Incredulous, I ask a group of college-aged guys nearby for the time. Heading down the steps to Osgoode station, cheeseburger to-go box in tow, I realize the doors are shuttered. I hastily scribble my number on a pad of paper by the bedside table, both of us knowing it’s all for naught, and leave, buzzing with accomplishment. I thank the jazz man for a nice time and say it was lovely to have met him (manners go a long way in this life, my father always said, and what a strange thought to have entered my brain under even stranger circumstances). An accessory in my one-woman show.Īfter the deed, we exchanged pleasantries and I get redressed. He was the supporting role to my play-acting. Besides, this was more about me than it was about the act, or him. The sex wasn’t mind-blowing, but pleasant enough. One thing led to another, and lucky me, this saxophone player happened to be from New York City and conveniently staying in one of the hotel rooms above The Rex. “From him,” the bartender says and nods towards the stage, where I turn to see the saxophone player smiling at me. Just as I’m about to call it a night, I’m surprised to see a fresh vodka soda in front of me. I feel my hopes for a wild dalliance being swept away by one of the busboys weaving in and out of the stacked barstools. He puts it straight into a styrofoam to-go box, since it’s nearing closing time. Slightly ruffled but undeterred, I order a veggie burger with extra cheese from the bartender.
And not to be rude, but I was on a mission, so unless these two are interested in a three-way, I think to myself as the husband starts a jazz-is-more-of-an-experience-than-a-spectacle rant, skedaddle. It figures that with all of these strapping young male specimens flying solo at the bar (did that one just give me a come hither-look?), I gravitate towards the couple who have probably been married for longer than I have been on this planet. Nestled at the bar, I chat with a couple I deduce must have been in their sixties, who tell me they drive in from Hamilton whenever this band has a gig in Toronto. After checking out a band at the Horseshoe and turning down a couple of pathetic come-ons from Fedora-clad guys (I’m horny, I’m not desperate), I make my way to the city’s quintessential jazz bar, The Rex, which always guarantees compelling tunes and propitious people-watching. With this in mind, I apply another coat of mascara before hitting the town and tell myself to reply to every opportunity tonight with a resounding “Yes!” (within reason, of course: I’m not about to commit murder or lick a TTC subway pole). On the other hand, a girlfriend’s advice echoed in my head: “Do you.” I am quite content being my prudish self, but there is something to be said for experience - and as a writer who has recently weathered the ostensible quarter-life crisis, I want to live a newsworthy life, for better or worse. “You’re wasting your youth,” the matriarchs in my family would sagely warn. It’s not that I’m not a sexual person per se, but I’m much more inclined to get my rocks off at home, alone, with a bottle of wine and a few passages from Anais Nin, as opposed to bringing any tangible, human lovers back to my apartment. I am a bonafide prude when it comes to anything even remotely sexual with strangers. Now before we go any further, dear reader, it’s important for you to understand something about me. My first - but hardly a first for womankind. Until Hollywood realizes this, here are the top 5 one-night stand movies.A few nights ago, I had a one-night stand with a complete stranger. It got me thinking that we need more one-night stand movies because nothing is funnier or more terrifying than going at it with a complete stranger.
Throw in this past week's episode of Girls and its one night-stand city (I assume this city is in Nevada). Good or bad, I have to live vicariously through such girlfriends' anecdotes.
Then, today, I was chatting with a friend who regaled me with horror stories of her most recent one nighter. The whole time I thought there was going to be a bunch of plays about the inevitable walk of shame. More over than it being a bit uninspired, it is very misleading. Twenty-four-hour film festivals, 24-hour screenwriting competitions, 24-hour paint-by-number contests (I made that up), you name it. We've seen these 24-hour festivals now with just about every type of creative endeavor. The concept is intriguing, although not original. Last week across the nation Fathom Events presented a cinematic behind-the-scenes look at musical theater that was created in 24 hours and titled One Night Stand.
One night stands have come up a lot in my life lately, not the way you think.