Flavor Saver: Sometimes Girls Just Want to Have Fun

"I can't believe I didn't get laid!" I screamed (in my head) as I threw my purse against the dorm wall. The moment the purse hit, I looked up and realized that, like my pale painted wall, my sex life seemed anemic. As a college student, I was supposed to be at my sexual prime, sleeping my way to my future husband one sizzling night at a time. Instead, cobwebs were forming "down there." At this tragic realization I collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

I was in shambles, and it was 3 a.m., so I called my friend Annie, who still lived in my hometown of Miami. In between drunken sobs and mouthfuls of halal food I admitted, "I’ve never felt more hideous in my entire life."

“Tina what the hell happened?” Annie asked, her voice heavy with concern.

It took me a while to respond since I was still trying to piece together my night, attempting to make sense of everything. I think it all started with a stare.

I had been at a friend’s party, so busy basking in how wonderfully ordinary the night was, that I didn’t even notice him walk in. The guy came up to my friend while I was smiling at my beer. “Tina!” my friend yelled, “this is Keith.” I looked up and met his eyes. We just stared at each other. The space between us felt electric. He was exactly my type: blue-eyed and raven-haired. I quickly learned he was a musician and owned a recording studio. I began to envision our future together, this 27-year-old Jewish guy with a 19-year-old Latina girlfriend in hand. We would be renegade lovers.

Keith and I spoke for a while. He put his moves on me, and I knew he wanted to have sex that night. But I let him know that it had been a year since I’d last had sex. “I don’t have sex with just anyone,” I told him. I’d always refused to be anyone’s one-night stand and hated casual sex, since I had never found it emotionally or psychically fulfilling. Plus, it was usually accompanied by the awkward “morning after.” I could see his disappointment when I explained he would have to wait. But we agreed to go out the following Friday with some friends. As we split up, after hours of stimulating conversation (an aphrodisiac for me) and an intense make-out session, I knew we wouldn’t be waiting for long.

I prepared for that Friday date for three hours, rounded up two of my friends and we headed out around 11:30. Before getting on the L train, I received a call: Keith explaining that he and his friend were tired. I told him we were about to get on the train, and that he’d better be there. He said, “OK,” and I was sure he was smiling. Was this all part of the pre-coital tease?

Maybe it was the fact that I dragged my friends out of bed or that I had spent hours shaving and getting ready, but I ignored the red flag waving in my face. Tonight was my night, and I was going to get me some.

Keith and his pal Nate met us at a bar two blocks off the Montrose stop. This bar wasn’t hell-bent on carding anyone, which was a lucky break for us under-aged girls. We took over a couch, ordered some drinks and began our night. It was as if five old friends had reunited. The hours blurred into one another and, before we knew it, it was getting close to last call. We said our goodbyes, and Keith and I left together. We walked together to his loft and, once inside, took our positions on his cozy black couch. I got very excited as he started inching toward me, and then he said, “I don’t want a girlfriend…” He said a couple other things, but after the first line, I stopped listening. I couldn’t even recall how many times I had heard that speech; I could have finished it for him. I kissed him—to shut him up more than anything. He was an incredible kisser, full-lipped, experienced. Lost in the web of his earthy sensuality, it seemed as if the dreadful speech was a blip on the screen of some distant past. We headed over to his bedroom and continued to kiss when he pulled away and said, “I think I should call you a cab home.”

I let him know I didn’t take cabs home and got on his bed. But I was already starting to crumble. I had felt so beautiful that night but, with each passing minute, I felt like I was being torn apart. Invisible hands were ripping my dress, smearing my lipstick, ruining my hair. I began to feel hideous.

We kissed some more, me on my back and Keith pressing into me, when he pulled away and said, “I really don’t want to hurt you, and I know I’m going to end up…” I couldn’t stay silent anymore; I knew what this was about. Keith the commitmentphobe thought I wanted a boyfriend when all I wanted were some good times (that may or may not have led somewhere). I started to yell that not all women wanted relationships and white picket fences and that he didn’t need to worry about hurting me. “I play the game and deal with the consequences,” I told him. He shut me up and said, “This isn’t a debate.”

I gathered my dress, my tights, my purse. My head hung low in humiliation, and I refused his offer of a cab. The minute I got to his front door, I started walking. Fast. I could hear him following behind in the distance, so I started sprinting. I didn’t want him to see me lose my composure. “Tina, don’t be ridiculous,” he yelled. I ran faster.

It didn’t make any sense. He had been all over me at the bar, and now he rejected me. Was it nerves? An alcohol-induced power trip? I needed Annie to help me make sense of it all.

“Annie, you there?” I asked, as I continued my long-distance tale. I wanted her to understand. “I asked for sex and was offered a cab ride instead!” Annie and I were silent for a while. Then we started cracking up. I began laughing uncontrollably through my tears. I’d put myself out there and been rejected. But I knew I’d survive. What’s life without a little risk? Next time, though, I’m going out with guns blazing. No cab ride needed. C