Single Girl Dating Diaries: Amelie D. The Virgin Hook-Up Artist

By Amelie DeNovelis on September 10th, 2009

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Married?  Single?  Nope, I’m divorced.  Well, not technically yet, but it will be legal in just a few short weeks.  My first conquest as a divorcee (God, I abhor that word) was to scope out who would be my first one-night stand.  Who am I kidding?  I wanted Number 13 to be my first one-night stand while I was married – so now that I wasn’t, he was definitely at the forefront of my mind.

He was everything a guy with the number “13″ tattooed on his neck should be – a loner, a motorcycle rider, a drummer.  The last one is the real kicker – why am I always a pushover for a drummer?  Anyway, the “13″ should have been a screeching warning that he meant trouble, but he was likely one of the sweetest guys in town in a tough, detached way.  He was an acquaintance of my ex and I, so I saw him around town listening to other local bands or hanging out in the sarcastic Akron, OH bar scene.  Most of my girlfriends agreed, 13 was the hottest guy in town.

So, he seemed like the logical choice for my first one-night stand.  I had only had sex with Tony, my ex-husband.  We were childhood sweethearts.  Although it was heartbreaking to file for divorce, I realized we were just two very different people.  He talked about things.  I did things.  Anyway, as I sought out my first hook-up, I carefully zipped up my f@#$ me boots, slipped on the shortest skirt I could find, and met some friends at Thursdays to go dancing.  I knew 13 would be there.

It was Saturday night.  He was always there on Saturday night.  I walked up to the bar to order my usual Jack and Diet Coke and heard a familiar voice say, “Uh-oh, here’s trouble.”  It was 13.  I gave him a smile and a wink and told him he better meet me on the dance floor before he left.

A few songs in, 13 moved my direction.  We were dancing close enough during “I Wanna Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge, that I could literally feel his excitement.  We were practically glued together at the hips when he grabbed me by the back of the neck and said, “If you dance any closer, I’m taking you home and f-ing the hell out of you.”

So, being the good, church-going girl I was, I did the right thing and pressed up even tighter against him.  No one had ever said anything like that to me, and I was ready to learn what it meant to have the hell f-ed out of me.  I was a woman ready and wanting to experience the art of being taken advantage of.  He asked me if I wanted to ride with him back to his place and I told him I’d follow him.  Also being the commitment-phobic, virgin hook-up artist I was, I wanted to drive myself in case things went south.

I followed him to his place.  We did very little speaking once we were there – just kissed, grabbed, and undressed on our way up the stairs to his bedroom.  The night of my first One-night stand, I learned what it meant to be man-handled – complete with hair pulling, biting, the works.  I had never experienced anything like it.  We had the roughest sex I had ever experienced and I liked it.  I dozed off for a few hours and woke up letting the experience sink in while he laid next to me.  A thing we call “guilt” started to seep in and I started to wonder what the proper protocol was at this point.  Do I wake him up?  Do I leave my number for him to call?  Oh God, what the hell am I going to do when I see him again?  Shit, is he going to tell everyone?

So I did what came naturally, I disappeared.  I slipped on my clothes and drove off.  My hangover was in full effect and I had no vision of a romantic breakfast happening with me and 13.

As I drove home, partially hungover and partially guilty, I also had an overwhelming feeling of freedom. I had a new life-experience under my belt and the problem was, I liked it.  I like the idea of a hook-up.  It happens. It’s over. And I think it’s exactly the kind of “relationship” I need right now.  No commitment. No problem.