And then we both roll over with a sigh of relief, and he walks to the bathroom to take off the condom and properly dispose of it in the trash (although flushing it down the toilet would mean that when I take out the trash next week I won’t be reminded of this dirty fling). And I lie there, trying to strike a sexy post-sex pose while also contemplating the mathematical intersection of the sleepiness in my brain and the acute desire to sleep in my own bed so that I don’t have to wake up tomorrow morning at 9am when he leaves for work and walk back home across West Oakland. He’s still in the bathroom, so with the strength of all my self will in this post orgasmic haze, I reach over and root around my purse while I look for my phone. Hurry, hurry, he’s coming back. Jump up and pull on my panties as the dispatcher picks up, “Hello, cab?”
“Hi can I get a cab at – oh, shit – HEY, what’s you’re address?”
“3215 MLK Jr Way – why, what’s up?”
“Um, 3215 MLK Jr Way, please.”
“Okay, 10-15 minutes,” the dispatcher responds after taking down my phone number.
“What did you need my address for?” he asks after wondering in, still buck ass naked and slightly confused by my request for an address.
“Oh, you know, I just called a cab. I figured, you know…” I let the sentence trail off into the ether because finishing it off with the ugly, glistening truth (namely that, I figured, you know, my inability to be emotionally available to people I sleep with precludes me from cuddling and/or sleeping next to the person and/or waking up and being nice and pretending to actually like that person, so…yeah, I called a cab) seems like an unromantic thing to say, and, also, I might want to fuck this guy again, so maybe I should lay off the emotional trauma spiel for a bit here.
“Oh, well, I wanted to cuddle,” he responds, to which I perfectly hide my internal flinch, because, hey, guess what! I don’t want to cuddle! Although, this cab’s coming in fifteen minutes, so I can stand for a little bit of pretending to be intimate right now.
“Well, come over here, then,” I purr, and after we’re lying there necking a little bit more, an excuse hits me, as I say, “It’s just, you know, I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning, at like 9am…and I need my, um, vaccination papers, so I gotta go home, and I’m not going to wake up at 7:30am so I can go home and get them.” God, that sounds like horse shit. Luckily, I’m pretty sure this cab is seven minutes out, so if this turns into something awkward and uncomfortable, at least I know I have an out.
“Hah, okay,” he says. I think he’s seen through me, although maybe he’s a fucker like me and will respect the fact that I obediently abide by the cardinal rules of hook up etiquette, namely, no sleeping over on the first night unless there’s an emotional connection. Because heaven knows that spending the night with someone you don’t really like is a really shitty thing, especially when that whole “kicking you out of the bed in the morning” routine pops up.
“Well,” he says, kissing my neck, “It’s a shame you’re leaving because I really wanted to fuck you again. While watching X-Files.”
“What!” Oh, shit, he’s said the magic words: fuck you again. I think that’s my favorite thing in the world: getting fucked again. I’m always down for round two, but I guess in my assessment of the situation I miscalculated his refractory period. “Oh, well…I guess I can cancel that cab…”
“What about your doctor’s appointment?”
I guess we have an emotional connection!