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Jamie Rea


What A One-Night Stand Looks Like In Your 30’s

Having lots of casual sex in your 20’s is a blast. But even just hearing OTHER PEOPLE talk about having lots of casual sex in your 30’s stresses you the fuck out. Because when you have sex in your 30’s…IF YOU AREN’T FUCKING TOWARDS A FUTURE THEN YOU’RE NOT FUCKING AT ALL.


I’m 31. I’m single.

Throughout my 20’s I had my fun. While I’ve always been a hopeless romantic and wanted love way more than I wanted ass. I am a guy after all. And if you’re a guy. And you’re young. And you like to party. And you stay single for long enough, you’re going to have your fair share of one-night stands. There’s no way around it. Unless you’re one of those prudish males who grew up not knowing how to talk to women and spent his weekend nights playing video games, then you’re going to have some wild nights in your youth.

But now that I’m old(ish) my priorities around relationships, sex, and casual sex, in particular, have shifted big time. While that can’t be shocking — they always say right around the age of 29-30 is when men begin to make a priority shift and become much more pro-commitment. While that number will vary depending on the guy, they throw around those ages for a reason. There’s a lot of truth to it.

Being in my 30’s now and (still) single, my friends and I will occasionally go to a bar.

And occasionally that will involve me meeting someone whom I find interesting. And I’ll leave with them. Except me leaving with them is a much different scenario at 31 than it was at 25.

Two months ago I picked up a girl while out with friends. Towards the end of the night I asked her if she wanted to “hang out” after. She said, “sure”.

At 25, me saying “hang out” really meant I just wanted to fuck.

At 31, I actually really just want to hang out. No sub-text. That hang out offer is totally genuine.

We ended up just hanging out. I don’t know if she was happy about that or not because she never returned my text the following afternoon.

I guess she was looking for orgasms and not deep life conversations. She probably went home, masturbated, then deleted my number.

You see, in my 30’s I don’t want to have sex with you if I’m never going to see you again.

I don’t want to fuck you and leave you. I want to fuck you and keep you. FOREVER. I don’t mean like fuck you and then lock you up in my basement and tie your hands and feet together with rope and duck tape your mouth shut and hold you hostage or anything. I mean, hopefully you’ll want to stay.

Having a legit one-night stand in your 30’s doesn’t feel like a victory, it feels like a STRESS PACKED unravelling of your god damn fucking soul.

If I were to have a one-night stand right now. I’m waking up and immediately getting a full STD check and not eating or sleeping until I find out the results. I’m quitting drinking. I’m hibernating from the world for at least a month and banging my head against my wall while shouting hateful and foul things to myself. I’m scheduling an emergency appointment with my therapist. And I’m organizing an ASAP brunch meeting with a buddy — not to brag about my sexual conquest — but rather have a very serious, deep and introspective conversation about my lifestyle and the life choices I’m making that are putting me in these precarious situations.

You see, by the time you hit your 30’s, you probably know someone who’s had an STD, if not had one yourself. You may even know a person who developed genital herpes by some fluke scenario. Hell, one of your friends might have fucking AIDS.

Also, the prospect of knocking some chick up that you don’t even know in your 30’s feels genuinely fucked up and disturbing. Because if you knock a chick up at 34 it’s not like you’re going to get an abortion.

Imagine being in your 30’s, and waiting to get an abortion while sitting next to a 17-year-old girl sitting with her mother and looking at college applications…

You and that random person you just knocked up are going to look at each and other and say, “Yeah, let’s go start looking at cribs. We don’t belong here.”

There’s no way around getting pregnant in your 30’s and not having it feel like some kind of minor fucking miracle.

Who knows how many strong swimmers you still have left? This might be your only shot.

So no matter how unready you still might feel at 30-fucking-whatever. That baby is being birthed whether you like it or not.

Also, sexually, you’ve seen and been with pretty much everything by the time you hit your 30’s. You’ve ascended the sexual peak and are exhausted just want to veg out and have a pleasant afternoon picnic with someone you actually care about.

Maybe cuddle. Maybe have sex in the missionary position. But mostly just cuddle.

Having sex in your 20’s there is always something new to discover — “Oh, I was with my first squirter!” or “This chick was into chicks!” or “This chick begged me to fuck her in the ass!”

There is always something new that you haven’t seen or experienced.

By the time you hit your 30’s, you have ZERO SEXUAL FOMO.

There is absolutely nothing one of my guy friends who could tell me about the chicks he’s banging that makes me feel an ounce of jealousy. I don’t care how hot the women are. I don’t care how flexible they are. I don’t care how crazy, kinky and horny they are. I don’t care how often he’s getting laid and by how many girls. I don’t care if he banged 3 chicks at the same time.


In fact, hearing my single buddies who still enjoy screwing around talk about their sexual exploits makes me anxious and physically ill. I literally have to force back my own vomit when one of my buddies shows me an Instagram picture of this super hot (but super basic) chick that he just fucked last Wednesday.

Having lots of casual sex in sex in your 20’s is a blast. But even just hearing OTHER PEOPLE talk about having lots of casual sex in your 30’s stresses you the fuck out.

At 25, if someone were to ask me to say the first thing that came to mind when they say, ‘ONE-NIGHT STAND’ I would probably say: VICTORY. STUD. PIMP.

But at 31, if someone were to ask me, I’d say: HERPES. AIDS. I FUCKING HATE MYSELF.

You know what gets me hard now?

An emotional connection, white picket fence and possible future with someone.

Seriously, that’s how I jack off now. I just google images of white picket fences.

A white picket-fence + wraparound porch and I’ll be cumming all afternoon.


Because if we’re not fucking towards a future then WTF are we doing????

I’m 31. I’m single. And I still like to party sometimes. That means I’ll occasionally meet a girl at a bar or a party and I’ll ask her if she wants to “hang out” after.

But now that word “hang out” means I want to take her home and let her dirty talk my fucking ear off about her 5-year plan.

I want hear about her hopes and dreams. I want to hear about the worst heartbreak of her life and how she overcame it and how she became a stronger person because of it. I want to hear her talk about her family. I want to hear about her travels. I want to hear about her first love. I want to hear about her mistakes. I want to hear her talk about her hardest lessons. I want to find out the last thing that made her cry and the last thing that made her gut laugh so hard she almost shit her pants.

I want to hear about the wild, crazy, beautiful, painful path that led her to this moment, tonight, talking and meeting me.

I wanna blast James Bay until the sun comes up and talk about our feelings until we’re emotionally drained. I want to crack jokes and try to figure out what makes her laugh. I want her to look at me in the smile, giggle and ask me what I’m thinking.

I want her to be comfortable and genuinely believe that, while just a guy, there might actually be something different about me than she’s come across before.

I want her to see something in me. Something that made her trust and believe I meant what I said when I asked her to just “hang out”. And I want to see something in her that made me not possibly be able to wait until a drinks date next week to begin getting to know her.

At 25, nothing was more satisfying and ego-praising than going out and getting laid. It made for great stories and big ole hardy “Cheers!” over brunch with the boys the next morning when you told them with a grin on your face, “I got laid last night.”

But at 31, nothing is more soul satisfying than meeting someone new and feeling that small embryo of hope and possibility, the tiny, faint feeling in your gut that there’s the possibility of something with this person. The possibility of a future.

That moment when you quietly and coolly tell your buddies at brunch, “I think I met someone last night,” in a way that shows you’re excited but don’t want to reveal too much as to jinx it, is fucking everything now.

Because by the time you reach your 30’s, you’ve fucked your way around the block 100 times. And you don’t need to do it again. You know what makes you happy and what is just a momentary pleasure. There’s no more bullshit. Less fucking around. Right to the heart of life, what’s important and what makes us feel good.

So maybe we’ll fuck later. But for now, no. I do not want to have sex with you. For now, I want to get inside of your heart, mind and soul, not inside of you. I hope that’s cool.

Because now that I’m in my 30’s, if we’re not fucking towards a future then we’re not fucking at all.

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