I’ve been single most of my adult life.
Don’t believe me? I was eighteen when I had my last boyfriend. You know, the holding-hands-staying-over-every-night-meeting-the-family-and-friends-making-future-plans sort of boyfriend. The guy that you introduce to everyone and they go awww when they see you two together. The guy that you introduce to your friends and they’re actually happy for you.
I am really, really good at being single. So, it must follow that I’m also really, really good at having casual sex. Right?
My sister was born with the commitment gene, but it seems to have skipped me altogether. She got the flowers and cards and moving in with a boyfriend who has a dog and a house. I got the ‘ayoooo, who are you?’ gene. I got the 1am messages and the dick pics and the promise to do it all again in a few days or in a week.
It’s good. For a while. You know, the five minutes that it usually lasts. I’m telling you now: Vibrators last a lot longer than a boy will. Because we all know ‘casual sex’ is code for a boy who thinks that five minutes of foreplay and sex is enough.
I grew up watching my sister have relationship after relationship. My little sister. She could hold down a serious relationship and I couldn’t. I was jealous. Later, my friends followed suit. They all got boyfriends while I stayed the single girl. Girls grow up being told they should want to go to school, meet a boy, get married, and have a bunch of babies. Back in the day, that was ‘being successful’. Later, ‘being successful’ grew to include a college education, a career, and travel. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that I could add another thing to that list. Casual sex.
Let’s just say that college was good to me. Really good to me. I got the college experience that I was looking for and then some. I got to live with my friends, throw raging house parties, and wake up with a crushing hangover that was only cured by more alcohol, greasy food, and a tactical chunder. I got to experience Tinder, hook up with a guy in a club, and go home alone (or not). I could choose who I wanted to spend my time on. You know, if that was one night, a week, or a whole semester.
I got everything a twenty-something could have wanted: banter, flirting, sex, a cuddle, and an occasional McDonald’s run. You know, because bad sex is a reality, but there is no such thing as a bad cheeseburger.
It was perfect for a commitment-phobe like me.
But there’s only so much bad sex a person can handle. You get sick of saying “Just a little to the left” or pretending to enjoy it when it really just feels like someone is jackhammering your internal organs. You know things are bad when you fake an orgasm just so you can go to sleep. Eventually, there comes a time where no amount of cheeseburgers can compensate for someone who doesn’t know where the clitoris is.
And that’s no way to live life.
No one should have to go through life without an orgasm or wondering if that strategically placed finger is something they do like. No one should go through life wondering if the guy likes them for them or the fact that they like being tied up every now and again.
I’m not going to put up with it anymore.
Casual sex can be good, but eventually you get sick of waking up next to someone and wondering if you’re wasting your time. You get sick of finding condoms littering your floor because someone can’t be bothered putting it in the bin. Or sometimes you roll over and realise the only redeeming quality about a person is the fact that they know what they’re doing in bed. I’m sorry, but good sex does not make you a good person.
I’m not saying that I’m turning into a romantic who expects flowers and presents and wining and dining. (Although that would be nice.) I’m not saying that I’m looking for a husband or a step-dad for my son. I’m not about to stop dating or run off to become a nun.
I’m just setting a new standard.
One that doesn’t include bad sex, fake orgasms, and lukewarm cheeseburgers.