So, my suicidal, tattooed friend who loves anal sex and getting punched in the face (preferably during) recently had a date planned with a guy she’s referring to as “That Irish Guy.” The date was basically him coming over. That’s it. They were just going to have sex, and maybe order food. She complained to me that it didn’t sound very exciting or interesting, but she’d already basically consented, so she guessed she’d go through with it.
Another friend of mine (in London), who loves none of those things and gets squeamish at the word “vagina,” had a guy coming over to her houseboat to hang out. He pushed for a “no-sex” sleepover and she agreed. She texted me before he arrived, totally dejected and wishing she was having a regular date. Staring down the barrel of being with someone she hardly knows for a good 14 hours, and knowing that it would probably have to kick off with sex (even though they totally weren’t supposed to) had her incredibly down.
This type of thing is happening a lot lately and I think it’s really interesting how we (meaning, anecdotally speaking, the people around me who are dating, which I take as indication that it’s happening all over a LOT MORE frequently) are pre-arranging sex more and more often and getting less and less interested in actually seeing it through.
I see it as breaking down like this (as in, it’s breaking down, as in, dating’s heading for a dead end that sounds sexy but really isn’t):
Sex?→Yes!→Now?→Um…doesn’t that take time?→Next!
So, we seem to be focusing on getting quick results from our “dating” these days. Results that can be counted, measured. That tends (in almost every exchange, for almost every person, even the ones aiming for marriage) to mean a penis entering a vagina (for heteros, obv). It’s the ultimate achievement you can reach with another person (according to what we as a society seem to have decided, it’s the ultimate deed, the lynch-pin, and therefor the true goal). So why not just skip straight to that? Enter appointment sex.
Sooooo many people are scheduling their sex these days. I personally have maybe 4 rotating requests for sex that come up about twice a month. Sometimes they’re couched as “hanging out,” but since that hanging out would be happening after midnight at someone’s house, it’s pretty obviously just boning. All these ladies are independent, single, adventurous gals who just want a bit of fun in the form of a good solid fuck. Don’t we all want that?
Actually, I think what we really want is much more complex and ephemeral, like a feeling of being accepted, or a rewarding exchange of ideas and feelings, or simply proof that we’re attractive to someone else. Unfortunately that’s not enticing enough to get someone else—who is chained to the ADHD machine we call social media, that ever-accelerating cycle of stimulus-response-reward/punishment we call facebook. And Tinder. And OKCupid, and Gchat, and basically all life as we live it these days—interested enough to even pretend they want to join in. You can’t take a picture of complex interactions or celebrate them with your friends in under 140 characters. Easier to catch up on Wet Hot American Summer, amirite!?! (actually I’m not a fan)
The activities we end up going through with lately tend to be appealing more for their posting value, or at the very least we have come to understand the value of potential activities through the lens of how they will present to others through the media they consume (eg, a pic on instagram, a wall comment). So most activity gets pared down to essentials: we snag a pic at the Karen O pop-up show in Tribeca Park, and then bounce out after she sings that one song we saw in a youtube video. Memories fade, after all, but a pic is cultural capital one can exchange for…. what… a charge of positive stimulus (the like button)?
And do you think this isn’t happening to interpersonal relationships? It is.
The Part Where I Inject an Ill-Formed Anecdote
I think I got my first taste of this particularly interesting phenomenon (sex date leads to disinterest in sex) for the first time when I agreed to meet up with a married chick for a discreet NSA fling a few years back. Ok, many years ago (we’re talking AOL instant messenger era). But it was mixed in with ambivalence over the morality of what I was doing, etc, etc., so it doesn’t exactly count. Let’s just state that amongst all the other emotions, I was immediately less interested in boning, once we agreed to meet and bone.
I pulled up to the park we agreed to meet at with this heavy sense of obligation and hassle rather than the excitement one would expect in someone arriving at the scene of a promised blow job and more. The conversation was forced and awkward and I didn’t want to be there, on that picnic table, talking to this woman. But I reaaaally didn’t want to go through the business of finding a motel and then the whole deal, either, so I bowed out after some heavy kissing and went home.
I think its related to a thing most often ascribed to dudes who sleep around. That thing where you (supposedly, according to the popular narrative) lose interest in a girl immediately after having sex the first time (and which I actually think is a gross miss-characterization of that process). Only it’s inched forward in time. Now it looks more like: you lose interest in a girl (or guy) immediately after they agree to meet you to have sex. So, you don’t even need the physical act to wind up turned off on the person. What does this MEAN?
Well, what do we really want from sex, anyway? I think it’s more about emotional validation and possible ego feeding than actual wet on wet squishfest. And we’re as a society tuning more and more into getting our feelings of validation and social acceptance/fulfillment from text/media-based sources (like facebook or whevz). So, you make that sex date through Tinder and you’ve got the charge you were going for, like a good monkey pressing his button for a treat. The sex afterwards isn’t even what we wanted, so of course it’s gonna feel like a pain to go through with.
Back in the day, sometimes just getting that cute girl or guy’s number on a napkin was enough to satisfy the itch they set off in you. Which is why one doesn’t call, having gotten that napkin. That napkin is appointment sex. NAPKIN.