Living & Arts

Avoiding the awkward sting of the one-night stand

In print | January 22, 2009

“I could make a move but I won’t./ I know that you’re probably thinkin’ somethin’ is wrong./ Knowing if I do that it won’t be right./ I don’t get down on the first night.”
- Monica, “The First Nigh” Rowdy Records: 1998

Is it just me, or was Monica onto something? (“Angel of Mine, The Boy is Mine”—if you still don’t remember Monica, you’ve squandered valuable hours doing something nerdy that could have been spent watching Total Request Live with oh-so-dreamy Carson Daly). Had this ’90s R&B singer gone to Swarthmore, you lewd liberals who keep your condoms on display on your night stand (you know who you are) might have turned your noses up at Monica and her preachy songs about the one-night-stand. But let me tell you something: all that getting down does not come without its consequences. Oh yes, I said consequences, and I’m not talking about the kind that burn in your underwear. No, these consequences are imminent, ominous and dire. They are far more stingy and uncomfortable. They are the kind you would only encounter at Swarthmore. And I will tell you what they are because I have experienced them first hand, and for this reason and this reason alone, I envy the restraint that Monica preached in 1998. Oh, lord, do I envy her restraint.

It was a dark and stormy night, and I chose to seek refuge in the warmth of the DU basement. It was one of the first parties of the year and I was coming down with a very classic case of the ‘Oh-my-god-I’m-so-hornys.’ It’s a very dangerous condition, really, because, like rabies, once this disease takes a hold of a human being, there is no hope for him/her until provided with the antidote. The infected becomes ravenous with animalistic and aggressive qualities, and attempts to impede the trajectory of the rabid are futile.

And so, my lustfulness, combined with my over-tired state—which often produces symptoms in me as would a large amount of Tequila in others—enabled me to overlook several warning signs in my intended target, who for anonymity’s sake I shall call ‘Buddy Jones’ from this point forth. The first warning sign was that Buddy was getting mighty close with his probably-crush; let’s call her ‘Sally Smith.’ The two were seen canoodling recumbent on the DU basement couch where all the coats were strewn about. Yet after they disappeared in what I imagined was a 5-minute tryst, and Buddy returned alone, I saw the tables had turned as Buddy sat down alone on the bench outside of the bathroom door. Like a raccoon (a sexy raccoon), I leapt onto his lap and smiled at him with my big round eyes. Before I knew it we were making out.

“If I’m gonna be with you,” Buddy said, “I don’t want to be with you here.”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” I said.

As if propelled by a sudden uncontrollable momentum, Buddy and I rocketed halfway up the stairs and fluttered out of the side door of DU. Buddy took my hand and led me toward the WRC, which happened to be the most convenient building speaking in terms of proximity, but blast! His plan was foiled when the large wooden door was inexplicably bolted shut. To be honest, I was rather horrified that he would try to seduce me in such a place, especially when we both had perfectly good singles, but I decided to ignore this second warning sign and told him that “we should go somewhere else.”

By the time we finally approached Hallowell, a mutual understanding had been reached. A passer-by confirmed this when he smiled and cooed at us, “haaavvve funnn yooou twooo!” Buddy and I—now holding hands like two star-crossed lovers—responded to this by looking each other square in the eye and cackling. It must have been 3 in the morning. I ripped my key into the lock and the next thing I knew I was being thrown down onto the mattress pad with full force. Buddy had gone wild.

Now when I’m especially attracted to a guy, and he gets intense with me, he will pretty much make me go crazy. So when Buddy got ferocious, I was inspired to initiate things that are generally reserved for couples only, positions that are so sacred, for example, that middle-schoolers agonize over their meaning because they are encoded with titles that include double-digit numbers. But despite this wildly intense hookup, Buddy suddenly got weird when we were through. He seemed to be coming down with something equally as dangerous as my case of OMGISH (which had been miraculously eradicated only moments ago). As he lay there with an impassive look on his face muttering something about having to go back and “take out” his “contact-lenses,” it hit me like a sucker-punch: Buddy had just switched into buddy mode.

“I hope this doesn’t affect our friendship,” Buddy said, as he fastened his belt-buckle. If only we had actually been friends before, I thought to myself as I walked him to the door and nodded as nonchalantly as I could.

And then Buddy did something I will never forget. The most untimely and perverse gesticulation that has ever been directed my way. He put his fist up for daps. Hesitating for an instant, I decided it would be worse for the both of us if I left him hanging rather than just enduring the shame of a single fist bump. But oh, the sting of that instant will be forever branded onto my knuckles.

And so Buddy and I went our separate ways. We have had an occasional conversation, but we keep the interactions to the minimum primarily because the awkwardness is at an all-time high. My point in taking on a column of such a taboo nature is that I would like to not only entertain you Swarthmorians, but also send you a message or two. This week it’s for those of you (us) cavalier sex-havers. It’s time you all grow a pair. Start accepting the imminent dire consequences of your sexcapades. It will be awkward. God, it will be awkward. You go to Swarthmore, remember.

So, to Hell with it. Next Sunday Brunch, maybe you will acknowledge the boy you saw naked less than 3 hours ago, or maybe you will continue making your girlfriend refill your orange juice until he leaves. Not for my sake, but for your own sake and for the sake of your own “Buddy,” please: just be decently friendly. They will not leech onto you, call you every 5 minutes or try to suck your blood, I swear. Do yourself and your liaison a favor. Stop pretending it never happened because you both know it DAMN WELL did (and you both know you LIKED it).

Amber is a junior. You can reach her at email address removed at request of the author.