My Attempts To Enjoy The One-Night Stand
The first time I attempted a one-night stand I ended up naked in a fraternity house crying on my suitor’s bed. I was 18 years old and just broke up with my first boyfriend who, at the time, was the man I believed I would retire with. Granted, those expectations were based on a drunken conversation in the loft bed of his dorm room where he said he would love me forever before passing out and remembering nothing the next day — but at the time, he was the one.
I don’t remember what my suitor looked like, nor do I remember the series of events that led to me bawling and sitting bare-ass on his likely unwashed sheets. My memories of that night are limited to dancing in an unfinished basement wearing a lime green tutu, drinking a fizzy, orange liquid and being pushed into my suitor’s arms.
I was not coherent enough to make wise decisions that night. I was coherent enough to put my number into my suitor’s phone. He texted me a few weeks later asking if I was okay and if I wanted to get coffee sometime.
I did not respond.
I woke up the day after my failed hook up feeling dirty, confused, and ashamed. I was also frustrated. Why couldn’t I go through with a one-night stand? Everyone else was doing it. Some even say one-night stands are good for you. According to a 2008 study by the National Institute of Health, 82% of men and 57% of women wake up the morning after casual sex “generally glad they had done it.”
I found I am not a part of that 57%. But it didn’t stop me from trying.
When I returned from my five-week-long hiking trip in Spain, a few of my friends had one burning question: “Did you hook up with anyone?”
“No,” I would say, to which they’d cock their head, expel a pitiful “aw”, and tell me it was okay, as though having sex with a stranger was my one purpose for walking El Camino de Santiago.
The Camino, also known as The Way of St. James, is a pilgrimage route that runs approximately 790 kilometers (roughly 500 miles) across northern Spain. According to Christianity, one of the original 12 apostles, Santiago — or Saint James — helped to spread the religion throughout the Iberian Peninsula along this path. It is said that when he died, he was buried in a chapel that would later become the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, the ending point of the Camino.
I did not embark on this walk with religious motives; I watched “The Way” in my high school Spanish class and Martin Sheen convinced me this would be a worthwhile adventure. Despite having blisters covering 90% of my feet and the weight of my Osprey pack pinching multiple nerves in my back, the Camino was an incredible journey — but by no means was it a glamorous vacation. I regularly slept in small rooms in back-to-back bunk beds teeming with strangers. I woke up at 5:30 a.m. every morning to get an early start on our 20+ kilometer walk and checked my mattress for bed bugs every night. When I finished hiking for the day I was more interested in icing my feet and drinking wine than having sex in a donation-based hostel.
Regardless of whether I’m abroad or not, I don’t usually partake in one-night stands — though I have encouraged myself many times to try them. In a world where sex is just a finger swipe away, it seems inevitable that most twenty-somethings will try a one-night stand at least once.
I’ve had girlfriends who crave them. “You can do whatever you want,” they tell me. “You’re never going to see that person again. What’s more fun than that?”
It was two years before I attempted another night of meaningless sex. I had just broken up with the second love of my life, had recently moved to a new city, and believed the lies my rom-com obsessed adolescence — and, admittedly, adulthood — told me about having to get under a new man before getting over your old one.
His name was Gaelan. He was a waiter at my favorite taco joint. I was instantly drawn to his loose-fitting flannel shirt and quarter length sleeves that revealed his muscular, tattooed arms. His scruffy facial hair and silver nose ring was just the vibe I was looking for as a newcomer to a small, artsy city in the South.
After an adorable interaction of him commenting on how often he was refilling my water glass, advising him to save time by dropping off a pitcher, and him following through, I left him my number.
I knew my and Gaelan’s love was hopeless when he invited me over after our date to play board games, my least favorite activity next to puzzles. Still, we had sex. By then I was 20 years old; Gaelan was 26. He was the first man to tell me I “tasted good” and it grossed me out. He offered for me to spend the night, but I insisted I had to go home. He bought me an Uber and I was on my way.
After I had deleted Gaelan’s number he texted me months later with a cliche, “Hey stranger.” I asked who it was and he told me. I did not send a second text. I was confused. Isn’t the point of the one-night stand to never speak to or see each other again? Why were these boys texting me? That’s not how this works. That’s not in the rulebook.
I felt close to my ex-boyfriends the first time we had sex. I felt a connection to them that anyone who’s been in a comfortable sexual relationship can relate to. I never felt that comfortability with Gaelan, and certainly not with Blurry Faced Frat Boy — and that was the problem. It became clear to me that I was more interested in the act of wanting to have a one-night stand than actually taking part in one. Because here’s the thing: I like to laugh during sex. I like feeling hands on my body that know my curves rather than lazily swipe over its crevices. I like walking the line between passion and friendship with my partners, and unless you’re in a comfortable relationship, that balance is hard to find.
Suddenly, I found it. About a year later I met Anthony. We dove into a “casual” relationship, and it seemed like the best of both worlds. Not only did I feel close to him, but the sex was actually good — really good–which is not easy to come by in the world of casual hookups. Anthony told me multiple times he was not interested in being in a relationship with anyone; I told him I felt the same way, and part of me meant it. Deep down, though, I hoped he would change his mind.
He never did. We began having sex less and less until finally, our arrangement fizzled out. We agreed we were better off as friends. The following weekend I had sex with a 6’7” boxer studying biology at Brown University in a hotel bathroom in Washington, D.C. Anthony— who also had sex with another woman that weekend — accompanied me to CVS where I bought Plan B just as my 72-hour window was coming to a close. If I didn’t know where Anthony and I stood before, I definitely did now.
I again found myself feeling embarrassed, dissatisfied, and now angry over the $50 I spent to avoid parenthood. By then I had attempted three nights of casual sex and all of them struck out.
I was done.
Along El Camino, I met a boy from Liverpool named Jack. He had just graduated from Cambridge University and was fluent in Spanish. He hoped to someday go into a career in politics, but his passion for Spanish culture brought him back to Spain every summer rather than pursuing an internship in Parliament. We both carried a journal in our backpack, and while I would usually write for hours at the end of the day, he was constantly scribbling down thoughts. I romanticized and reminisced over memories; he was a consistent observer and preserver of life.
On the eve of my twenty-second birthday our “Camino family,” as we called it, stayed up late playing card games and drinking wine. At midnight, everyone in the common area of our hostel sang me “Happy Birthday” and we kept on drinking. Jack pulled me aside and asked if we could step away from the group so he could give me my birthday present.
We went outside and sat amongst the clotheslines that hung damp hiking gear out back. Jack took out a piece of paper and told me my birthday present was a poem he had written for me, about me, and read his writing out loud. It was one of the most romantic moments of my life.
When my friends asked if I had hooked up with anyone while I was away, I told them no; then I would share this story. I told them about the poem Jack had written about the young woman with two different colored eyes. She took all the pain in the world into her dark blue eye and released goodness from its green counterpart. I told them how after reading me this poem, Jack told me how happy he was that he met me that summer. I told them how these are the intimate moments I crave, not casual sex with a man I’ll never see again.
They would smile, nod, and quickly change the subject.
