So Then She...

The question came via a text message from a girl I’d been on a few dates with. I’d heard through the grapevine from a friend of hers that she’d been curious if I was a player. Interested in her firsthand thoughts, I broached the subject, testing the waters by telling her I felt as though she considered me to be a player.

“No. I don’t think that,” her first response read. Moments later a second tiny envelope appeared on my phone and as I opened the text, there it was. “…Are you?” Admittedly, I date a lot. But I’m not a player. I’m an ethical slut. I’ve read the term in a few other places, but as it applies to me, I’m a diehard romantic who’s constantly horny. My zeal for women has never decreased, and while I’m game to sample as many varieties of the fairer sex as possible, in actuality I’m looking for one lass to stand out amongst the rest. Aren’t we all? Isn’t that what dating is all about? It’s like the little free samples at the supermarket; try before you buy.

So I’m routinely out with different girls, trying to ascertain whom I like enough to bring to the cashier in the checkout lane of love. Along the way there are inevitably a ton of girls who don’t fit my requirements, and I part ways and move on. If I’m into a girl, my libido switches into overdrive and I’m beyond game for bedroom antics. Alas, between the sheets is where my ethics pulls the emergency brake on the runaway train that is my libido.

I’ve never had a one-night stand, and I need an emotional connection to have sex with a girl. Something deeper than omnipresent physical chemistry. Granted, if there’s a beautiful naked girl straddling me in bed asking where my condoms are, it’s tremendously hard to resist the urge to tear apart the drawer in which the prophylactics reside. But I know if genuine feelings for her don’t exist, it’s just going to be pointless sex, and it won’t be enjoyable for me. Obviously she cares enough to want to do this, in which case my behavior post-sexuals would end up hurting her when she realizes I don’t feel the same way. So I’m forced to decline, my usual deferment being a lie about how I’m fresh out of rubbers. It’s just easier than explaining all of this.

Therein lies the moral portion of my self-imposed label. The slut part enters the equation because she’s still an attractive girl. I may not see a future with her, but I enjoy seeing her undressed and laying next to me. I’ll entirely hook up with a girl, but due to my hatred of blow jobs (which will be it’s own post in the very near future), and my unwillingness to have sex, all we’re left with on my front is a handjob. I graduated seventh grade in 1995; I didn’t like handjobs then, and I sure as hell don’t like them now. So what’s left? Pleasuring her. I’ll do just about whatever I physically can (except peeing) to get her off. Which triggers her into thinking he must really like me. Look at all the effort he’s putting into this. Not necessarily. I’m just sexually frustrated because I can’t sleep with you and at least one of us should climax, no?

And unless a more meaningful bond forms between us, that’s all we’re destined for; a few passionate nights (for her) and a lot of extra shower time the next morning for me. If we do continue on to sex, then I’m implicitly clear about everything beforehand. I’ll tell her if I don’t see this heading into a relationship. I’ll tell her if I’m seeing other people or if I’m sleeping with other people. Full disclosure is always the best policy. In the game of romance, if all the cards are laid out on the table, then we’re all just players playing together.