He was leaning against the wall of the club and as soon as we looked at each other, I knew we were going home together.
I went over and said a casual, “Hey.” I liked that the music was loud enough that he had to lean really close to my ear to reply. We chatted for a while and then he asked me how old I was. I said I was old enough to reply “Guess” to that question. He said he was 23. I thought about walking away because that’s too young for me, but I was back in my hometown of Leeds and I behave in ways I wouldn’t usually when I’m there. Plus, not to be one of those people, but he was very mature for his age, and so tall that my neck hurt from looking up at him. He had stubble and wide shoulders and carried himself like someone who knew who he was.
I woke up in his bed with my phone buzzing against my back. He moved over and put his head on my stomach and I stroked the short razored hairs on the back of his head, my nails scraping his scalp. He said it felt nice and he ran his hands up and down my leg. He told me he supports Man U and about how he was going to be a footballer, but he hurt his knee. Then we laughed at the stereotype. I told him my dad supports Man U too. And then I spoke about how as a woman you sometimes feel like every time you want to do something it comes across as trying too hard—like you’re showing off, rather than just doing the thing you want to try. So then you start doing everything in an ironic way to protect yourself from this criticism. He tried really hard to understand what I meant.
He went to the bathroom and I looked around his room. He apologized for the state of it, even though it was actually really tidy for a student. I laughed and took a picture for my group chat of the fire door, the Bran Flakes on the shelf, and the washing detergent that he must have hid in there away from his flatmates. He offered to drive me back to my parent’s house, and in the car I asked if he knew where my actual hometown, Otley, is. He said he did because sometimes when he wants a bit of alone time away from the five people he lives with, he goes on long drives to places and sometimes he ends up in Otley. I thought about how sweet it was to know that he does that, and how much I really liked him as a person. I could tell he was kind and fun and that he looked after people.
One-night stands are supposed to be soulless encounters, purely physical and devoid of intimacy. You’re told you will walk away feeling dirty and empty and anxious, like you need to sort your life out. But I felt the opposite. I felt warm and open and taken care of and pleased that I’d been able to be that close with him—so much closer than I would have been with someone I thought I could have a future with.
The last time I slept with someone I really liked, we were at a bar together and he was talking about the Ottoman Empire. That’s when I knew I was in trouble, because I was actually really listening. He looked really good, hair all messy and long, big almond-shaped, sad eyes, and a flapping shirt that reminded me a bit of Ralph Fiennes in Shakespeare in Love. I smoked just to do something with my hands and became stressed when it took him a while to get up and get the next round in, because I needed another drink to calm down.
And I did relax around him, mainly because he was such a nice person. At one point he said, “Your body is so good,” and then because he’s been around enough women to know that we have a tendency to take compliments as criticisms, added, “And you’re very beautiful… and your personality is brilliant.” But then the relaxing, the lying in unflattering positions and the telling him secrets—these interactions all scared me because what I wanted more than him was not to be hurt again.
We’re now so guarded when we date because so many of us are so bruised by our experiences, and by the dating apps that make us disposable to one another. Knowing that things will probably end, we reveal less to the people we meet, we time our replies so we don’t seem keen, we don’t give them our Friday nights (and never a weekend), we don’t tell them how we feel about them or whether they look really good in that jacket. We don’t introduce them to our friends in case it seems too intense, or hang around their house for too long in the morning. We don’t give them that book we thought they’d like or make them our special pasta. So they never really know us, and it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy because, yes, maybe they think we’re hard to get and mysterious, but it also makes it easier for them to walk away.
But when you’re with someone you know you’re never going to see again, perhaps because they live in Leeds and they’re five years younger than you and still living in a student flat that has fire doors, you can open yourself up because you know you won’t ever see them again. You don’t worry if they’ll accept you or if your eyelids are swollen from drinking. You’re unashamedly yourself, smiling as they stroke your head.
I’ve heard similar stories from my friends. One of them was in Berlin recently and went back with a woman and then stayed the whole next day in her apartment, massaging the knots out of her back and petting her gray fluffy cat. Another friend was sleeping with this guy and she let herself enjoy it so much more than usual because she thought she was going traveling for six months around South America, and the relationship had a deadline. So they spoke about their families and cooked roasts together and sometimes she got upset and screamed at him. After all, she was leaving, so it didn’t matter. Except by the time it was time for her to go away, she didn’t want to go anymore. Now they’re in love and live together–two commitment-phobes who tripped and fell into each other’s lives.
On the train back to London, I go on Instagram and follow the 23-year-old back. He messages me saying good luck with the writing and thanks for a fun night, and that he’ll message me if he’s ever in London. I say “yes please do,” even though I know that probably won’t ever happen. Part of me wishes that it would. Maybe we could drive somewhere and go on a walk, or we could get something to eat and I could pay and we’d make jokes about me being his sugar mommy. But I know that’s not going to happen, so instead I’ll just follow him back and smile when I see that the girl he mentioned to me is now his girlfriend, while scrolling through their vacation pictures in Amsterdam. I’ll watch him graduate and like the pictures of him posing with his parents in his cap and gown. In between relationships he’ll send fire emojis back to my stories, and then talk to his friends about the weird girl who wrote an article about him, and we’ll continue to watch each other from a distance. It will be hard to imagine that we ever were as close as we were that night.