Last month I was in Los Angeles, on a self-imposed writing retreat, aka Tindering. I matched with Josh, a gangly year-old with protruding ears and a body like a line drawing. I told him that I was in L. It all made total sense. It was all very meta. In the show, after sex, he instantly starts to find his date intolerable and wants her to go home.
We had sex, and it was really great. I was feeling really happy about the whole evening, and in my post orgasm bliss, I started to nod off.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Because I find it hard to sleep with other people in my bed. A few nights later, over steak at Cafe Stella, I whined about this to my friends. He asked me out again. If I go, should I bring up the sleepover thing, or is that weird? Besides, you met him on Tinder. Alexi writes the blog ImBoyCrazy, hosts a dating advice radio show, and is kind of like me—meaning, she has great advice for everyone—except herself.
If I was willing to have sex with someone, then I should be able—or at least try —to handle the intimacy of sleeping next to them. We decided to ask our hot waiter for his opinion. Gabe is a successful screenwriter in his mids. We sometimes give each other writing notes, for instance. A couple months ago, Gabe and I were drinking martinis at Soho House, feeling very cool and entitled and spontaneous, when we suddenly decided that we should have a threesome.
Back at his West Village apartment, he put on some embarrassing earthy instrumental music and opened a bottle of wine. Kaitlin showed up drunk, and we all started making out on the couch. Slowly, we moved into his bedroom. As it happened, they were more into the whole situation than me, and I sort of fell into the role of spectator.
