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A Letter to My Past Hook Up

What even was I to you? Think about it. Not what you actually tell other people (and what I’ve heard through the grapevine), but what you actually thought of me—and still think of me. Let’s start from the beginning.

It was your typical Friday night: the bass was pumping, the keg was flowing, and people were dancing. I didn’t think much of it when you came up behind me and asked me if I wanted to dance. Actually, I don’t even think you asked. We were on a riser and you gently grabbed my hand. We started to dance; you twirled me around and leaned in to kiss me. Singing (or slurring) the words to “Take Me Home,” you proceeded to do just that: take me home. I usually don’t like one-night stands, but there was something about you that made me say yes. Or maybe it was just the alcohol because you know what they say—one tequila, two tequila, three tequila… Make out? It’s something like that.

You helped me find my fracket. How chivalrous. And we walked back to your room. We nervously chatted on the way back and the alcohol that was still pumping through our blood was keeping the conversation flowing. Little did I—the naive, starry-eyed girl—know that this would not be our last walk back together.

Once we got to your room, we started to make out. We were soon naked, even though I had only met you an hour ago. Nervously, I asked if you had a condom and the deed was done. We laid there in silence because what does one say after sex? What is there to say? I said nothing and wondered what you were thinking. But what were you thinking?

What I thought was a one-night-stand turned into a two-night-stand and then a three-night-stand and yeah, you get the point. Your bed became my bed on Fridays and Saturdays and the occasional Wednesday. This continued for weeks and started to become routine. But what happened? Where did I go wrong? Please tell me because I honestly don’t know what happened. I’m not writing this because I want you back; I’m writing this for the sake of my own curiosity. What happened? Why didn’t things progress? Why did our relationship only exist when we were drunk? You’re probably reading this, shaking your head, knowing the obvious answer is only three letters: sex. And yes, while that is your answer (and part of mine too), was that really it? You could have been with different girls on all those nights, but you decided to string me along by telling me that you’re happy that I’m your “girl” or by telling me about your family or your goals in life.

Why did you tell me that I was your “girl” when you knew that you would never want to be anything more with me? Exclusivity without the label… a concept that girls grapple with and boys have completely mastered. With this unclear definition, it’s almost like you had me on a leash; you kept me coming back to you, but you were free to hook up with anyone else. Because that’s what guys want, right? A roster. A list of girls they can say they banged. Because, hey, the more the merrier. So why did you, if you truly wanted sex, restrict yourself to me, but not move things forward? Did you fear a title?

So, the next time you do hook up with someone and want to refer to her as your “girl,” maybe you should learn a lesson or two from our experience and treat her the right way. Don’t make her feel like a girlfriend if she’s really just a booty call. Because if you don’t respect her, then you’ll have another anonymous article written about you.

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