing wrong with faking that innocent look like, “Should we?” when what I was really thinking was, “Who the fuck cares? C’mon.”

It wouldn’t be anything soulful. It wouldn’t be anything familiar or kind. It would just be me and a guy, living in the moment and playing with each other because we just wanted to play. I didn’t have to like him tomorrow. He wouldn’t have to call me to say how much fun he had. And I wouldn’t let it bother me that he might not kiss me goodbye in the morning. I got what I wanted. It was the thrill of the chase. And there were never expectations of what might happen afterwards. It would be nothing. I was fine with that.

I liked living my life without pressure. My days were light and young and free. I was fazed by no one. I liked belonging to no one. And the idea of all these emotions getting in the way of life? No, thanks—I was good. And it never made me feel weird when these guys would say things like, “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now” or, “I just broke up with someone a little bit ago.” It actually made me pity them in a way that they’d think even for a second that just because they’d end up in my bed that suddenly I’d want something from them emotionally. “It’s fine,” I’d say. It really was fine.

The truth was that I wasn’t looking for something, either—at least not with them. These guys only fit into one little box—and in my life that box could only fit in at night, after a lot of drinks probably, with hormones pressing. It’s fine. I didn’t have time for anything more than that, anyway.

This kind of fucking around, though, it doesn’t last forever. Eventually someone real will sneak in and change everything. He’ll break all those rules. He’ll interrupt your anti-emotional self. He’ll show you what sex actually means. That’s what happened to me. And even though it didn’t last but a little while, he still changed what I wanted from now on.

My friends say “a fling” will help me, though. A good romp to lighten up, get back in the game. But there was nothing exciting about that anymore—this kind of scandalous chase, kissing and only feeling it in one place, and pretending that this new, foreign body was something so exhilarating to my life. I used to believe in those nights. But now I realize that it was just a ploy to avoid emotional intimacy, to go for the guys who were ultimately unavailable. Was the sex with those guys ever all that great, anyway?

It’s funny how a person can go from saying, “Who the fuck cares? C’mon.” to shaking their head and saying, “I’m good. I’d rather be alone.”

But I like that I’m different now. I’m happy I want more.