If the thought of wading through someone else's groin shavings gives you pause, take care of it.
Everyone enjoys sex, except for people who don't, and that's a fact you can set your watch by. Your sex watch! And many of us are not above the idea of a hookup just for the thrill of it, because if you're cool with it and they're cool with it, screw anyone (not literally) who tries to judge you or suggest there are only certain relationships that are worthy of being sexual. If you're not hurting anyone and they're not hurting anyone, then kick it like rabbits and hump till you get a friction burn, is what my grandma always said. But beware! You can cause serious damage to your humpability by falling victim to any of this tomfoolery.
No room in your home will ever be more honest than the bathroom. You can pretty up a living room with wall sconces and IKEA shelving, and you can use marble counter tops in the kitchen. But the bathroom, behind all the fluff, is the room where you sit bare-ass on a chair filled with water and expunge your waste. It's as close to your soul as a room can get.
Because the bathroom is so honest, you must treat it like a drunk friend who knows too much: Be wary, for it will spill your secrets when you least expect it. Not out of malice, but simply because that is its nature. You may think you're putting your best foot forward and really charming the literal pants off of someone, and then they excuse themselves to use the bathroom, at which point you have zero seconds left to stem the tide of what may follow. Is there filth-encrusted tissue sitting on top of your trash can? How about errant feminine hygiene products? Is the bowl clean, or is it decorated with a thin layer of ass spackle? Has anyone pissed on the wall and left drip marks that shine in the light when you turn your head just so? Is there a hairy razor sitting on the side of the sink? Did you hang a wet pair of underwear over the shower rod? Is your hemorrhoid cream sitting out? THERE ARE SO MANY QUESTIONS!
The one-night stand is a purely impulsive decision based on your boner or lady boner's insistence that you rub your groin on someone else's until your brain nods in fervent agreement. Both of them, and you at this point, will have forgotten if you bothered to tidy up the house. You will only remember at the moment your new crotch-cuddler asks to use it, and at that point it's too late to do anything about it. A solid rule of thumb is to give your bathroom a once-over every time you leave it. Look at it as if you were visiting someone else's, and if anything makes you cringe, fix it before you leave.
You may be surprised to learn that I am not an immaculate homemaker. As it happens, I ascribe to the "If it's in the house, it's where it belongs" method of cleaning up more often than not. So generally, when it came to keeping the kitchen clean, as long as nothing was melting, festering or rusting, I was pretty confident that I had shit under wraps. This never went over well when anyone came over and wanted to actually ingest anything other than their own fear. When your dishes form a squatter community across your counter and your fridge contains bags of soup, what you're saying to other humans is "Hello, I'm a Morlock. I've just escaped my subterranean lair and wish to mate with one of your kind. Our spawn will be raised in a Rubbermaid storage tub."
Your home is a reflection of yourself. A super-tidy, immaculate home may be the sign of an anal-retentive neat freak, while the eye of a shit cyclone is indicative of someone who may use baby wipes in lieu of showering. You want a happy medium that doesn't offend yourself or others, because yes, people judge you. And rightly so. You deserve to be judged if your go-to style is squalor. I deserved to be judged, and judged I was. Do you know how much tail I missed out on as a result of my hapless disregard for cleanliness and organization? One. One whole tail. And that's a lot for me. Do you think I'm up in here having all the sexes? I once wrote a piece about why life would suck for a zombie, because I have the time to consider what life would be like for a zombie, because I have nothing else going on except cleaning my kitchen.
I understand that a large portion of one-night stands are birthed at the bottom of a bottle of peach schnapps, and that's fine. A little booze goes a long way in making some people more humpable. But there is a limit. If either one of you is so sloppy drunk that you don't know what you're doing, then that's a shit buffet with no sneeze guard. Sloppy drunkenness isn't fun for anyone.
The issue of consent is something you need to be always aware of and be respectful of. But even if you both are of sound enough mind to agree that you want to slide your slipperies together, there comes a point in the night at which you can have too many delicious Tom Collins Slurpees. Even though inebriation might make you more clever or honest or a better dancer in your own mind, it also has a handful of drawbacks that tend to be the opposite of sexy. For instance:
3: A limp, lazy, no-good wiener.
All three of these outcomes are to sex what all three of those things are to anything -- maybe with the exception of the limp wiener, a condition which doesn't generally affect things like boiling an egg or Scrabble, unless you play it the way I do. But you get the idea. At some point, you need to know your limit and drink within it, or else face the terrible prospect of sitting on your bed, vomiting onto your own wobbly squish digit before passing out in your new friend's lap.
A general rule of thumb you want to follow when it comes to sex is always pretending you've never had sex before. Which isn't to say that you need to act like a virgin trying to discover which flap fits into which orifice, but you do not need to acknowledge that you've tasted someone else's genitals in that moment. Because, more often than not, the current person whose undercarriage you're taste-testing doesn't want to know what other wobbles you've gobbled. The more you remind someone else that you've boinked other people, the more they're going to be worried about two key things: Are you comparing them to someone else, and do you bone so many other beings that you're a walking chlamydia salad with gonorrhea sprinkles and a side of Paul Newman's non-GMO herb dressing?
No one should care how many sexual partners you've had, nor is it really their business. But you make it their business when you rub it in their face, literally or figuratively. Hopefully just figuratively, but who am I to judge what turns you on?
Obviously, most of us don't start an evening of seduction by saying something like "I've taken a real shine to your crotch, but the last five I jiggered were a little nicer." Don't say that. But you don't need to say anything sometimes if you've really fucked up your preparations. First and foremost, you're going to want to not have a used condom pretty much anywhere that it can be seen. That's a surefire sign that you're gross. A used condom has no choice but to be gross, and the closer it gets to you, the grosser it becomes, like a proximity mine of viscous, ropy repulsion. It's a literal sack of biohazard, and if you see it in someone else's home, it means they had it in and around where you're trying to go, all squishy and glorpy in the promised land. That's terrible. Objectively, it's a good thing, as it means that your friend is responsible. But you're not objective -- you're subjective, and you're being subjected to a rubbery spooge sock within oozing distance. Gross.
If you collect panties, jock straps, bras, photos of ham wallets, butthole silhouettes, or any other sort of sexual trophies, make sure they're in one of those dry cleaning bags or something else no one is going to look in. People who collect sex trophies are too much like serial killers for anyone's comfort. You conquered something and needed a creepy reminder of it that only appeals to you but when anyone else sees it, they're worried you're going to put a tarp down and start playing Huey Lewis.
Even if the condom isn't used, you're going to want to keep your birth control out of sight in general as well. If you have a fishbowl full of condoms or an IUD-of-the-week rack, it takes someone out of the moment. By all means, have those things, but keep them in a drawer. Imagine grandma coming over and mistaking your birth control pills for Tic Tacs, the way so many sexually clueless boobs in direct-to-video comedies do. You don't want to live with that on your conscience. It's not about being a prude or hiding who you are. It's just about tact and considering the feelings of other people who have to see your used condom homunculus trying to birth itself from the ooze-encrusted waste basket, and must decide whether they should flee in silence or whilst emitting terrified screams.
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