If I know you off the internet and I see you this week, you will notice a bite mark on my chin.
"I think you'd like E___," my friend said. "He's a little weird."
She had invited me to E___'s birthday party at a Capitol Hill bar, but I couldn't tell if I liked him because he was 100%, certifiably trashed. He called me Sarah for the first thirty minutes of our conversation, and I patiently corrected him until he got it right. We didn't have much of a coherent discourse, but I liked his body. It was strong without being bulky; the hipster tattoo sleeve looked good on his arm. We drunkenly flirted until he said "I really want to kiss you right now," and then we sealed the attraction.
"I like your face. You're pretty," he said.
"Is that all you like?" The alcohol was kicking in full force. "What about my tits?"
His eyes popped open.
The midnight hour of his 30th birthday was approaching and he said he wanted to spend it making out with me in his apartment. He couldn't find his wallet, but a woman had just referenced her breasts and he had his priorities. Four hours later, as we lay in bed sobering up, he would worry about where his wallet was. At that moment it was an afterthought.
Then the bite happened, followed by bruises, culminating in fun, consensual, rough sex that I was shocked came from a website administrator in Seattle. Time passed quickly and before knew it, it was 4 am.
"I'm gonna head home," I said.
"What?!?" He looked at me like I was crazy. "Why don't you spend the night? I'm really enjoying this."
"I'm having a great time too, but I'm just not comfortable sleeping here. And it's my policy. I never want to wake up in the morning next to a strange guy and have him regret what happened the night before."
"That's a weird policy," he said.
In the back of my mind, I remembered the man I met in New York. I had told him the same thing and he laughed. "I think that's an excellent policy," he had assured me, "but it's 4 am and you're welcome to stay."
The hour was the same in the Seattle encounter. I was willing to do the walk of shame.
I started to get dressed and he did too. "What are you doing?," I wanted to know.
"It's a thing called chivalry. I'm walking you to the door. Maybe you need more men to do this for you."
It occurred to me, as I left his apartment, that a far more chivalrous move than putting on pants and walking down a staircase would have been to thank me for a good time and get my contact information, which he didn't ask for. But I am able to take good sex for what it is, and I will leave him with the birthday gift of believing that the ultimate act of chivalry after sex is accompanying a woman to the door.
"I think you'd like E___," my friend said. "He's a little weird."
She had invited me to E___'s birthday party at a Capitol Hill bar, but I couldn't tell if I liked him because he was 100%, certifiably trashed. He called me Sarah for the first thirty minutes of our conversation, and I patiently corrected him until he got it right. We didn't have much of a coherent discourse, but I liked his body. It was strong without being bulky; the hipster tattoo sleeve looked good on his arm. We drunkenly flirted until he said "I really want to kiss you right now," and then we sealed the attraction.
"I like your face. You're pretty," he said.
"Is that all you like?" The alcohol was kicking in full force. "What about my tits?"
His eyes popped open.
The midnight hour of his 30th birthday was approaching and he said he wanted to spend it making out with me in his apartment. He couldn't find his wallet, but a woman had just referenced her breasts and he had his priorities. Four hours later, as we lay in bed sobering up, he would worry about where his wallet was. At that moment it was an afterthought.
Then the bite happened, followed by bruises, culminating in fun, consensual, rough sex that I was shocked came from a website administrator in Seattle. Time passed quickly and before knew it, it was 4 am.
"I'm gonna head home," I said.
"What?!?" He looked at me like I was crazy. "Why don't you spend the night? I'm really enjoying this."
"I'm having a great time too, but I'm just not comfortable sleeping here. And it's my policy. I never want to wake up in the morning next to a strange guy and have him regret what happened the night before."
"That's a weird policy," he said.
In the back of my mind, I remembered the man I met in New York. I had told him the same thing and he laughed. "I think that's an excellent policy," he had assured me, "but it's 4 am and you're welcome to stay."
The hour was the same in the Seattle encounter. I was willing to do the walk of shame.
I started to get dressed and he did too. "What are you doing?," I wanted to know.
"It's a thing called chivalry. I'm walking you to the door. Maybe you need more men to do this for you."
It occurred to me, as I left his apartment, that a far more chivalrous move than putting on pants and walking down a staircase would have been to thank me for a good time and get my contact information, which he didn't ask for. But I am able to take good sex for what it is, and I will leave him with the birthday gift of believing that the ultimate act of chivalry after sex is accompanying a woman to the door.
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