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27: Erica, Possibly

February 24, 2011 | by  |  Confessions of a Lonely, Single Guy

Okay, I’ll admit it: she was sloppy drunk.

There’s also a good chance she was a nymphomaniac.

And, two hours after I first spoke with her, we were having frenzied sex on the couch in my living room.

Her name was very likely Erica (though, if we’re being honest, it could have been Adria, or Angelica, or India, or, really, anything else that ended in “A”), and we met at The Biltmore, about four days after my encounter with the Smilodon.

Rather than dying down, in the days before I met her, it seemed my aggressive streak had begun to pick up speed; now, when I went out, the first thing I wanted to do was circle the room in search of available females. When I talked to my friends, conversation inevitably turned to pickup, either failed or successful. Strategy. Planning.

All my life, all I’d ever done was have relationships.

Sex was Relationship Sex.

Fights were Relationship Fights.

I’d been considerate. I’d been monogamous. I’d even been celibate for a good length of time when Maggie was in California. And, the worst part was, most of the time, it hadn’t even been my idea. I’d gone along with it because that’s what they had wanted, and because that’s what I thought I needed, and because I was a “decent guy”.

But now, I didn’t want to have Relationship Sex.

Hell, I didn’t even want to have a relationship.

I wanted to be free. I wanted to put myself first. I wanted to behave like every entitled asshole I’d ever gone to high-school with; every thoughtless prick who’d ever gotten the girl over me, and then dumped her three days later. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to have random hookups that I never called again. I wanted to be the person that men warned their sisters and girlfriends about, the kind of guy that would walk into a room, and, from the minute he made eye-contact with a woman, everyone would know that it was all but over.

“Then, Ian walked in,” they’d say, “and that was that.”

And, as my opinion on the subject continued to shift, I noticed a marked change in myself, and those around me.

When I talked, people listened. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a strong, confident man. The mechanics that DJ Strangelove had so often blathered on about had become entirely clear to me.

Or, so I thought.

It was around nine o’clock on a Wednesday night, when Leon, Brittany and I met with a small group of friends to drink moderately (for once), and watch an eccentric local band rock and thrash their way around the stage.

I first saw her as I made my way back from the bar: a brunette. Short. Spunky. Her cheeks freckled in a fashion that shouldn’t really have been sexy, but was. She was dancing with a friend off to the side of the stage, though “dancing” might be a bit of an understatement. Her legs spun like she was in a Warner Brothers cartoon, and her arms flapped so quickly, and with such vigour that, at any minute, I expected her to take flight.

“Whooo!” she screeched, as I passed.
“Wow!” I shouted. “You guys are totally rocking out!”

And that was that.

That was the full extent of our conversation.

A second later, she was back to dancing like I didn’t even exist.

“Who was that?” Leon asked, as I returned to the table.
“Dunno.”
“You talk to her?”
“Oh, yeah. It was scintillating.”

I turned back, and looked at her one more time.
“She’s cute.”
“I don’t know, man,” he laughed. “I’m not sure she’s your type. I mean, she hasn’t even been through menopause yet.”
“Oh, fuck off.”

I didn’t see her again until the end of the night.

And then, as I was casually unlocking my bike, preparing for the brief but chilly ride home, I saw her, along with her friend, scanning the streets for a taxi. By this point, she was nowhere close to sober; steps unsteady, eyes glazed, makeup slightly smudged.

“Whoooo!” she shouted, as she caught sight of me.
“Well, if it isn’t the Biltmore Dance Team,” I laughed, extending my fist. “Pound it.”
She smiled.
“They didn’t appreciate us at all in there. The Lead Singer told us to shut up.”
“I can’t say I blame him.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“It’s been suggested.”

I removed my bike from the rack, and prepared to leave. But, before I could throw my leg over the seat, Possibly Erica pawed once at my forearm.

“Where are you going now?”
“Home,” I replied, confused. “Why?”
“I’m not ready to go home, yet. Maybe I’ll go downtown.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “Go for it.”
“Are you walking to the bus?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to walk me to the bus?”
I shrugged.
“I’m going that way anyway. You can come if you want.”
“I like your shirt.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”

And so, we began walking toward Main Street. We chatted pleasantly, about the show, about her dancing. I dissed her repeatedly, found out she was an artist (currently unemployed, collecting EI). I punched her lightly in the shoulder, steadied her as she swayed.

And then, we reached the Bus Stop.

“Well, this is it.” I said, waving.

She looked disappointed.

“What are you doing now?”
“I told you. I’m going home.”

Why does she keep asking me that? I thought.

Then, it occurred to me.

“Did you want to come and hang out for awhile?” I asked.

Her face lit up.

“Yes!”

Then, I grabbed her, pulled her in close, and made out with her aggressively.

And, that was that. No date-plan, no clever scheme, no Planet Earth strategy. Just me, and the Biltmore, and one rather intoxicated drain on society.

I made a mental note to call DJ StrangeLove later and gloat.

We arrived at my apartment twelve minutes later.

“Mmm!” she exclaimed, as we walked through the door. “It smells good in here!”
“Stir-fry. I made it myself. Do you want some?”
“Yes. Where’s your bathroom? I need to freshen up.”

I pointed, and, within a second, she was gone.

However, she’d neglected to mention that, by “freshen up”, she actually meant “brush my teeth, collect my thoughts, and spend close to ten minutes quietly vomiting in your toilet.”

So, I sat at the kitchen table, spooning through stir-fry, and, some time later, she emerged, looking refreshed.

Well, I thought.

This was certainly a low-point.

Or was it?

Up until now, I hadn’t physically been able to have sex with a woman without getting attached to her. The old me would maybe get her phone number, meet for coffee once or twice, and do my best to stave off a panic-attack. The new me was out of control, and I wanted to see what he was capable of.

I kissed her.

Damn, she was cute, I thought.

Cute, and very drunk.

“Ah,” I said. “I see you found my toothpaste.”

She giggled, becoming momentarily gorgeous in her inebriation.

We sat back, and I passed her the remainder of my stir-fry.

“So, tell me something awesome about yourself.” I said, with authority. “You’ve got me all the way here. Why should I keep hanging out with you?”
“Well,” she said, with a grin. “I can put my legs behind my head.”
“Fuck off,” I replied. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” she grinned.
“Fine, Prove it, then,” I chided. “Show me what you’re made of.”

And, she did.

And then I ripped open her tights.

And that was that.

I awoke the following morning in a cold sweat.

We’d been up most of the night, and damn if the sex hadn’t been incredible. Once again, I’d revelled in my newfound aggression, and, for her part, Possibly Erica had loved every minute of it. Afterward, when we both collapsed onto the sheets, panting and exhausted, I’d promptly started to fall asleep.
“That was fun,” she said.
I managed a grunt.
“Am I annoying you?” she’d asked.
“Talk all you want. I’m going to sleep.”
Then, I’d passed out. Certainly not the wisest move with a complete stranger in my home. For all I know, she could have been up stealing my iPod.

When the alarm went off the next morning, I rose quickly, showering, dressing, eating breakfast. But, when I returned to the bedroom to collect my watch, I found her, still fast asleep, face-down on my duvet.

I watched her for a brief, triumphant moment.

When I looked at her, I felt nothing. No attachment. No feeling.

Nothing.

“Get up. You gotta go.”
She stirred, but didn’t rise.
“Get up,” I barked. “I have to go to work.”
I picked her clothes up from where they lay, strewn across the apartment, and threw them at her.
“Come on, man. It’s time to go. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. I know life is hard for you artistic-types, but not all of us live off of the government.”

She rose. Stretched. Slowly began to dress.

And, as she sat by the front door, clumsily pulling on her boots, I could see the shame in her face. She tried to hide it, of course, but it was there.

We exchanged a brief, meaningless hug.

“So, enjoy your walk of shame, then,” I said, leaning on the door-frame.
She laughed unconvincingly, getting to her feet.
“I think I’m ready for it.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re something of a veteran.”
Her eyes flashed with anger.
“Wow. You really are an asshole.”
I winked.
“Damn right, darling. And you made me late for work.”

Then I slammed the door in her face.

And that was that.

Ian Hannon is currently lonely, single, and a guy.

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14 Comments


  1. Confessions of a Bitter Douche

  2. There’s nothing strong or confident about treating someone disrespectfully. It’s a wienery power grab. Becoming more socially attractive and fun is important, but a one night stand is only sexy & successful if both people come out of it feeling respected. Bullying women to feel like you’re in control is weak.

  3. Wow, that’s awful. I understand the concept of dissing someone to make them attracted to you, as a substitute for actual self-confidence, but what was the point of doing it after sex? If you don’t call afterwards, fine, but it’s hypocritical to insult and shame her for her willingness to enjoy the same sex with you as you had with her. Especially since it’s basically your GOAL to have the same sexual lifestyle she does. You should respect this woman and others like her.

    Hopefully this is fake, and only intended to provoke a reaction from readers like me.

  4. Wow. You must either be a complete sociopath or be mired in self-loathing. Thanks for turning girls into man-haters so the rest of us decent guys have bitter women on our hands. If you want to be sexually liberated, then why the moralizing against a young woman experimenting and having fun – that’s a special beautiful thing. Wait until you’re older and good luck getting a young woman to look at you twice. You’ll be regretting treating someone who actually has an appreciation for sex and physical love in this way. People complain about having bad sex, and then if a woman is actually good at it and into it, she gets treated like crap by an idiot like you. Wow. Grow up you pasty putz. You are NOT all that.

  5. Hello Dependant.
    Great mag in general.
    Get rid of this writer and I’ll be more interested. Maybe promoting a date-rapist-wanna-be is not the way to get readers.
    This guy deserves a serious kick in the balls and I would be happy to oblige.

  6. http://www.freewillastrology.com/beauty/

    DEMAND #7: I demand that the salesmen of degradation who pass themselves off as storytellers give themselves the challenge of creating engaging sagas whose plots are not driven by violence, alcoholism, abuse, suicide, prostitution, bigotry, lawsuits, greed, crashes, pathology, crime, disease, and torture.

  7. copy and pasted from a conversation about this article in a different forum:

    So he has to emotionally attack another person just so he can prove to himself he doesn’t give a fuck? It’s petty, and goes to show how socially stunted he really is. Okay, sure he’s achieved a turning point, he’s no longer a spineless yes man when dealing with a person sporting a nice rack. but he hasn’t achieved growth. He’s still the same clueless loser.

    He was doing a great job of being the fun asshole for most of that article. It’s alright to be self assertive, and even a bit of a jerk, but if you’re going to flat out trash a person. Make sure they deserve it.

    Let’s face it, girls get the shit end of the deal when it comes to sex. We pursue it and pressure it and when they finally give it up, we turn around and treat them like garbage for showing us a good time. If we’d stop doing that, maybe they’d be a little more sexually explorative. which is something I’m sure we could all enjoy.

    I’m not saying you have to be nice to her.
    I’m saying you shouldn’t be outright attacking her and making her feel like she was in the wrong or made a mistake. A sexual experience is supposed to be an enjoyable one, for everybody involved.

  8. I used to look forward to reading this series, that is until this latest one.

    The premises was really exciting, socially awkward and lonley guy seeks to find himself and to recreate who he is. fun stuff! We all want to be a better version of who we are sometimes. And as for exploring our sexuality and boundries, I’m all for that as well. But pushing the boundries of our own sexuality and have uninhibited, “carefree” sex should never involve blatenly disrepecting the person you were just with. A lot of us have all had one-night stands where we probably will never talk to the other people after that one night, but we should always show them some respect and a little decorum then next day. A “thanks for a fun night” goes a long way, even if you never plan on seeing them again, ever. Both parties should come off feeling good about what they just did. Sex should be fun, the only dirty feeling you should get from it is the actual dirty sex you just had.

    I just really hope that what you are currently going through is just a stage of your self-discovery, and not the end result. Because if it is, you’ve failed royaly.

  9. Carousel Commander

    Any drunk slut who hops into bed with a random dude for a one night stand, deserves the treatment she got in the morning.

    Enjoy the fruits of feminutism, womyn. :)

  10. @ Carousel Commander: How is that the “fruits of feminutism”? That would only be true if men had historically been treated with this kind of disrespect after sex with strangers, and feminism had now granted women the (dubious) privilege of being treated in the same way. What a ridiculous thing to say. But you’re just trolling for a response, aren’tcha? :)

  11. You did it again man. Don’t listen to these assholes. I don’t care what the fuck you do, as long as you write it well, I’ll keep reading.

  12. There is a gap you should be aware of: what you can do, and what you should do.

    Clearly, somewhere in your pursuit of self discovery you can no longer see this boundary as you are seemingly drunk with your new found powers.

    Good luck to you when the bill comes due for perpetrating on the game. I got mine a while ago, and its a tough one to pay.

  13. Abuse excused as self-discovery…
    Man, white dudes can get away with anything.
    Thanks for continuing to make the world an unsafe place for everyone else.

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