Sex and the Single Momma
Dear Readers: This is another post in my Letters to Louie series, in which I write to the comedian Louis C.K. after having received an unmistakable sign from the Universe that we're supposed to get married. While this letter is meant for Louie, since you’re already here you might as well read it too.
I got laid this weekend.
Yes. I. Did.
There was sex to be had and I was the one havin' it. There were deeds to be done and I was the one doin' em.
Excuse me for a brief moment while I take a victory lap around my living room.
You feel me on this, right?
I guess I should feel apologetic, considering that you and I are engaged to be engaged. But since we haven't met in person yet, I think you should cut me some slack here.
Because I'm not sorry at all. In fact, I feel like I should be strutting onto an aircraft carrier with a big, taxpayer-funded banner in the background that says "Mission Accomplished."
Louie, you're a single dad. You get this, right? You know that if you're a single parent and you're in your 40s and you can find someone willing to throw down with you ... well, that's no Walk of Shame you're gonna be taking in the morning. That's a Walk of Pride.
I did it for the children.
Louie, I'm going to be honest. This had to happen. Had to. I've had so much pent up sexual frustration from months and months of celibacy that it probably wasn't even safe for me to be behind the wheel anymore. When you think about it that way, I really did it for the good of the community. And for the children.
So let me explain how this happened.
First, yes, I'm dating other people right now since, for some inexplicable reason, you're continuing to play hard-to-get by pretending that you don't know I exist.
And you know what? That’s fine. I can deal with your little cat-and-mouse game for a while. Besides, anticipation can be half the fun, right? I appreciate the way you're building the drama as we get closer to our inevitable meeting. It shows your flair for romance, so thank you.
And the thing about these needs ... well, they’re hard for a girl like me because I don't sleep around (much). And I also don't agree that there's nothing a man can do for me that I can't do for myself with a few batteries and a little technology. (But that's a whole other story for another time, my sweet.)
Men are sort of a necessity.
I've been out with this one man a few times lately. He’s a single dad. He's nice. We have a really good time together and he’s a good kisser. At the end of a recent date, he invited me to see his place. I told him that I'd drop him off on my way home from the city, but that I wasn't going to come in. He said, "That's fine. I'll wait until you trust me. Besides, we don't have to do anything."
I was sitting there thinking, "We don't? Because if I walk into your apartment, there's no way I'm walking outta there without getting laid. It’s not you I don't trust, dude. It's me."
Now let me say this: You, Louie, and men in general, should not take this story as a green light to assume that all women always want to get laid upon entering a man's home. I just happened to be thinking about it that night. As you probably know, we women are complicated and changeable and nothing is ever guaranteed. I’m sure you would agree that it’s part of our charm.
We made out in the car. Then he got out and I drove away thinking, "Who is demure as all fuck? This girl! Where's my goddamn medal? I’m going home sexless and frustrated … there’s got to be a payoff here somewhere … ”
What's the big farking deal?
So this last date ... I tried to talk myself out of sleeping with him. Beforehand, I tried to tell myself that it would be a really great idea to not shave my legs. I tried to remind myself that turning my face into a landfill for Girl Scout cookies after a bad breakup a few months ago hadn't been the best idea and that I was way too squishy to consider getting into a gropefest with anyone at this point. I tried to conjure up some moral reason why this would be a bad idea.
And I couldn't think of one. I'm 41. I'm perfectly fucking entitled to go have some sex if that's what I feel like doing. I'm not an idiot and I’m not going to take any stupid chances with my health. I got myself spayed like a dog a while ago, so there's no risk of firing up production lines at the old baby factory.
And then I found myself putting on this little black dress that sorta did everything for me -- except zip all the way up. I have nasty carpal tunnel syndrome at the moment and I couldn't maneuver my arms to reach to the top of the zipper. I got it up to just below my bra line and then it got stuck. I seriously considered just leaving it like that and throwing a jacket on over top. Then I could pull my date into a secluded corner of the Philadelphia Art Museum later, take off the jacket and go, “Hey, uh, could you help a girl out?” I couldn't decide if that would be sexy or trashy ... or both. Finally, I worked the zipper up past the bra line, hooked the top and left it at that.
And then I put on this great perfume that I love that always makes me feel a little bit saucy ...
And that was fucking that.
All of nature is celebrating.
It takes me a long time to get comfortable sleeping at someone else's house. Later that night, I was finally about to close my eyes around 3:30 AM. That's about the same time a bird started singing right outside the window. Then another one. And another one. A whole fucking chorus of birds chirping away in the middle of the night. It was pretty but shit … it was already hard enough to nod off, what with worrying about drooling or snoring or committing some other unsightly and unintentional sleep faux pas.
In the morning, I asked him if the birds had a little house party outside the window every night.
"No," he said. "It was probably because of us. They knew two single parents had just gotten laid."
Then I explained that I had to leave him, the actual man I had just slept with, so I could go home and write a letter to you, my hypothetical fiance, before my kids got home from their dad's house. God bless that man, he didn't bat an eye.
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
Can I admit that I think all the "morning after" stuff is hilarious? I love having to hunt down undies and wipe off smeary makeup and then put on last night's clothes before grabbing a coffee on the way home, knowing that I just reek of "That's right, motherfuckers. Guess who just got some action?"
I got home and pulled into the parking lot at the Single Momma Townhouse. My neighbor on the right is also a single mom – I assume she’s older than me because she has three kids and three grandchildren. There are days she just looks tired. A few weeks ago, though, I noticed she'd gotten her hair done. She also started wearing a little more makeup and putting together some nice outfits. She looked good.
Then I saw why. A guy -- a cute guy -- started showing up over there pretty regularly.
I don't know her well, but I was so happy for her. "Good for you, honey!” I wanted to tell her. “Take a point for our team! You give me hope!”
Sitting there in my car in last night’s dress, I noticed the cute guy's car in front of her house again. I was tempted to go ring her bell. When she opened the door, I wouldn't say a word. I'd just give her a fist bump and a wink and then slink on over my house to begin the day.
And that, Louie, is all I have to say for now. I’m still tired from being up all night. I’m going to go sleep off my sex hangover but I promise I’ll write again soon. Smoochies from me.
Your future bride, Trish
Read the previous Letter to Louie: Open Letter to My Future Husband.
Read the next Letter to Louie here.
Trish Sammer Johnston