Back in my twenty-something university days, I was drawn more so to monogamous relationships than to meaningless flings. A sucker for love, I was. But, I have to admit, I did wonder what it would be like to: a) have casual sex with someone I was not committed to, and b) just date a guy without things becoming serious.
So I challenged my relationship-prone ways. I said: “Shan, you’re only young once! Date. Play the field. It doesn’t have to be total love and devotion. Every. Damn. Time!”
My opportunity to be casual, cool, and not in-love, happened one afternoon when I met a guy on my way home from school. He was out walking his dog and, as it turned out, he lived just a few blocks away from my house. He was good looking; a tall, dark and handsome sort of dude, a football player with gorgeous green eyes that matched the plaid in his flannel shirt. Right away, I decided he wasn’t my type. I was never much into sporty guys and he was a jock. But, he did seem nice. He was easy to talk to and… he was definitely someone’s idea of gorgeous.
And so began my first, ever, attempt to casually date.
Handsome Football Player, his dog, and I would go for casual walks around the neighborhood together. We met up for lunch a few times, easygoing as can be. Sometimes he and I would rent a movie at his place, drink a few beers, and fool around a bit. (In a laid-back, ever-so-aloof, way. Of course!) No butterflies. No weak knees. No commitment. I have to admit, we didn’t have sex. I didn’t really want to. I was new to the whole noncommittal “dating” thing and I wasn’t yet sure how I felt about it (or what the point of it was). He didn’t seem to mind, either way, and hanging-out with him was easy.
And then one Saturday night, I was standing outside a nightclub with my girlfriends. We’d been to a few bars, danced like fools, and were now stuffing our faces with greasy street-meat, from one of the many late-night hot dog carts. I was drunkenly scarfing a jumbo dog, when I felt some arms reach around my waist. It was him. It was Handsome Football Player, and he was looking pretty damn fine…
I invited him back to my place.
And one thing was leading to another, or so it seemed, and that’s when I felt it. It was a powerful force. The lure, the pull, the undeniable appeal of my oh-so-cozy bed. My eyelids bore the weight of, what felt like, six tiny elephants as my soft pillow sapped the last ounce of my vodka-fueled energy. I wanted to go to sleep. That was all I wanted to do.
But Handsome Football Player was in my bed and he really was cute yet… I knew what I wanted and what I didn’t want. I was drunk and I was tired so, in my intoxicated rationale, I made a quick decision: I pretended to pass-out. (A weird move, yes, but I was half-asleep already and somehow it made sense to me at the time.)
This is what Handsome Football Player did next:
a) He removed his hands from my body.
b) He tried to wake me with a few gentle nudges.
c) I was 100% convincing in my faux-slumber (even adding a light snore for effect).
d) He covered me with a blanket.
e) He left.
Perhaps Handsome Football Player went home disappointed that night. Maybe he even felt a tad uncomfortable with the experience. A case of mythical blue balls may have ensued. Or he may have ended up in some other non-passed out girl’s bed. I don’t actually know. I never asked him. But I do know this, he did what every fucking guy should do in this situation.
And because of his choices this story is, actually, a non-story. Handsome Football Player went-the-fuck-home! He didn’t attempt to sexually assault a passed-out girl. Nor did he rape her.
Nothing happened that night because a drunken guy made decent choices.
And also, that night, a drunken girl chose her bed over her date and that is, after all, a choice all women have the right to make.
If only all guys knew. If only every last Brock-Fucking-Turner knew what to do with a passed-out girl…