Go ahead and have sex on the first date if you want. If it feels good, do it. Ruin yourself. Get your rocks off. Surrender to chemistry, drink, irresponsibility. Indulge in the passion, throw caution to the wind, make a big sloppy mess of your love life. Your prince might not call you back if you rail him in the bathroom stall or after he slinks out of your apartment while you’re sleeping. If that happens, cry and wail! Just know that reports of the fragility of the human heart are greatly exaggerated.
There are no rules to love, romance, the quest to connect. Satiate your lust. Own your slutty behavior. Never apologize. A wise someone once said experience is never making the same mistake over and over and over. Make the mistake! Repeat after me: “I am not perfect. The only things that are perfect in the universe are cheeseburgers, snowflakes, and the moon. I am not perfect, and neither is my love life.”
I’ve never made that particular mistake, but it’s not because I’ve never tried. I’ve never made that mistake, and maybe it wouldn’t be a mistake. I’ve come close to doing it on a first date. Awesomely close. I’m not necessarily planning on doing it. It’s not on my bucket list or anything. I’d have to say that if I were to do it, that person and I would either be extremely drunk, extremely unable to keep our hands off each other, or both. If that were the case, and she never called me back, I’d be bummed. But I’m sure I’d get over it. Or not.
Read the rest of the essay on The Frisky.