Yesterday was Casual Sex Day and while I didn’t sleep with every stranger that I saw, in fact didn’t sleep with anyone, I did a lot of thinking about casual sex.
First, I hate the word casual sex. No sex is casual. Even if it is a quickie against the door in a public bathroom, it is passionate, wild, messy, energetic, insane and none of those are words that sound remotely casual.
When you plan your liaison and he insists you wear your Dolce & Gabbana black dress and you insist he has champagne on ice, that is not casual.
And when you have sex then go out for dinner, then dancing, and then have sex again, that is not casual either.
That’s a date. And it means you enjoy each other’s company. A lot.
And if you’ve been doing this for a very long time and it is still exciting and wonderful and you love going down on him and he loves going down on you, plus you love the in between stuff, hey, THERE IS NOTHING CASUAL about it.
So I hate that the difficult guy calls what we have Casual Sex.
And I hate the rules that go with Casual Sex.
Check your emotions at the door.
Do not have expectations.
Know that you’re both in it for the sex.
Do not even think about asking for wardrobe space.
Never expect gifts.
Know death will come swiftly if you use his toothbrush.
And whatever you do, do not use the word relationship.
Except – I think this is a relationship. I think when the sex is so called casual but you’ve been having it for a long time, together with all the other stuff, it is a lot more than casual sex.
Casual fucking sex.
Sex cannot be casual unless you are a psychopath and able to fuck without feeling.
I think I’m with a psychopath. Even though I am not technically with him.