Sex and the Single Girl

The second thing I said when Jamie and I broke up was that I was not even going to consider dating again for at least six months.

(If you're wondering what the first thing was, it's best to leave that to your imagination. Suffice it to say, there was a good bit of profanity and high-pitched invective. Try, if you will, to imagine the dulcet tones of a Tarantino movie being run through a fax machine.)

But yes. The dating again. I admit, nearly three months out, I'm torn on the whole idea.

Picture it in terms of a night at the bar. The rational side of me is the friend that tells you that you've had enough to drink for now, you have work in the morning and you remember the last terrible hangover you had, it was awful, wasn't it, now let's get your coat. The emotional side of me is the friend saying that you can just relax and have fun exactly the way the night is going, no pressure, it's okay to take things easy once in a while, have some mozzarella sticks.

This would be all well and good if it weren't for my libido, the shit-show friend at the bar buying everybody in the room a shot of tequila, god damn it, because we're still YOUNG AND ALIVE WOOOOOOOOOO heeyyy, where'd my bra go?

You see the dilemma. In the end, the shots always start to seem like a good idea.

I recognize that it's not the 1950s anymore and that sex doesn't need to take place inside of a committed relationship. It's certainly not a foreign concept in my own life. (I don't want to say I used to be a bit easy, but my little black book has volumes and a bibliography.) The problem is that I just don't get the gratification from no-strings-attached flings like I used to. It just seems like so much effort to shave my legs and pull out the A-game for someone I couldn't see hanging out with afterwards and ragging on terrible reality television over beer. At the very least, I'd like a good-humoured fist bump after on a job well done.

I guess that's the part that gives me away right there. It's not just the sex I miss, it's the feeling of connection, however fleeting it might be. You know the feeling I mean, the one in that moment right where being naked stops being awkward and funny and starts becoming something else altogether; when even if it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe or your life or even your week, it means something right in that instant.

It's probably another tell-tale sign that I'm getting older when even my vagina is starting to go sentimental on me. I guess the Cuervo can be put on hold for another little while.