After our adventure to Ophelia's, Quinn made a running joke and whenever we'd have a sexual talk she'd say something like "Okay, Samantha," referencing the Sex and the City character whose entire personality was that of being a 40-year-old lady pervert. I chose to take it as a compliment, with Quinn believing that I was wise beyond my years and sexually adventurous, but it also had a dark side, a slut-shaming side, and that's why it was a joke reserved for us and almost no one else.
I did feel very liberated in the aftermath of the sex store visit. Partly because she was the only person I could confide in about these sorts of things, I pushed the boundaries of my friendship with Quinn a little. To be fair, she was asking a lot of details about how Andre worked, and where things went, and I kind of got tired of trying to text a description. So on one of those nights shortly after I got it, I decided to end her curiosity: I jammed him as far as he'd go, with the rabbit ears resting on my clit, photographed it and sent it directly to her, no warning, just texted after it: "From Samantha."
Even though I was 90% sure it was going to be okay, I did let out a big breath when she responded positively. She liked it. A few days after that, we were having one of our weekly lunches when she asked if I would go with her to get hers. I was all-too-willing. She named hers Kandinsky.
Also upon seeing the photo, she complimented my lack of bush, and wanted to know what I was doing. I started shaving my pussy completely, which wasn't terribly hard because I had always kept it trimmed, but I started to really cultivate and lean into my sexuality, and wanted to have...like, a "good pussy" so to speak. I know that sounds so awful: we've come a way since the late oughts, which was even after The Vagina Monologues had made the rounds across the country, but in those days, being nineteen, having only internet porn as a reference, I really didn't appreciate my pussy for who she was and is. Anyway, at the time, I thought hot, "sexually active" women kept shaved pussies for hot guys who would be equally groomed (HA!).
It was a hassle, but I did enjoy the smoothness, and a couple of guys did compliment me on it. This was the time that lasted maybe a little over half a year, where I slutted it up: I cultivated my online profile and read every message. Mind you, this was '08, before the big hookup app, and when this kind of thing was relatively new. Of course, I didn't bother responding to the shitty messages, even if the guy was hot, because Jesus...
My dating profile was amazing: I answered the questions earnestly, stated preferences and books, movies, hobbies, and a variety of other things that literally any person could connect with me on...and yet, the vast, vast, VAST majority of messages were trash. I got a fuck-ton of "hey" (not even capitalized?! Wtf...) from the spectrum of the ugly-old scale, to where I couldn't understand the audacity of these men. Their profiles were often empty or sparsely populated with the most generic answers to the most generic questions. We're all "laid back" and like pizza, dude, are you kidding me? That's the base of the pyramid of messages. Guys...for god's sake, even if you're painfully hot...when does that work? WHEN?!
The next, slightly narrower part of the pyramid, consisted of messages that were designed to look like they read the profile and wanted to talk about something in it, but they hadn't; they were copy-pasted paragraphs. These guys narrowed the band of the ugly-old spectrum, which is to say they tended not to be ludicrously old, or utterly unattractive, but because it was clear what was going on, I went ahead and ignored that first message, blocking them if they persisted.
The next part of the pyramid, approximately one in fifteen messages, was actually sent by a person who read my profile, appeared to match based on preferences, and seemed to be able to articulate a sentence. However, the majority of those proved to be trash two-to-five messages in, when they revealed (intentionally or not) some glaring, awful thing about their personality or they whip out their sexual preferences like their dick on a first date before the drinks arrive. Many of them were guys whose photos revealed that they clearly *knew* they were hot—not that they necessarily were, but *they* knew it: lots of abs...so, so many abs.
The apex of the pyramid, literally the 1% of messages were from guys who met my parameters, appeared somewhat good-looking, and said something in their outreach to indicate that they'd read my profile and we might actually have a decent time on a date together. Despite the sifting process, there was no guarantee of that at all, and my first several dates proved to be mostly duds.
Though underwhelmed, I was motivated to cast a wider net and go on these dates because I missed sex. I'd come out of my first sexual relationship (with two men, mind you) and bought a vibrator to compensate. I think the more frequent masturbation actually made me crave the real thing more. So it was either try my luck with these guys, or nothing. Fortunately, I lived in a part of the country where there was a decent selection of guys in my desired age range, and not only because of the college, there were lots of neighboring towns and suburbs. If, on Monday, I set up a date for Friday, stayed off the app, the date goes poorly, I could hop back on the app Saturday and pick from a hundred messages to meet someone up that night.
So how slutty was this phase, you ask? Even when the dates were middling, if a guy behaved normally, looked like their pictures, and smelled good (which is to say neither reeking of BO, *nor* body spray) that would basically get me back to his place, or the backseat of his car if that was all we had.
I got much better at using condoms because I was jumping right in with these guys. I carried one in a tucked-away pocket of my purse and my backpack, and insisted on one every time, or else we'd only do hand and mouth stuff (and mouth stuff only if he did me first).
Out of around a dozen guys I went on dates with at this time, I had sex with eight, and only four went on to have second dates with me. The longest streak was four dates with a guy who was good at sex, could hold a good conversation, but started getting *super* emotionally intense, and I knew too well what that was like and wanted no part of it.
It was summer, and while I did the right thing and took a class and had a job, once the class was over I got more bored and antsy than usual. There was only so much weed I could smoke and I couldn't buy booze yet. The dog-days with their heat and waning late afternoons made me feel almost as if I was cooped up, even though I was in a comfortable home and free to go anywhere my car could take me. I say all of this as background to the mindset that made me take certain chances that one night in August.
I'd been out with another dud, and I was bored, horny, lonely, just kind of "on patrol" on my phone for some of the attention that I wanted. I matched with a guy who looked too good to be true: short, light-brown hair, closely trimmed and stylish beard that made him look older than his purported 22 years. His pictures weren't flashy, showed him mostly alone and dressed nicely and casually as to prove he could clean up if he needed. He was 5'10, and looked like he was in good shape. We even shared some favorite shows and hobbies.
I was about to send a short message to greet him when one from him popped up on my screen about a paragraph long. I was impressed: it was funny and original, but not a cheesy pick up line. He clearly indicated that he'd read my profile, and he closed by asking for a date. I admired the no-nonsense approach, and frankly thought to myself how could I say no? I responded to his message in kind, then closed by asking if he was free tonight to get a coffee. He was, and suggested a place in the city center.
When I showed up to the building, it was in a corner that looked totally dark. I parked out front, and stepped out. I'd decided to go casual, jeans and a cute top with a little makeup to show some effort, but it was only supposed to be coffee. I stepped out of the car, adjusting myself a touch, grabbing my purse, when seemingly out of nowhere a voice says: "Hey, I'm Rick."
I nearly jumped out of my skin, turned around, and there he was, hand outstretched. "Oh hi, sorry, you scared me. Yeah, I'm Esme," and I shook his hand.
He didn't apologize for startling me. He said he thought this place was open on Sundays, but apparently it wasn't, so he offered that we go to another location in his car. In retrospect, I'd never fall for this again; my antennae perked up, but I didn't take it as the flashing, neon-covered red flag that it was. And his car looked nice, so I agreed and got in.
The conversation on the way to the place was very stilted. He seemed sullen, and not at all interested in what I had to say. He took me someplace a few miles from the city center, and I was starting to get nervous until we pulled up to a beautifully decorated house with a sign that made it clear it was actually a cafe.
I was naively impressed with this place because it was unlike any coffee shop I'd ever been to: it was a redesigned house, where the whole downstairs area was done up like a cafe, there was art everywhere and literally so much to talk about based on what was simply around you. The drinks were about twice what the usual coffee chain would charge, but clearly you were paying for the ambiance. We ordered our drinks at the front and then got a table in a quiet corner.
Rick barely talked the entire time; he looked antsy, distracted. At one point, he suggested we explore the place. In addition to all the downstairs, a set of double doors opened out back to a garden that looked like it was out of a dream. It was lit by well-placed lanterns and decorative lights that illuminated framed art that was on walls. It felt like we were walking through a museum with our lattes. We settled into a table somewhere in the garden to keep chatting, if one could call it that, but Rick was not really participating. As we sat face-to-face with a small table between us, I noticed his eyes kept falling to my chest, which was really annoying since I wasn't showing off the girls by any means, and being treated like this on a date was starting to feel demeaning. After giving yet another one-word answer to a question that was supposed to be open-ended, I became determined to just finish my drink and get out of there.
My undoing came when I left to pee. Girls, never leave your drinks unattended. The bathroom was as beautiful and spotless as the rest of the place. I used a bit of the time to regroup emotionally and think about something to say for a little more conversation, and then an excuse to wrap up and leave.
On returning, Rick seemed more animated, which I attributed to the caffeine. He not only talked more, but a little bit of his wit came out. He managed that way to keep me around for another half hour, and then I begged off, saying I had class the next day. From then, my memory gets blurry.
I shook my head and stood up, and felt like I was the drunkest I'd ever been. I stumbled, which caused Rick to grab me and say something (not sure if it was to me or to other people) "Oh wow, let's get you home." I took a false step and would've fallen on a hard-wood floor had Rick not caught me.
We left; which is to say, Rick poured me into his car's passenger seat and even did my seatbelt for me, got to the driver's side and started to drive. The last thing I concretely remember Rick saying to me was "Let's get you to bed." Everything else is fairly hazy after that. Obviously I had no idea how much of the drug he gave me, but from what I read about its effects, it must've been a small or incomplete dose because I remember most of it pretty vividly. Or maybe it was because I took it with coffee, and not booze, which might've fully knocked me out. Anyway, the major effect it had was on my speech and muscles.
"I feel really strange...I don't think I can drive home."
"It's okay, let's just go to my place; you can crash there."
I was confused at that at first because it seemed like a strange thing to say and a weird thing to offer to a stranger. "No, just take me to my car. I can sleep there." Hearing myself, I thought "Why am I slurring?" But I was also having trouble staying focused on any particular topic, it was that same time-dilating I would get whenever I got super high on weed.
