BARFFFFFFFFFFFFFF, I hate new sex.
And I know it’s a thing (maybe a sitcom thing?) to bitch about having to do a fake porn moan under the same sweaty, hairy, disgusting meatsack of a pre-corpse you’ve been holding your farts in under for the last five or 10 or 15 years or whatever, but I don’t even care: I WANT THAT.
I’m over the rush of the new; bring on the last dick I’m ever gonna suck.
And I get your objection, I really do. Current boyfriend doesn’t buy you flowers or appreciate your pot roast or bother to clean his beard whiskers from where they’ve pooled in a blob of toothpaste in the sink and the last thing you fucking want to do after spending your morning scrubbing the dried pee sprinkles from the floor around the toilet (THAT IS WHAT THOSE CLOROX WIPES ON THE SINK ARE FOR, YOUNG MAN) is hike your comfy nightshirt up and slide the crotch of your underwear over just enough for him to get his ¾ erection into your delicate ladybits, so you think “Hot damn, wouldn’t it be super rad to bang some shiny new gentleman caller?”
PROBABLY. Chances are this next one’s weird quirks are totally going to stress you out, too, but at the very least they will have that new car smell.
So you’re not ready for another relationship because you want to take some time to process this last one (smart) but would like the opportunity to road test a handful of new options (awesome) or you never had a relationship in the first goddamned place and just want to get busy with someone you would never introduce your brunch circle to (who are you, me!?) and you want to get your cute little face ready but don’t know how?
Well neither do I because I’m dumb, but here is how I wing that unnecessarily complicated shit:
Find someone with whom you can have casual sex that won’t make you feel totally gross after.
Easier said than done, sister. Especially as you get older and more intolerant. Homie, you proudly wrote on OkCupid that you haven’t read a book since high school!? Get out forever, thanks. What’s that? You hate your mom and think “feminist” is a dirty word? PEACE THE EFF OUT.
When I was 19 or whatever I would’ve banged whichever bro rang up my purchase at Foot Locker without so much as a “Hey bud, what kind of music do you like?” But I’m old now, so I gotta know what’s on your Spotify and the last thing you DVR’d before I disappoint you with the only three things I know how to do in bed.
Clean up your place. But only, like, a little bit.
Someone please tell me the mathematical way of expressing “the more I clean my apartment prior to a booty call, the less that future sex is going to be awesome.” You’re totally going to be mad if you put fresh linens on and the sex is weak, trust me.
Years ago I read some sort of pink-covered lazy girl guide to cleaning (and probably style! the man always wants us to do things with style!) and the one piece of advice I remember is to make sure the largest object in the room is tidy because it is the main thing someone who isn’t you is ever going to notice.
Believe me, I have dusted picture frames and mopped behind the dresser only to have a man kick his shoes off at the door and make a beeline to the air mattress my old roommate was letting me borrow, never once stopping to notice that I had arranged my books so that all the smart ones were at eye level.
HIDE YOUR GOOD GROCERIES.
Caps Lock on because I mean that shit. Last dude I had up in here was like, “Hey, can I get a glass of water?” and came back to my bed with the Brita pitcher, a package of sopressata still wrapped in butcher paper, an unopened bag of Oreos, and a container of expensive-ass Whole Foods marcona almonds.
All I could do was sit there, mouth slack in disbelief, and watch this dude eat the three-piece mild from Popeyes I was saving for breakfast in two gigantic bites as his slimy penis recoiled back into his body. Now I keep some bottled water on the nightstand. HE ATE MY RED BEANS AND RICE WITH HIS FINGERS, YOU GUYS. I mourn to this day.
Run the humidifier on its highest setting.
A couple years ago my homie was like, “That Radiohead ‘In Rainbows’ record is really awesome to bang to.” And I was all TRYING THAT NEXT TIME I GET BANGED LOL and at my next sexing opportunity as I was sliding all over my apartment covered in baby oil frantically hiding piles of magazines in the linen closet I remembered to put that album on.
He was mid-thrust when “Videotape” came on, and it sounds like the kind of music a teenage babysitter in a horror movie gets murdered to, and one look in his eyes told me that he was dunzo. But I don’t want to listen to my queefs in surround sound, bouncing off the walls of my minimally furnished crib, so I run the humidifier. Extra loud.
Remember that thing you gotta go do.
I’m always RUL DELIBERATE when setting the alarm.
“See? I have to be up at 4:45, so it’s probably best if you didn’t spend the night. Because I have to get a pap smear/meet my parents for breakfast/catch a flight to Iceland hella early. You know, I would hate for you to have to get up earlier than necessary. I would also hate for you to snatch my blankets in the middle of the night and fart all between the fresh sheets I just couldn’t resist changing before you got here because I was nervous they smelled too much like the cat’s butt. Ugh and I gotta try not to snore and worry about waking you up when I inevitably have to pee in the middle of the night, and was the sex we just had worth that anxiety? You didn’t even go down on me right. I mean, I like you and everything, but I just have some international espionage I can’t really talk about to go do. And my parents are coming over for breakfast. Also I’m getting my period. So let’s just see each other next time my Netflix is acting wonky and I can’t find an SVU marathon, cool?”
He’ll be letting himself out before you even finish talking, and thank fuck for that.
Now get your retainer from the sock drawer where you hid it and take your ass to bed. I like that flannel nightgown, by the way. My mom has the same one.