I like to think that the inside of my mind is kind of like the inside of some British old men’s drinking club. In reality, it’s probably a little bit closer to the Matador (dark, overfull and just a little bit dirty).
I imagine that those of you who aren’t calling the Reporter to have me burnt at the stake for my failure to repent my whorish ways probably have similar minds. Yes, it’s true, not everyone loves me (my personal favorite was a phone call: “Caroline Morgan is foul...disgusting...makes you lose your lunch”).
It’s only natural, then, that I would encounter a reader at the Matador. This happened for the first time following the Wilco concert (which, by the way, was badass).
My friend KE and I decided to hit the Matador for some celebratory whiskey and refreshing PBRs. Shockingly, I was not on the prowl. Enter Reader.
Reader had something of a boyish charm about him. He started off strong, saying we were the prettiest girls at the bar (flattery will get you everywhere). Then he told us he couldn’t decide who was hotter.
We told him not to choose (it’s never a good idea to pit potential bones against each other). He didn’t listen.
Apparently, boy was looking for some Christian Grey kind of sexy fun time, because Reader wanted to hook up with me because I looked “mean,” instead of KE who he thought was “prettier.” We left.
Reader emails the next day. Side note: this was my first email from a reader and, therefore, the best email I’ve ever received.
“I met you and your girlfriend last night...I was the wasted dude who said she was the prettier than you...you are very sexy...if you[’]d like a casual sex friend let me know...text me if you want me to buy you a drink.”
I might have texted reader for a drink (and it might have lead to casual sex), but the drink was tainted. I’m not some gumball machine that you put some money into and a prize pops out. I declined.
He responded by asking me to “use him,” or in the alternative to at least meet up with him for a spot of tennis (I don’t know how to play). He also included a lovely black and white photograph of himself, half-naked in his bed.
I’m not gonna lie, Reader: You looked handsome in the photo. But if I wanted to use you, I would have used your telephone number.
These emails were the equivalent of saying some stupid shit at the end of the night when someone’s already told you you’re not getting laid. "Do you want to see it?" Answer: No.
Which brings me to my question. Why is it that when someone is open about loving sex (doesn’t everyone, really?), other people automatically assume that person wants to have sex with them?