The First Time I…Had A One Night Stand (And Didn’t Even Sleep With the Guy)
In high school I had my first relationship. A very nice boy who loved the crap out of me, would have married me before we were legally able to sip champagne at our embarrassingly low-budget wedding if I let him. He never looked at other girls, at least the ones who weren’t on television, and always texted me goodnight. I also thought I would spend the rest of my life with him, because of course a sixteen-year-old girls brain is the worst fortune cookie, and I couldn’t see myself with anyone else. One semester into college and a rough 350 miles between us, I saw a dreamy, older subject at a party and ended all of it in the course of a week. Three years quickly went out the window because of my naive troublesome theory that this not-so-mystery man would actually be interested in me. On a deeper level than what color my panties are, that is.
It was my friends birthday, and he threw a house party where I met a bunch of people I had never seen before, including his gorgeous roommate. Chiseled face, brown hair you wanted to run your hands through, brown eyes, tall. Prior to this, I was under the assumption that he was the sexiest guy I’d ever seen in real life. We talked and flirted and even my friends noticed the way he was looking at me. We left the party, much more intoxicated than arriving, but the thing that stuck in my head was the electricity I felt when he put his hand around my waist, or pulled me onto his lap. Such shallow expressions of interest, but to my dumb associations, these meant that he liked me too, of course, and couldn’t stop thinking about me either.
I broke up with my boyfriend only days later, telling him we just wouldn’t work because we were now even further apart and we didn’t even know the next time we would see each other would be. I told him I needed to do “my own thing” and experience new things and learn my new city, and I couldn’t do that if he was holding me back. In reality, as this was all true, I really just didn’t know the next time I would see this new guy again, and that excitement was all that mattered in the moment.
Less than a week later, my roommate and I were invited over to this pseudo-frat house. A bunch of guys, post-college, who lived together and built their in-home studio in the garage behind the house to pursue their music careers. We would drink in the studio, playing drinking games until they were all too smashed to remember, or care, how old we were in comparison to them. We would in turn get too tipsy to think about the fact that some of them were ten years our senior, and still playing drinking games as a form of entertainment.
As things got progressively sloppier in the house, my roommate paired up with one of the dudes. The alcohol was nearly gone. One of the guys passed out on the couch in the midst of the activity, and “dreamboat” took this as his queue to make his move. As he held me close up against the fireplace in the living room, he grabbed my face and I couldn’t help but immediately think about what an amazing kisser he was at the same time that the fact that I hadn’t kissed anyone except my ex in almost three years. As both of these contradicting thoughts ran through my head, we went from fireplace, to suddenly I was straddling him on a chair in the middle of the active living room until we ultimately stumbled into his bedroom.
As he threw me on the bed, I immediately blurted, “I’m not having sex with you tonight,” out of a mixture of panic and guilty curiosity as to how he would take that. He replied casually, “That’s fine. We can just have fun,” and I felt slightly more relaxed, despite the fact that I had no idea what he meant by “fun.” We made out for probably not longer than a minute before he reached for my pant zipper and proceeded to try to pry them off. I stopped him, in actual shock that he would so blatantly disregard what I had just said. We then continued to kiss and talk about things, which I’m assuming he did to make me feel more comfortable. If I felt comfortable enough with him over the less-than-12-hours we had known each other, maybe my naive little eighteen-year-old brain would obediently allow him to fuck me. He asked me what I wanted to do in life, we talked about our favorite albums and he even told me the meanings of his random tattoos. He was a singer, naturally. I thought he was so deep and so interesting, and I even thought that when he became nearly naked in front of me down to his boxer briefs, in response to my refusal to let him take any of my clothes off besides my shoes.
We played this game all night, until it eventually exhausted us and we both fell asleep. But I knew since he cuddled me in his sleep, and asked me questions about myself that he must like me. Of course he did. He also tried to violate my every wish by trying to fuck me despite my unwavering resistance all night and morning, so that means he loves me, right?
He barely asked for my number, and I don’t think he had even remembered my name until I put it in his phone in the morning before I left. He kissed me sweetly goodbye, and even said “I’ll see you soon,” a contradictory move compared to those of animalistic intent only hours prior. I mistook this as being genuine, given I had only known those kind of words to mean exactly what they should in all my misguided experiences.
This was the first time I realized that guys don’t say what they really mean. That a lot of guys will say anything, do anything or at least try to make anything happen so they can get their hardly concealed bulge in your pants (I mean his was sizable, don’t get me wrong). This actualization now feels completely hilarious as this has become a normality to say the least. I mean, this guy sang to me for Christ’s sake. It didn’t work, but it was probably an attempt that had yet to fail him in the past.
For so long, this story seemed embarrassing. He never called me of course, never even replied to a text and I haven’t seen him since. He’s left simply thinking that I’m crazy, a young dumb girl who was too prude to give it up for some “fun.” This is all true, I can’t argue. I was left thinking, should I have slept with him? Am I the one who’s not normal? The guy who tried to rip my clothes off without any positive consent left me feeling crazy, that I did something wrong, and feeling guilty for not just sleeping with him.
Now, to him, I’ll always be the crazed eighteen-year-old girl who didn’t sleep with him and then had the audacity to try to talk to him afterwards. And to me, he’ll always be the twenty-eight-year-old horny, gorgeous, pig who obsessively dry-humped me one night. I really, really hope we cross paths again one day.
There’s a first time for everything, and I don’t just mean your “first time.” Of course, there’s vital, “right of passage” first times that everyone must encounter at some point, for example, moving to a new place, getting your heart broken, and making your first humiliating, drunk decision. Yet first times are imperative to the better (or often, identical) mistakes we’ll make later, and teach us the lessons that we’ll continue to not learn from. Every week, we’re going to be telling real first time stories from real girls, and that includes everything from celebrity house parties to Instagram marriage proposals.