Ok, ladies, hold on to your handbags. It’s the post you’ve all been waiting for.
Because sometimes, a girl just needs to get laid.
It had been 18 years with the same guy, for Pete’s sake. And given my Evangelical save-it-for-the-marriage upbringing, the pre-marital sex I’d had wasn’t all that great either. (Except for one, but he died. Which is what the novel’s about.)
Suffice to say, it was more than time.
I didn’t want to ruin it with expectations. Nor did I want to hang around waiting for the perfect man. A one night stand was just fine, as long as he was hot and I was feeling it.
The hunt was on.
There were four possible candidates in the hopper. The first was the government engineer who was safe, polite, had lived in my homeland, looked like his profile pics and whom my Pilates instructor thought was hot. But I was worried he was a bit boring, and would read more into it than I intended. At the completely opposite end of the spectrum was the Russian cougar-seeker with the foot-fetish. But I was worried he was too risky, and while foot-rubs are fine in their own way, I was hoping for a little more. Besides which, to truly check “one night stand” off my bucket list, I needed someone I hadn’t already met.
That whittled it down to two guys in my “mutual likes” list. So I messaged back and forth until they disclosed their real identities, checked them both out on LinkedIn to make sure we didn’t have anyone in common, and then dug deep into OKCupid’s magical algorithms.
Aka, the sex questions.
- Would you sleep with someone before you married them?
Well that was a no-brainer.
- Would you sleep with someone on a first date?
This one was a little harder, because I didn’t want the kind of man who would sleep with anyone on a first date; I wanted someone who would sleep with me on a first date. Fortunately, both had added qualifying comments to their “No” responses, which I took to be a good sign.
- Which pubic hair style do you prefer on your partner?
Natural/Neatly trimmed/Completely shaved/Don’t care
And herein lay my conundrum. For one liked it neatly trimmed while the other liked it completely shaved. Which meant that timing was everything.
Rather pleased with myself, I arranged to see Neatly Trimmed on a Sunday and Completely Shaved the following Tuesday. All was well and good until Neatly Trimmed cancelled due to flu, rendering my immaculate pruning redundant. When Tuesday morning came, I duly removed the whole shebang, but no sooner had I put the cap back on the razor when Completely Shaved called and cancelled due to snow. Five minutes later, Neatly Trimmed called back to reschedule.
Bristling in more ways than one, I strung along Neatly Trimmed for as long as I possibly could while things softened up a bit. And sure enough, just as they had, Completely Shaved called back and, apologizing for the short notice, asked if I were free that evening.
And so off it came again.
I arrived at the restaurant early. The waitress seated me in the corner by the window, affording me a great view of the goings-on outside. At exactly 7pm, Completely Shaved parallel parked with finesse, stepped his shiny shoes out of his sleek, black Acura SUV and slid his Amex into the meter like a pro.
Be still my burning bush.
Or lack thereof.
Suffice to say, Completely Shaved couldn’t quite believe his luck. Like the consummate gentleman he was, he kept checking to make sure I really meant what I was putting out, and when I assured him I did, swept me up into the most beautiful kiss of my life (which, since most American men have absolutely no idea how to do, must have been courtesy of his French ex-wife. Merci beaucoup, ma prédécesseuse.)
We got the check.
I didn’t get an Uber.
And I never did meet Neatly Trimmed.