Partway through a kiss – a good one, a promising one – she breaks off and holds her face close to his. Whispers:
“Just so you know, I don’t fuck on the first date.”
“Oh. OK. Why’s that?” She doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but imagines it’s something about self respect. Maybe she doesn’t fuck on a first date because she wants men to value her. Because she’s been shagged then ghosted enough times now that she’s wary of jumping straight into bed.
But that is not what she says.
That is not what has happened, and it’s not how she actually feels.
The reason she doesn’t fuck on a first date these days is not about self-preservation, but about pleasure. She doesn’t fuck on a first date…
“Because anticipation is half the fun.”
I wanna wait
I don’t want to have a slightly awkward fumble now, when I’ve had no time to look forward to it. Don’t want our first kiss to be the one you quickly lean in for under the cold, bright strip lights of the tube station. The first time we kiss and touch: I want that to have impact. I’d like it to be an event.
You only get one opportunity to kiss somebody for the very first time.
There’s only one first time that you slide your hand up under the hem of their t-shirt and feel that delicious soft-fizz discovery when your fingertips meet their skin. Only one first time to cup their bum in your hands while you’re making out. Only one first time you grind against them and feel how hard they are for you.
If you’re as promising as you seem to be then of course I’ll want to do all of this many many more times: I hope that our future is so filled with kisses and touches that we rapidly forget individual instances and instead just allow the best ones to shine brightest in a sea of glittering joy.
But the first one is unique, so let’s make the most of it. Let’s look forward to it. Let’s acknowledge that it’s probably going to happen, and let ourselves dream about it in advance.
I don’t want to rush through a fuck right this second. I’d like to spend a bit of time texting you flirty shit and getting excited about the next time we see each other.
Ask a few targeted questions to find out what kind of sex we might want to start off with.
Allow myself to wonder what you look like naked.
Dream up some ideas about how I might ask you to kiss me.
Make a playlist of songs to put on the speakers when I’ve invited you back to mine.
That’s not to say I’ll have planned it all in detail. Obviously you have to provide input too. And one of the fun things about anticipation is that you can never ever ever guess the future perfectly. The other person will always surprise you with ideas. And if your ideas and their ideas land with a horny thump: game on. Or if they shape and flex around each other until new ideas are sparked in each person’s head: even better.
But fundamentally, even if the first time is – as it usually is – just an awkward fumble that might show promise… that’s fun too. And whenever there’s fun on the horizon, there’s also pleasure in the journey to get there.
I don’t fuck on the first date.
I have had a lot of semi-drunk, casual sex in my life with men I’m keen to wave goodbye to soon after we’re done. And I’m not up for it any more. I’m so grateful for the time I got to spend doing it, and I completely understand why those who haven’t done it themselves might want to give it a go and feel envious of me for what I’ve had. I need you to know I’m grateful. Very few regrets, to be honest. But I’ve been there, done that, even gathered a few discarded T-shirts along the way. Nowadays I’m pretty sure it’s not for me. Casual sex doesn’t seem to press my buttons. I have absolutely no interest in fucking somebody once.
I don’t need technically proficient sex or wildly kinky sex or sex with a specific number of positions or toys: I want fun sex. I’m looking to milk as much pleasure out of this as possible. And – for me, your mileage may vary – a lot of that fun is rooted in looking forward to stuff.
I see a full calendar, with gigs and pints and parties, and I feel so rich in life.
I see a completely free weekend and I spend the whole of the working week dreaming up exciting ways I could spend it.
I’ll anticipate a second date with you – a guy who I now know definitely likes me – and in the intervening days I’ll grin and hug myself with glee.
Although there’s no such thing as a definite ‘yes’ (either of us can back out at any point we like, no hard feelings), there’s surely a precious kind of excitement that comes when you look forward to a date on which you think you might fuck for the very first time.
Solid gold joy, I tell you. Even if we don’t end up fucking at the end of the day, we’ll both have had the delight of anticipation, despite the other one turning out to be a bellend or an axe murderer or whatever. I know that for some people the sudden leap-into-bed rush of an instant connection is preferable, so no shade to you if that’s how you feel. But for me, the delight of anticipation greatly outweighs that in-the-moment high.
I like my gratification delayed, goddammit. Eked out, fuelled by fantasy and nurtured over time.
The fact that I am a sex blogger is pretty relevant here. I’m basically a professional hedonist. A significant part of what I do for a living involves pursuing sexual pleasure and then milking it for every last drop. Sharing stories after the fact, recording audio porn, gleefully telling my Patreons the first draft scraps of it in monthly updates. And – of course – allowing myself to look forward to it. Wondering if it will happen and what it might be like and who’ll make the first move and oh God how you will taste.
My job has helped me to understand what I want sexually and find the words to articulate it. It’s given me the courage to say it with conviction, and no shame. I want pleasure in this way, and acquiescing to a kind of pleasure I don’t really enjoy just because it’s what many people expect feels pointless to me. If you prefer a more spontaneous, casual shag and you can articulate that with conviction, I will have infinitely more respect for you than someone who pretends they like what I like to impress me, because they’re so keen to get into my pants they haven’t stopped to consider their own needs and desires. If you’re consciously enthusiastic for casual sex in and of itself then go get yours – with my love and blessing.
I’ve been lucky enough to spend a significant part of my life examining my pleasure in detail, though Zooming in on what makes a hot story, a killer cum-trigger line, or a red-hot build-up to something especially exciting. In the process of doing that, I’ve learned plenty about what I love and what I find less appealing. Love: those moments when we’re hanging on the verge of a powerful kiss. Don’t love: racing into bed just to get it over with, or to prove that we can.
So I don’t fuck on the first date any more. For a pleasure-pro like me, that feels like amateur hour.