A Diary of my One-Night Stands, vol. 1

I went to a great session (one of many) at Eroticon last Sunday, run by queer anthropologist Jamie Lawson. At one point he flashed up on screen this thought-provoking question, which I quickly tweeted out to my followers.

The answers were really interesting, and got me thinking about my own history with one-night stands. A couple of days later, I dug out my sex spreadsheet and ticked off the partners I’d only seen once – 28% of the total, which in my case adds up to a fair few people.

I started to make a few notes about one of them and it turned into the post below. I enjoyed writing it so much that I quickly decided this was something I didn’t want to end up as a one-off – that the appropriate way to do justice to those brief encounters was to capture here as many as I can remember in sufficient detail.

Some were good, some were bad, and a couple were downright embarrassing. I’ll get to that last category in good time, but for now I’m kicking off with one of the best…

Sylwia

I first notice your eyes on me as we walk through an underground car park with the rest of your team. I’m the expensive consultant your boss flew over from London, and you’re the one who has to take me out for lunch. I’m here for two days, and already I feel like you hate me. Though not in a bad way.

Of course I only spot you looking at me because I’m trying to do the same to you. Surreptitiously, professionally, and without any real intent, I’ve been checking you out ever since you stood up from the conference table and I saw the way your sweater pulled tight across your tits.

Why? Well you’re blunt, forthright, and passionate about your job. Smarter than anyone else in the room – that’s obvious from minute one – and quite happy to trade blows when I challenge you. Yes, things have to change here, but you’re chin-out proud of what your colleagues have achieved, and you’re not afraid to let me know it. I like that.

I like your hair too. Short (a pixie cut – is that what they call it?) and dyed red, it frames a snub nose, wide mouth, and pale, jutting jawline. Romance novelists would call you striking, rather than beautiful, but your body is tight as fuck, and something in the way you carry yourself goes straight to my cock.

“What are you doing with your first night in Warsaw?”, you say, as we walk back to the office together, a few steps in front of your colleagues. “I don’t know,” I reply, deciding to chance it. “Want to show me round?”

We meet at 7 in a scuzzy bar on Nowy Swiat, already half-full with tourists. You’re wearing jeans and a dressy top, and you’ve replaced the simple, silver studs you wore to work with a pair of gold hooped earrings, one of which you’ll leave on my bedside table a few hours from now. I’m in every 31-year-old man’s first date outfit of choice: nice shirt, blue jeans, and a spritz of something I hope will make you want to fuck me.

And it works. I guess this is what happens when grown-ups like us go out for dinner like this. No bullshit, no games, and no expectations – or no expectations beyond tonight, anyway. Sex is on the table from the moment you come back to our booth with a couple of beers and slide down onto the bench seat next to me. A silent agreement passes between us. If we don’t fuck things up, there’s only one way this evening ends, and it’s not with a firm handshake at the taxi rank outside.

We stick to safe ground over our food. Family. Travel. Movies. London. Everything feels carefully calibrated, but seamless with it. Conversation can get weighed down by expectation on occasions like this, so I’m pleased we’re able to keep things light. You’ve got serious game – something I note with professional interest and personal appreciation – and this is clearly not your first rodeo.

After decamping to a nearby bar, we chase down our meal with strong Polish vodka – integral to the tourist experience, or so you tell me as the barman thrusts a shot glass into my hand. It’s not loud in here, but still you touch my arm or tap your fingers on my thigh every time you turn to say something. We’re on high stools at the wooden counter, my right knee resting against your left. I apply subtle pressure and you push back into me. Sold.

It’s a short walk to my cosy AirBnB studio or a long cab ride to your flat in the suburbs, which helps bypass any ‘your place or mine’ awkwardness. You lean on my arm as we walk towards the Old Town, and it functions as a proxy for further conversation – we’re done talking for now, but it’s still nice to feel the warmth of your hand through my sleeve. It makes me stand a little taller, I think, though I’m conscious that only makes the height difference between us look even more ridiculous.

‘Cursory’ is probably the best word to describe any attention its owners paid to furnishing the flat, and the low double bed is our only viable seating option, assuming we don’t want to find ourselves on opposite sides of the room. And we don’t.

I forget to offer you water. Is that rude of me? Maybe, but in my defence further pleasantries don’t seem to be high on your agenda. You burrow into me till your head is on my chest – an oddly intimate gesture, and one I’m happy to close my eyes and enjoy for a few quiet seconds…then your lips are on my neck and things start to get blurry.

When you’re on top of me later, our clothes piled together on the sheet next to us, it feels like you’re climbing my body. You don’t suck my cock – instead you spit on your hand and reach down, tugging it quickly from promising semi-hardness to the kind of erection that makes it difficult to focus on anything else. Your pale pink knickers are the only remaining barrier between our bodies, so I find the base of your spine with my hand and pull you close enough that I can take the waistband between my teeth. It’s corny as fuck, but it has the desired effect. You wriggle out of them and settle over my face, sighing as my tongue finds your cunt for the first time.

We get through three condoms before I come, which is usually a sign things have gone pretty well. You don’t say much, but somehow manage to make clear exactly what you want throughout. I use my fingers to get you off, an arm slung across your sweat-slick tits and your back tight to my chest. You don’t open your eyes till I’m done, and when I release my hold you flop down theatrically, your body at a right-angle to mine, shaking your head as you mumble a string of Polish words into the duvet. Needless to say, that only makes me want to fuck you again.

It’s 11pm when we get back to mine, and almost 2 by the time you leave. I make it clear you’re welcome to stay – I have some manners – but I neither expect nor want you to take me up on the offer. I don’t know you well enough to deal with small talk over breakfast, and clearly we can’t arrive at your office together.

You head home by cab, flashing me a quick grin as you sling your handbag over one shoulder and pull the door shut behind you. I rearrange the pillows and think about how good your cunt tasted, before drifting off to sleep. I don’t find your earring till morning.

The next day, you’re sequestered away with suppliers and I have a two-hour debrief with your CEO. Lunch comes and goes, and by the time I think to wander past your desk it’s clear you’ve left for the day. I briefly consider texting, then remember I’m never going to see you again after this week and decide to leave it.

So of course you’re the first person I think about when I get a call from the recruiter a month later. They really liked you, he says. They want to offer you a job. How do you feel about moving to Warsaw? I feel pretty great, I say. I hang up the phone and try to picture your face when someone tells you the good news. For some reason, the whole thing makes me crack up laughing. Oh lord, life is brilliant sometimes.

Still, it should be fine. We can just pretend the whole thing never happened. It’s not like they’re going to sit me next to you or anything.

Is it?