The Hookup.
It’s finally happened. That guy, the one you keep seeing at parties and bars, the one you’re always looking at, the one you’ve been hoping for, the one that makes your heart twist when he smiles, the one who results in an immense amount of butterflies flapping around in your stomach. That guy. Well, you’ve just hooked up with that guy. The guy. It’s all you’ve ever wanted for months because he’s all you ever thought of for months. And now he’s in your bed or maybe you’re in his, both of you smelling like chugged jungle juice. It’s great. College is great. Alcohol is great. Hookups are great. Everything is great.
F*%#ing.
Ok, why do we even call it f#$%ing? Just call it for what it is. You are making love. You are having sex with another human being. Calling it something crude does not mean you can make it mean anything less. But then again, saying “I totally f*&%ed Johnny last night” is pretty cool. F@#$ing. It feels good to say. I mean, it’s not like you care anyway. It was just a hookup.
Sometimes.
Sometimes you’re that girl who likes hookups. Some guys call you a whore, others call you a player, but you think you just have some solid game. Every weekend, it’s a new guy, a new chase. You love the feeling of getting the guy you want. You love bragging the next day. You love telling everyone how much you just do not care. Because you don’t. Obviously.
Other times.
Other times, it’s different. The hookup just felt—kind of weird. You talked about some deeper things, he listened. He talked about his issues, you listened. You start to get to know each other. You haven’t felt this way in a while. He might be an actually good guy. You pass out with his arms wrapped around you and you’re feeling pretty good.
The Morning.
It isn’t a hookup if the morning isn’t awkward as hell. You stumble around trying to find your clothes, trying to look just as good as when you were both intoxicated. Of course, he’s just lying there, shirtless and as sexy as before. Sometimes he points out your bra on the ground or pulls your panties from under the covers. You know you shouldn’t be embarrassed, but you can feel the blush creeping around your nose. You leave with an awkward brief kiss. Then it’s just over. You make your way home in your short skirt and crop top wondering the entire time if this is a walk of pride or a walk of shame.
Numbers.
Let’s say you exchanged numbers before you left on your adventure home. He’s smooth as hell when he asks to chill again sometime. Sure, you say, let’s—chill again. But this is horrible, because now your phone is a ticking time bomb. An actual ticking time bomb. Your best friend is now your worst enemy. All you do is stare at your phone. Literally. When you aren’t checking for messages, you’re thinking about checking for messages. If he doesn’t text you the next day, you go crazy. For all you know, he’s in the arms of another lady. You were played! Damn! Or maybe his phone got hit by a car. That’s it! Your mind is in hyper drive. Should you friend him on Facebook? You found him on twitter! Oh, he’s got a snapchat. No instagram? I guess he’s not that hipster. Oh, there’s his Vine! He’s so cool. But whatever you do, you cannot text him first. Then you’ll just look like a Goddamn fool.
Text!
How’s it going?
OH DAMN. It’s him. He totally wants me. Oh, he’s so into me. He’s got to be. Instead of texting back like a normal person, you consult your entire friend group first. They prove to be not that much help. Just play hard to get, they all say. So, you don’t text back for 3 hours. It’s a struggle. Really, it is. Then you take a good 15 minutes composing a text.
It’s good. What’s up with you?
The moment you send it, you freak, then calm down, then freak, then calm down.
This goes on for a while.
He doesn’t text back for a while. 4 hours. So you don’t text back for a half day. Oooooh, you’re playing so hard to get. It’s like you don’t even want him. At all.
The End.
It doesn’t work out. You don’t know why. Your texts were so sassy and so few. His were so funny and so few. How confusing. You both seemed to connect so much that night. But it’s ok. It’s fine. It’s not like you cared anyway. You didn’t even like him.
It was just a hookup.