He was sexy. He had dark, tanned skin, a 5 o’clock shadow, crew cut and piercing turquoise eyes that pulled you in and left you dizzy after looking. His smile was as sharp as a wolf’s, and I paid no mind to the alligator teeth.
We met at a party off campus, and after a couple hours of schmoozing we went back to my place. As we got into my bedroom, hands furtively caressing each others’ bodies as we made out under the amber light of my desk lamp, I pulled my lips from his and asked if he had a condom.
He said yes, snatching my lips back with his mouth as he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and began to fuss around with it blindly. He looked down and pulled out a gold wrapper, placing it on the bed next to me like an admission pass.
It certainly was, but as we got going it seemed like he just stopped feeling it. Was it me? I gave him a look of uncertainty that he read almost immediately. He sighed, slight frustration in his voice. “It’s the condom—I can’t feel anything.”
I was bummed. He was so hot; a dentistry student, and also Middle Eastern with a great accent. But I’d never been with a guy without a condom and I didn’t want to start anytime soon.
He read my look and assured me, “I don’t usually have one night stands—it’s just that you’re so sexy…Come on, there’s nothing to worry about. Trust me.” I couldn’t shake my discomfort but I did it anyway. It just didn’t feel right—I was so in my head that I didn’t even enjoy it.
When he left, he promised he’d call me again. In the interim I thought about the decision I had made that night. It was undeniably stupid, and I began to worry about all the possible outcomes. This guy said he didn’t usually do one night stands, but what does usually even mean?
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How could I possibly trust someone who I had just met to have my best interest in mind? At the end of the day, if he gave me something, I was the one who’d have to deal with the consequences of my decision.
A week later he called me; this time it was daylight, and the late afternoon California sun waned under wispy clouds. When we met up in his apartment he had just gotten back from class and was still wearing his scrubs.
I made some comment about how dirty he must have been and he took the hint and took off his shirt. He was well-shaped, a thick patch of dark hair on his chest and across his abs. We started kissing and I felt his hands move down to my jeans. I grabbed his arm to stop him.
“What?” he asked, puzzled.
“You need a condom. Come on. We’re not doing this again.”
He lifted me onto the bed, kissing me. “I told you, I can’t feel anything with those on.”
He slowly began to press his body against me in an attempt to lay me flat on the bed and I started to push back, lifting myself up as I responded, “Then I guess we’re not doing this.”
That was the last time I ever saw him. (Not including a chance encounter years later that solidified my decision to stop seeing him as one of the best I ever made. I came across his picture online amongst thousands on Hot or Not, a website that was a prelude to Tinder).
A few days later I made an appointment to go get tested at the campus clinic and when the results came back clean, I swore to never put myself in that position ever again.
Men have a funny way of only thinking about themselves when they want something. It’s never worth it to have unprotected sex with someone you barely know, no matter how good-looking, or sweet or trustworthy they may seem. I count myself lucky to have gotten away without anything, but some aren’t so lucky. They trust, they give in, and then they regret it.
I learned as a rule that a tell-tale sign when a man is trying to force you to do something that violates your principles, especially something that could cause harm to your body. Take note, no matter how hot or smart or charming he may be: This is a sign of disrespect and overwhelming selfishness.