The concept of a one-night stand has always fascinated me. I’m curious as to why we as a species decide to participate in such an eccentric, unconventional, fast-paced ritual of the bumping of the uglies. I mean, sure, it can be a fun enough event. If orgasms are had, happiness typically results. But if said orgasms are not had, boy oh boy, does that happiness sink as quickly as a recently not hard penis. And sometimes the whole sexual soiree flies by at such a rapid speed that I don’t even have time to reflect on my own sunken metaphorical not hard penis feeling.

See, the O.N.S. (I abbreviate cause I’m hip like that) is an accelerated version of fornication where little time is wasted, few shits are given and minor emotion is exchanged. You get to the mediocre/great/awful boinking faster than you would if you, say, obey ancient Victorian era rules of dating where you don’t make eye contact until marriage is on the table. With one-night stands, you skip past getting to know each other and head straight to REALLY getting to know each other (wink wink wink WINK WINK WINKKKK).

And since I’m someone who loves skipping past stuff, I find hyperactive copulation efficient, productive and economical. You’re getting good buck for your bang! I get especially good buck ‘cause my banging propositions are extremely direct. My one-night stand process goes as follows:

I meet an individual either in person or online or from a newspaper ad (this hasn’t actually happened but fingers crossed one day I locate a pair of balls via the Toronto Star). I make charming conversation for a couple of hours/minutes/seconds. I suggest the potential of humping, we go to a location, take off all of your clothes and engage in the most personal activity that exists in all of history.

Then 80% of the time, I put my clothes back on, ask for directions, and say goodbye to their mind/body/spirit forever. Wam, bam, thank you Sam (Sam being men). Yup. I “make the love” and then I wave ta ta to the person whose face I recently sat on. I smash my bare bod against theirs and then I grab my boots, which are made for walking, and I eternally exit. I observe their orgasm expression and then I go home and buy groceries and do laundry and possibly forget what that expression was or who it even belonged to. I put their genitals inside my mouth, and swirl ‘em around for a while and then I’m like, “OKAY SEE YOU LATER HAVE A COOL LIFE!”

Now, before you say, “Jess, it’s not nice that you don’t chat them up anymore,” believe me when I say that the feeling is heavily mutual. Their farewells seem to be as permanent as mine, which I do find odd, considering the level of intimacy involved in the activity we shared. Why are we both so willing to vanish? And why is it almost expected of us?

In relation to other forms of social interaction, sex is pretty up there in the closeness department, especially if tender cuddling goes down. Yet, it’s also the social interaction that most often results in communication being severed. You don’t usually hang out with a new friend and end the discussion with, “OKAY SEE YOU LATER HAVE A COOL LIFE!” But we seem to feel it’s acceptable to do that with sexual relationships, even short-lived ones.

I’m actually confident that I’ve had more in-depth convos with baristas than I have had with certain men whose penises I’ve stared at for an hour. I know details about co-workers’ lives that I would prefer not to know but I can’t recall the last names of dudes who have spent serious, quality time with my clitoris. I once asked a bus driver if he liked the movie Iron Man but I couldn’t tell you if my last single evening sex partner even likes entertainment.

Then again, communication isn’t ALWAYS severed. It is 2015 and the World Wide Web allows us to keep the individuals we’ve fornicated with in our periphery until the end of days. Sometimes we become friends on Facebook and they pop up in our feed occasionally and we think, “Huh. That person looks familiar. How do I know them? Oh, right – they were inside of me.” Or sometimes they follow us on Twitter and favourite a tweet of ours once a year for reasons unknown. We’re confident they’re attempting to remind us of that time they touched our sweaty butts, but maybe they just genuinely respect our joke writing? Or sometimes they connect with us on LinkedIn and endorse us for comedy (a memory that continues to haunt me).

Or sometimes they disappear… into the night… and years later we assume they’re still alive but there’s also a possibility they could be fully dead. What do we know? They haven’t posted on Instagram since 2012. It honestly boggles my brain that we frequently choose to get down and dirty with folks who we proceed to never speak to again. We don’t even shoot over a random, “Hey! What’s up? How’s your family? How’s your vulva?” Like, nothing. And why not? Yeah, there are certain dudes whose existence I’d prefer to not have to acknowledge, but then there are others who I’d love receiving a life check in from every now and then. They once licked my labia lips after all. The least they can do is say HELLO! (Yes, that was an Uncle Leo reference and yes, YOU’RE WELCOME.)

On the flip side of that, I have heard tales of one-night stands morphing into one-week stands or one-month stands or one-multiple-years stands (aka long term thrusting). They thought they’d be saying, “PEACE! I’M OUTTIE” until the apocalypse but then… that individual whose sexual organs were once near and on and in their parts appears on Tinder. They swipe right. Their paramour does the same. THEY GET A MATCH, and suddenly they’re back to the good ol’ days of discussing general television and bantering about cucumber water. Before they know it, their sexual organs have returned to being near and on and in each other’s parts.

Or they never speak again. ‘Cause the sex was bad and they only did it once so there was no opportunity for improvement and they didn’t get a chance to inform the other about what they did or didn’t like. Which is why one-night standing is usually not excellent, because excellent intercourse takes a couple of tries. You CAN stumble onto first-time miracle sex where the rhythm game is high and the kissing is evenly tongued and the oral is equally exchanged. It happens (particularly when the moon is full and Mercury is retrograde and a leap year is afoot).

But… non-miracle fourth-time sex is likely going to be more excellent. When you’ve taken note of what makes ‘em moan and what makes ‘em cringe and what makes you moan and makes you cringe in response.

So, why do we do this to ourselves? WHY? WHYYYY? I suppose, if I really think about it, the one-night stand can be exciting and intriguing and kinda… magical? I do admit that the idea of entering a bar of strangers and then later smooching a stranger’s privates is exhilarating. You’re throwing caution to the wind and hopping on a spontaneous dick and it’s wild and dangerous and uncomfortable. So, maybe that’s what it is? That’s the appeal? It’s a night of unpredictable, unprecedented, unpleasured, pure adventure.

I guess it’s sort of like a rollercoaster in that sense: Sometimes you go to a theme park and buy your ticket and strap in for the ride of your life and afterwards you think, “I don’t know why I bothered. That wasn’t fun at all.” But other times you’re like, “You know what? That was totally worth it. I thoroughly enjoyed myself for those couple of seconds/minutes/hours. I truly had a blast.” And when your friend asks you if you want to go again you’re like, “Nah. Too queasy. One time was enough. It was thrilling in the moment but I wouldn’t want to repeat it. Let’s just say that a rollercoaster is no ferris wheel. ‘Cause I could sit on a ferris wheel’s face all day.”