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The end of casual sex

To other people, I was the embodiment of the empowered woman. But inside, I was gut-wrenchingly confused


Ali Drucker
November 17, 2014 6:00AM (UTC)

The first words he spoke to me were, “I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to walk back into that room like nothing happened.”

We met in a kitchen on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and with a crowd full of people just feet away in the living room, he put his hands on my hips and drew me in for a kiss I couldn’t escape. I stood speechless as he sauntered back to the party, not even glancing over his shoulder. It was never a question in his mind that I was going home with him that night. We sat around a coffee table, avoiding eye contact, counting down the minutes until he would put his hand on the small of my back, ushering me into a cab. Thirteen blocks felt like an eternity, with every halting red light punctuating my growing anticipation. The kiss I found so enticing just minutes before was eclipsed entirely by what I would discover in the taxi and over the next 10 months. I had never felt so desired in my life; my body hummed to the pitch of his lips, the tenor of his touch. And I discovered just how far I would go and how much I would sacrifice in order to feel it again.

It was a kind of intimacy I had never experienced, confusing and addictive. After our first night together, I searched for my clothes on his messy bedroom floor. Still somewhat of a newcomer to the one-night stand, I assumed the faster I left, the better. I’d certainly had a few, but to this point, most of my romantic history was composed of a slew of boyfriends, some serious, others not. Rarely did I find myself feeling so exposed to someone I had never spoken to until just hours before. Fumbling in the half-lit room, I felt his hand gently grab mine, pulling me back to bed, and I melted into the warmth of his arms as he smiled and said, “Please stay.” He spoke with humor and charm about everything from his family to his hand-made mask collection, and I drank in every word. He was memorizing the curves of my body while I memorized shared favorite TV shows and restaurants. Wary of coming on too strong, I crept out without so much as a “see you later.” That night, the screen of my phone flashed with a string of numbers I didn’t recognize. It was him. He was exactly where I’d left him not long ago, and he wanted me ba...

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Ali Drucker

Ali Drucker is a staff writer for Supercompressor.com. She lives in New York City. Follow her on Twitter @ali_drucker

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