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It occurred to me the other day that I wouldn�t be opposed to a one-night stand.
I wonder if people who do that ever delude themselves into thinking that there could be something lasting, something permanent. Do they know from the very start that they�ll never see that person again? If sex is something to be shared by two people who really love each other, where the hell does casual sex fit into this? And why don't I have any problem with the idea?
I was thinking about this last night, and my inner twelve year old was appalled with me. The same twelve year old had made me swear upon a stack of dictionaries that I would never imbibe alcohol. And was quite dismayed when I slumped asleep, drunk, at my friend�s confirmation party.
This twelve year old would never be so reckless. This twelve year old looked at me, such an easy girl, with shame and shock.
�You aren�t serious,� she said. �And even if you were presented with such an opportunity,� her voice began to sneer slightly, �you wouldn�t do that, not really. You�re just saying that to shock me.�
Maybe the twelve year old is right. I was only really thinking about being reckless.
But last night I thought about it. A whole lot, in fact. I stood in front of the mirror after a bath and raked a comb through my sopping hair. These thoughts hadn�t come from anything in specific. My twelve year old was right � I have not been faced with any such opportunity. But I stared at myself in the mirror, glowing a warm pale, and wondered about it. Wondered about any girl that does these things when they�re still young, and unsettled, and about to be dropped into the grand scheme of things.
And you know, twelve year old, I probably would. Not to shock you, or anyone else, but I probably would start something I would be unable to finish. I don�t think it�s past me, or below me. And twelve year old, as if it�s some consolation, you can be sure I wouldn�t fool myself. I�d know the entire time what I was doing.
I�ve never been one to fool myself. At the same time, I�ve never been one to imagine myself doing things so stupidly. There must be something foolish and stupid about a reckless fling. Maybe that�s why my twelve year old was so upset with me. Perhaps I�d do stupid things and make mistakes, but I never imagined myself doing them. That was her job. It�s a territorial issue then; the twelve year old was simply upset that I had been doing the imagining and not her.
Because both of us know, or like to think we know, that it�s a different thing to imagine oneself a libertine and to actually be one. I haven�t been listening to too much Liz Phair here either.
I talked to a friend about this, though. I told him that I would sleep with someone I didn�t give a care about sooner than with someone I actually cared about. I might have been lying, or posturing, or confused. Those are all valid explanations. Or I might have been taught that sex would be demeaning.
�He�s too good to be reckless with,� I thought.
I don�t really know what I�m talking about. This is just the record of some silly daydreams and imaginations that came after the bath I took last night. And how much they surprised a part of me. Listening to my brain was near appalling. I started trying to quantify what was and wasn�t acceptable. I started to meter out months and weeks to what constituted a pointless relationship and what didn�t. A person who was willing to spend the rest of their life with me: choice. Eight months was acceptable. How was eight months more acceptable than a week? A day?
Between the prudish twelve year old and the �queen of slutty virgins� (as Laura puts it, certainly not I) my brain is hilarious to listen to.
2000-04-03, The casual sex entry
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