Unfastened Friday 4.0

College is supposed to be a time to experiment right? Well, I certainly experimented. I was 22 and I put myself out on every dating website I could find. There were no real men at my mostly female university – a private Catholic one at that. So, instead of trolling the local bars bringing home a hillbilly boy, I ventured into online dating.

God, lucky to come out alive? Probably.

Any close calls with dangerous situations? No.

Still, I could have easily met some freak and wound up dead in a field somewhere. I was desperate, fearless, and so lonely… I’ve met many men online. My first and only “offline” boyfriend last 3 weeks, a record compared to many of the others.

I’ll tell you about one of my encounters now. Mark. I met him online – we got together twice. The first time was in the middle of the night, at your average hotel off the interstate. The man didn’t even come down from the room to meet me. Classy. I pretended to be his fiancé when I asked for his room number at the counter.

An average looking late 20s or early 30-something guy answered the door. He was clean-cut and dressed in Abercrombie clothes. Looking back now, I can’t even remember if I saw his picture before we met up. I’m glad he wasn’t ugly.

We had that uncomfortable silence before awkward conversation. I was sitting on the bed. He was sitting on the chair next to the bed. He was shy!! Unbelievable! I was surprisingly not. Although, since then I have hear Catholic girls are pent up sex kittens. I believe it now.

I don’t remember what happened between sitting there in silence, to me being fingered and fucked on the bed, but I can remember he felt so good in that 60 seconds. Straddling his hips I barely got started when he shoved me off and bolted to the bathroom!

I think a) he came too early and was embarrassed or b) he was just plain regretful.

I tend to think he shot off too fast and was embarrassed. Five minutes later, I’m still waiting, dumbfounded. I wonder if we’re going to finish what we started. He comes out of the bathroom and sits on the bed. More uncomfortable silence.

He asks, “Do you want the room for the night?” I decline. I need to get home. I live with my parents, after all, and they’d freak if I wasn’t there in the morning.

I dress and leave. I can’t even remember if he kisses me goodnight. I felt like a hooker without getting paid.

On top of the disappointment, I manage to come away with a chuckle. I finally understood the jokes of women when they laugh about their “minute man.” So disappointing. I drive home in the dark, in silence, wondering if he’ll call again.

Three weeks later my phone rings.

Jill



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