I never thought I would end up doing it. Online dating seemed like something a desperate forty-something woman living in the boondocks would do; it certainly wasn’t a dating tactic for a young lady in the city. But one night after I admitted to a friend that it had been eight months since my last romp, he picked his jaw up off the floor and shoved me in front of my laptop and into the world of Internet dating.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t get laid, but I had gone through a breakup almost 11 months ago and was spending all of my free time at the gym working off my ex. I had dated a few personal trainers, but even after pounding Jack Daniel’s like Gatorade after a workout, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with any of them.

I wasn’t sure how to handle dating on the web. My normal tricks and flirting only worked in person, and logging on for witty banter and the endless tweaking of a profile just seemed like a way to get to know someone without leaving my bathrobe or grooming my hair. I was clueless, but almost instantly, guys were messaging me—just not the guys I was looking for. As I started to doubt online dating, an instant message popped up on my computer screen. His name was Kevin and he was hot: 6-foot-3, green eyes, nice big ears and white teeth. Within minutes, I was actually laughing out loud. He was funny, could spell and had a career, but more importantly, he showered me with compliments that were sincere. I was still hesitant to meet him in person, but our brief chat had already started steaming fantasies brewing in my sexless mind.

After two weeks of chatting regularly at night, we set up a date to meet. Having this secure phone call was enchanting to me, even if I hadn’t met the voice on the other side. Our first date was on a Friday. I chose a black dress with plenty of cleavage, lots of leg, a grey cardigan (to look not completely desperate) and silver accessories. Whatever could be tucked in or pushed up was. I felt like Audrey Hepburn with a hint of gypsy.

We had planned to meet at Sutton Place, a four-level bar and club. I immediately bee-lined for the bar, ordered a shot and texted to tell him I had arrived. Through the crowd, I saw him walk down the stairs—I recognized those ears from a mile away. He was much hotter in person than in his photo. The awkwardness of a first date was short lived since we already knew so much about each other and after an hour of conversation, he kissed me. “Please don’t turn out to be psycho,” he said, smiling.

“I already am but that’s what’ll keep you around,” I shot back. I had never been one for PDA, but that night surrounding people didn’t exist. My sexual desire had awoken and it was starving! Our kissing was only interrupted for short breaks to look at each other as a reminder that this was real. It was on the roof of the club, after an hour bout of tonsil hockey, that we decided we needed privacy.The problem was that my sister had company—as in old church friends— staying at our apartment and that he lived on Long Island, enough said.

We left the club and walked down toward the East River to look at the water and sit on a bench. The sensual sounds of the near-by waves led to heavy petting, and eventually I popped the condom question. He didn’t have one: good sign. But I did, so right there on that park bench, my sexless streak came to an abrupt end. I was so amped that I could have run a marathon in high heels.

After we did the deed, he went home, as did I,my legs bruised from the experience. I started telling myself what a mistake it was; how rash I had been; that I would never see him again. But the next morning, I woke up to my phone ringing and it was him. He wanted to see me again. I wasn’t just the chick who put out on a park bench.

We dated for two hot, heavy months before it became obvious that things weren’t working. He wanted to move a bit too fast for my tastes. And while I’ve been single since, I still have the password saved to that dating site and every so often consider signing back on—I might not take another date down to the benches, but at least I know I won’t ever have an eight-month dry spell again.

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Ashley Carr writes and performs in Manhattan. She is currently earning her bachelors in liberal arts.