How Not to Get Laid

(Another story that breaks the guy-gets-rejected-by-girl mold. Do enjoy. - SF)

I knew he was a player. We belonged to the same Jewish group on campus, and he would arrive at each monthly potluck with a new flavor on his arm. She was always petite. Always pretty. Secretly, I compared myself to these girls and wondered how I stacked up.

He’d given me a ride home once, and we stopped for a coffee that lasted two and a half hours. Conversation was effortless. He made me feel like there was no one else in the world but me. A crush was born. But although we both agreed we should “do this again sometime,” we somehow never did. I forgot about my crush and didn’t see him again for three months.

Then we hooked up. It was April. A mutual friend was celebrating her birthday at a dance club, and I was 10 minutes away from jetting, when he walks in. We danced. Closely. And then … we were kissing.

We got hot on the dance floor and moved to a couch in the lounge of the club. I straddled him and shoved my tongue down his throat; he grabbed my ass with unbounded enthusiasm. A friend and eyewitness told me later, “Dude, it was hot! You guys looked like porn stars!” I felt victorious.

But when we came up for air on that couch, we were honest enough with each other to reveal the following: a) I was in the mood for a relationship; b) he was not in the mood for a relationship. “But you are seriously one of the most awesome girls I know,” he consoled me with. “Seriously. You’re the whole package.”

I’ve been around the block enough times to know that when a guy tells you he’s doesn’t want a relationship, it means that either he’s not interested in a relationship, or he’s not interested in a relationship with you. Either way, you lose, and it’s pointless to try to “change his mind.”

A month later. It was my birthday, and the crush was dead (I’m good like that – I can turn it off pretty easily if I want to). The crush was dead, BUT my libido was roaring out of control. It had officially been a year (to the day) since my last sexual encounter and I was more than ready for some action, and feeling pretty entitled. It was my birthday, after all.

As I was leaving the bar where some of my friends had congregated in honor of me, he pulls up across the street. “Hey, I was just about to come inside!” he says. “You need a ride home?”

Did I need a ride? If he only knew… What perfect timing. Never mind that the bar was 10-minute stumbling distance from my apartment, I happily accepted his offer.

“Do you want to come up?”

He did. We wasted little time in finding an excuse to be in my bedroom, and shortly after, my bra was unhooked. Finally!

And then …

He stopped. He said, “I just can’t.” I knew he could; it was evident by the pressure at his zipper.

“But it’s my birthday.” (I really shouldn’t have begged.) “I’m not looking for a relationship with you, I just want some action. It’s been a year.”

The player groaned, conflicted. He traced my breast through my thin sweater with his fingertips. “God, I want to, but I just can’t do that to you. I know you. I respect you. If you were just a girl I took home from a bar, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Suddenly he respected me too much? This was the last thing I needed. I kissed him some more, tried to change his mind, but it was a fruitless attempt. He left, adjusting himself, shortly afterwards.

Happy Birthday to me.

Submitted by Jessica, Age 25, Cleveland

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