The end of casual sex

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

By Ali Drucker

Published November 17, 2014 1:00AM (EST)

    (<a href='http://www.istockphoto.com/profile/is_imagesource'>IS_ImageSource</a> via <a href='http://www.istockphoto.com/'>iStock</a>)
(IS_ImageSource via iStock)

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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