BwogSex isn’t known for being meek, but today a guy recounts the rather awkward transition to dating from a sort-of-friends-who-have-drunken-benefits/late-night-buddies-who-tend-to-fuck relationship. Submit your story anonymously to our sexitor at firstname.lastname@example.org or through our anonymous form (nude pics encouraged but optional).
Sitting across from you at our small table in Starbucks, I am immediately drawn to how beautiful your eyes are. I’ve never noticed them before. We’ve known each other for months, if not always by name, and we’ve finally decided to take the next step. You are sitting across from me sheepishly stirring your Mocha Frappuccino with that oversized green straw, and I am casually stroking my beard while I tell you about where I grew up. From the outside this must look like any normal first date. If things go well, we might keep talking, meet up for drinks, and eventually we’ll seal the deal. But there is a secret hiding behind our shy downward glances and basic conversation. I knew your bra size long before I knew whether or not you had siblings. (Apparently you have two.)
The story of our romance has all the spontaneous beauty of Dido and Aeneas, the poetry of Shakespeare, and the booze of Corona. It was the first big party of the semester, and you spotted my unmistakable charm half-empty beer bottle from across the room. After swaggering drunkenly stumbling over to you, we had the greatest first conversation I’ve ever barely remembered. I’ll never forget what you said to me that night.
“Can I–can I–have a sip of that?”
“Of course you can! You can have as much as you’d like,” I replied with a certain rise in my voice that can only be described as a verbal wink.
After explaining to me that the last fourth of a bottle of beer is almost entirely backwash, it was bottoms up. And bottoms up! Twenty minutes later we were “those people” making out in the corner. This moment was not meant to last, however. It wasn’t long before you decided to leave the party without even giving me your name. When I woke up the next morning, the memory of you (albeit a hazy one) was the one ray of sunshine that didn’t induce excruciating head pain.
It was nearly a month before we would meet again. Like Odysseus, it took me quite some time and a few strange women before the Fates brought me back to you, my beautiful queen of Morningside. I almost didn’t talk to you when I saw you again. It was not the right time to reveal myself. I was afraid that you wouldn’t remember me…You didn’t. I tried to tell you about the last time we met, and after a few quick words whispered over very loud music you relented. “It’s quite possible I met you that night. I was really fucked up.” More beautiful words have never been spoken. Luckily, you thought I was attractive enough to fall for me all over again. Except this time we fell head over heels into your bed.
So here we are. Who’s to know if things can ever work out between us? The signs are promising: You like dogs, art, smoking weed, my political views, and you hate it when people take themselves too seriously. It’s not much, but it’s all we have to go on.
I must seem like a total weirdo. I have no clue what my face must look like right now! I am actually agonizing over whether or not to reach out and hold your hand. We’ve seen each other naked for God’s sake! Instead of making a move, my eyes just keep darting between your eyes, my drink, and your hands. Even the smallest of interactions have been given an amplified importance by our prior intimate encounters.
As we finish our drinks and say goodbye, I’m not sure whether to hug you, kiss you, or shake your hand. What is a kiss after what we’ve done? But, once again, I am stopped in my tracks by an unshakable nervousness. So after spending an awkward couple of seconds just standing around on Broadway I decide that simple is better for now. I give you a big hug (one that lasts just long enough to let you know it’s real, but not long enough to weird you out). If this is going to work outside of an alcohol-induced haze of lust, then we have to be careful. Careful—not boring.
“You have beautiful eyes,” I say.
You smile and tell me that you think we should do this again soon.
It might be awkward, but it’s a very good start.
A different kind of POV via Shutterstock