I go to the same old bar I normally frequent. I’m not out looking for anything specifically, but I’m open to the possibilities. I made sure to wear some of my best underwear just in case, and to smell of flowers and pretty girl things. I walk inside, grab a drink, and take a seat where I can observe the bar patrons. I finish half of my drink before I decide to get up and “make my rounds” so I can scope out the scenery. I make small talk with a few of my acquaintances, chitchat with people I’ve spoken to here before. That’s when I see you. You’re either getting a drink, or sitting with a couple friends. I subtly inspect you from afar, look at how you’re dressed, your body language, and everything else I’m able to notice from this distance. I notice that you’ve noticed me, as well. I catch you sneaking glances at me, and we begin playing some kind of silly game of tag with our eyes. Both of us are wondering if the other is creeped out by this weird interaction, or genuinely interested.

I walk past you, making sure you notice the nonchalant smile I flash in your direction. I head outside for a smoke. I count in my head the seconds it takes you to end up making your way out here. “One. . . two . . . three . . .” You can’t rush out the door right after me, because you don’t want to look like you’ve come outside just to talk to me. You’re playing it cool. Next thing I know, you’ve decided that your nicotine alarm has just gone off, as well. What a coincidence? We stand there for a few awkward moments, listening in on the conversations of the other people taking part in the same activity. Finally, after the final pass in our visual game of tag, one of us says something. “I like your tattoos. Where do you get them done? Look at these, I have some, too.” That’s probably the easiest way to start a conversation with a stranger.

We end up carrying on in this cliché small-talk manner for a while after our cigarettes have expired. We may smoke another one just for an excuse to stay outside. Now that I have a closer view of you, I begin sizing you up. No, I’m not looking for a bulge in your pants, or anything like that. Mostly, I’m looking at your hands, noting how well (or poorly) manicured they are, and the shape of them. If someone is going to be touching me, I want them to have nice hands. I’ve already decided whether or not I’m going to sleep with you. Yes, I am. Now, I’m just trying to estimate how good it will be. I’ve been through this so many times that I can almost predict how good you are in bed, what your style is, and what you’re working with. Eventually, you ask me if you can buy me a drink. You certainly can. Buying someone a drink in this sort of scenario is a non-verbal way of saying “Let’s make this a lot less awkward, because I’m really digging you.”

You make sure to not overstep your boundaries. You may call me pretty in a subtle way. You may compliment me on some feature, but you’re not trying to look desperate. Can I tell you how much of a turn-off that is? The last thing I want is to give it up to some guy like that. You’re really impressing me with your game tonight. Things start to get more comfortable. The conversation isn’t missing a beat. The chemistry between us is pretty apparent. I can already see us all hot and sweaty. There isn’t much that could keep that from happening at this point. I’m sure you’re wondering about what the next few events of our interaction will be. That’s when one of us asks that question that means a lot more than what it sounds like: “What are you doing after this? You should come over.” Score. It’s on.

We arrive at your place. Immediately, I inspect your humble dwelling for any evidence of a female presence. None? Good. I observe how clean (or messy) you are, and the various things scattered about your living room that give me further insight into your personality. Now that we’re here, the level of awkwardness goes back up. We’re both nervous, because we know what’s going to happen. We try in vain to drown it in some booze. You ask me if I’d like a drink. Yes, please. You put on some music or something on the television, so that there is something else other than our nervousness in the air. We continue our meaningless conversation. You show me some of your favorite songs. I tell you some of my crazy adventures. One of us gets up, perhaps to head to the bathroom, then sits down a little closer to the other. Somehow, physical contact is made. Perhaps it’s a poke, an “accidental” touch of the hand. Good. At least that line has been crossed.

Somehow, we make it to your room. Perhaps I’ve had too much to drink to be able to drive. Maybe you want to show me something in there. Sooner than later, we are both on your bed in a haze of giddiness. The moments preceding the first kiss are always super intense. I know exactly when it’s going to happen. The tension builds up, and we just can’t stand it anymore, and it happens. We continue in this manner for a few moments. Making out seems so high-school to me. Hands start wandering. Clothing is stripped, and bodies are revealed. I begin scrutinizing your every move to determine your level of interest in me. Are you touching me with a sweet, sensual kindness? Are you acting like a super-sexed caveman? These are all very important, and determine just how much effort I’m going to put in this.

Soon enough, one of us makes the call. It’s usually me. You don’t want to push things too far. I ask you if you have a condom. I have some in my purse, but I’m actually testing you on this one. You get up, naked and awkwardly looking, and fumble around. Are they in your bedside table in immediate reach? A dresser drawer? Another room? Do you not have any at all? This all indicates the frequency of your encounters. I know I’ve got mine as back-up, but you have to pass this important test. Eventually one is found and put to use. I’m hoping you’re good at this, and not a major disappointment. When all is said and done, we fall asleep. Are you a cuddler? Do you cling too much and crush me? Are you the little spoon type?

The next morning, we part ways. After this, I do not want you to call me. I don’t want you to ask me to dinner. I would, however, like you to text me. I don’t want anything over the top. The best way to do this is to say “I really enjoyed hanging out with you last night.” Don’t mention seeing me again. That’s my call and I don’t want to feel pressured. The chances of us dating are slim. I really don’t want to be at my wedding explaining to my friends and family that we met at a bar and went to your place and fucked. That’s not exactly how I had that scenario planned out. If you were good enough, I’ll agree to see you again, casually. If I don’t, please don’t approach me wildly if you see me in public. Just act like it never happened. You’re allowed to casually greet me as an acquaintance, but honestly, it was all just a one night stand.