There are some people who simply can’t be happy unless others are miserable. This is just such the case with “men” who have nine to five jobs–or worse, the type of job that forces them to rise even earlier than that. And though you might have given him an orgasm just hours before, he seems to suddenly have forgotten the service you’ve done him, in turn doing you the disservice of shuffling you out of his boudoir and therefore apartment so that, God knows what, he can prevent you from riffling through random boxes that might reveal what Carrie Bradshaw would call his “freakdom.” But then, considering that everything of incriminating or sentimental value is intangible nowadays, this speculative paranoia really makes no sense.
What’s the harm in letting the one you banged remain a little longer in your sandpapery sheets? Doesn’t she deserve the luxury of sleeping in, of collecting herself so that she might take stock of just how damaged she’s becoming from all the strange “dicks” she allows inside of herself? Or is it that a sick part of the natural sadist within the “man” wants to envision her walking down the street looking mangy, like a rode hard and put away wet (though vaginally dry) animal? Whatever his motives might be, none of them could possibly warrant ejecting the woman he boned out like some common prostitute. Because at least prostitutes get paid for their shame and disposability.
One-night stands are an understandable source of discomfort when it comes to cultivating a special form of awkwardness upon reencountering the “man” in question in public. But those few “men” who you’ve had fairly long-term relations with (by New York standards, which is two to three months) and then run into later on down the road post-demise really have no business making matters even more awkward by choosing to ignore you full-stop.
And sure, while he might be in the company of another woman (probably Asian and nothing like your loca ass), it doesn’t mean he should pretend that your time together never happened, that you are but another random stranger in the endless sea of NYC denizens. After all, he was inside you. Some people still tend to think that’s about as intimate as you can get. Then again, maybe he wasn’t even aware he was inside you as a result of his dick being but a phantom. Which is more challenging to ignore than any woman.
It’s unclear as to when the concept of “no strings attached” arose in the relationship scene among “men” and women. It certainly wasn’t during cavemen times when the opposite sexes were beholden to one another on the basis of survival (“men” would hunt, women would figure out how to cook that shit), and therefore seemed to know better than to fuck with the delicate balance that is monogamy.
The movie (which the French call Sex Friends) that vehemently disproves the no strings attached trope
But maybe around the time of the “free lovin'” 60s, “men” got it into their minds that no strings attached sex was a genuine possibility. But let’s be very clear: there are always strings attached. By the very nature of the meeting of two yin and yang genitals, you are attaching yourself to a woman. And then, because of pheromones or whatever, she starts to feel emotional about it, fond of you, even (though logically she shouldn’t ’cause you’re probably an unkempt broke ass). No matter the brevity of the one-night stand you find yourself in, there is also the strings attached of contracting an STD, AIDS, etc. or the chance that she’ll come at you Nan Britton-style and tell you you’re the father of her child–and all in the name of no frills. But the dickful “man” should recognize that there are always, but always, frills.