A man can sleep around, no questions asked, but if a woman makes nineteen or twenty mistakes she’s a tramp. – Joan Rivers
I’m not going to deny it, sugarcoat it or fluff it up to appease the more genteel of you readers—if there are indeed such things. I’m tired of the sanctimonious, gender-based double standards, the smugly intolerant dichotomy between being a “playah” and being “good.” As long as nobody gets hurt, what’s the problem? I’m an adult, I’m a single woman of fair intelligence and virtue, I play it safe and I have a healthy libido. Sometimes I just have this unbearable need.
I’m talking about the casual sex. Yeah, I see you baby—shakin’ that ass.
Some single girls pretend to be frat-boy bachelors and have no problem satisfying this need, and doing so with just about any interested party. And like I said, that’s their right. But obviously there are others, who perhaps don’t want to go to bars and “play the game”—or being of the sort of moral fiber where casual sex is simply not an option—who choose to wait until they’re in the midst of a serious relationship.
And then there are the few, the proud, the in-betweeners—the ones who’ve done the one-night stands, the frolicking flings and the fuck-buddy quickies—who are, frankly, tired of the lack of intimacy that casual sex provides, of the vague dissatisfaction from an otherwise enjoyable physical connection with no depth of spirit, that’s about as satisfying as eating a meal of stale rice cakes, Tofurkey, celery and fat-free ice cream.
Do I really need to say it? Yes, I think we all know that sex with a partner you actually care for is far superior to riding the baloney pony with some schmuck or shmuckette you met over Spam musubi at Minit Stop.
And yeah, I go through my moments of “Oh gosh, it sure would be nice to have someone to come home to, someone who would be my best friend, someone I could share laughs with, someone who would kiss my neck, lick my armpits and suck my toes on command…”
But the reality is, that ain’t happening. I don’t have a boyfriend and it’s not my focus to find one anytime soon. What’s a girl in need to do?
Okay, I’m gonna tell you a little secret. Maybe it was last year or a couple of months ago or last week—whatever. Sometime in the not-so-distant past, I totally had a Desperate Housewives moment with the gardener. Hey, he was hot. And I had lemonade.
I’m certainly not bragging; I’ve had more than my share of humility in these matters as well. In fact, there was this one time, also not so long ago, that I have hereby deemed, “The Night That Mighty Casey Has Struck Out.” Oh yeah, it happens.
Normally, I can be pretty shy and retiring. But the night in question was during a particularly lustful week for me—I was a little stressed out and seeking, uh, release. So in my wanton quest, I called my girls Sasha and Evelyn, who would surely understand the urgency of my temporary libidinousness and help quell my salacious search. So I hoped.
“Meet us at Idini’s!” they cried.
Interesting choice, I thought. For I’ll admit, I don’t generally consider my favorite neighborhood dive to be your typical “pick-up joint.” Having been there a few times over the past several months, I feel as though I’ve met everyone and am comfortable in their companionship—plus, most of the men there are married or quite a bit older than my usual dates.
But as soon as I walked in, I saw him. My victim was young and attractive—I barely gave him a chance to throw any flirty glances my way before I hopped over and thrust my red-hot desire in his face.
“Hey, aren’t you the hulahula girl?” he asked, unperturbed.
Usually, this recognition will make me giggle and blush like a Japanese schoolgirl while I back away into some dark corner with my liquid courage and notepad. But tonight was different. I was up for the challenge.
He bought me drinks and I ended up spending hours talking about everything with this guy—telling him about my science and music background, listening to his ruminations about dating and past relationships. He seemed interested. And I decided I liked him. I think that’s where it all went horribly wrong.
After several hours, the guy with whom I’d been chatting, looked me square in the eye, smiled and said, “Sam, it’s been a pleasure hanging out with you.” Then he left. Without me.
And just to add insult to injury, Sasha, Evelyn and Elan watched the whole thing from across the bar. They all smiled and shook their heads.
“You just put in a double shift, working so hard like that,” said Sasha.
“You should’ve just closed the deal from the get-go,” said Elan.
Evelyn just looked at me and laughed.
The very next night, I decided to kick it solo at the Moroccan Bayou. I had just finished writing an article and was feeling grateful to have such a cool job. My generous neighbors had just dropped off dinner. And I sat at my table—the huge bowl of fresh crab in front of me—with a candle burning, classic jazz cooing on my small stereo, a glass of red wine in one hand, fresh crab leg in the other, butter dripping off my chin, and I laughed out loud. I felt free.
In that one glorious moment, I felt like I had everything I wanted. And I didn’t need anything else. Except, well… maybe a case of double-A’s.
Samantha Campos needs to do waaaaaay more yoga. MTW