The Etiquette of the One-Night Stand

This has already been said a million times, I’m sure, but men need to keep their big, stupid mouths shut during a one-night stand. No talk about keeping in touch. No talk about “next time.” It only sets them up to look like assholes when they don’t follow through on things we didn’t care about in the first place—until they mentioned it. Once they say it, then we expect it. If they are trained that to get sex they have to say things they don’t mean, then they need to retrain their big, stupid mouths. Women like sex just as much as men. There are many things to do with those mouths instead of talking crap.

Women are culturally trained to feel rejected if a man doesn’t “like us.” If men really care about not being asses, then they shouldn’t say stuff they don’t mean—and they should follow through on whatever they do say. If you don’t want to follow through, don’t say or do anything to the contrary. It’s nicer to not leave a woman open to a minor rejection.

Never take her number or e-mail. If you don’t have a way to reach her, she can’t feel bad if she doesn’t hear from you. And only give her yours if you can handle having her use it.

If I’m having a one-night stand and the guy starts in with any bullshit, he’s getting kicked out immediately. Maybe the anticlimax will teach him.

Off My Chest

OMC wrote again, a couple weeks after sending me the above e-mail, saying she no longer agreed with every­thing she wrote in the heat of the moment and allowing that “it would be sad if men weren’t nice at all, and if they didn’t do stupid stuff anymore.” But although she might have had minor backsies, I think she made some very good points in her original letter. Erm, OK, mostly I think she made some good points because I’ve fallen prey to that exact scenario. Me! A dating professional! I went out with this very wholesome young man a while back and, against my better judgment, slept with him on the first date.

I don’t regret doing the nasty, because the sex was pretty awe-inspiring; how­ever, nor did I think anything would come of it (except me). But he kept e-mailing me chatty little small-talk missives every couple days. We had nothing in common, but his continued attentions got me thinking that maybe it would be nice for once to date a guy who was more Richie Cunningham than the Fonz. After all, this fella was gainfully employed, never swore (!), and always seemed vaguely startled by his surroundings. (I’m a sucker for startled.) His Midwest­­ern accent and farm-boy good looks combined to make it appear like he’d just come in from milking the cows or baling some hay. Now normally I either go for dorky, bespectacled dudes who look like they’re stymied by some complex mathe­matical equation or, on the oppo­site side of the spectrum, the hot but inevitably dumb mook who looks like he might’ve just knocked over the local liquor store. There’s no middle ground. Bob (fake name!) was middle ground!

So I allowed myself to get a little excited about dating a guy who said “fiddlesticks” instead of the other “F” word. I e-mailed him, wondering when we might see each other again. Radio silence, and then another chatty how-ya-doin’ e-mail. I ran into him one night on the street and blurted, “If you don’t want to date me, that’s fine, just tell me!” He assured me he definitely did want to see me again, and e-mailed promptly thereafter. But never a plan. Finally I sent him a funny little note assuring him that I wouldn’t think he was a scumbag if he didn’t want to date, but that his hallmark-flavored e-mails were starting to get on my tits. Only when reassured that I wouldn’t think him an asshole did he ‘fess up to the fact that he wasn’t interested. And now, for being such a pantywaist about the whole thing, I do think he’s a jackass! Harumph.

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