On the hundred-something first dates I’ve had, I’ve been taken to Burger King, the car wash, and an NA meeting; I’ve left after five minutes, cried after six drinks, and engaged in many unladylike things. But sex on a first date? No way. (Or rather, in the name of journalistic integrity, not that I can remember.)
I’m not sure why sexually liberated women like myself, and most of my friends — women who enjoy intercourse, who browse Coco de Mer, who talk about size and performance like weather and traffic — still live in this lame, antiquated fucking-on-the-first-date fear cave. Sure, there are many smart, justifiable reasons to wait (STDs, comfort zones, intimacy issues, etc.), but simply put, I think we don’t want to fuck it up by fucking fast. Experience has taught us women, more times than not, that sex-too-soon equals hungover regret, not long-lasting relationships. And that’s the thing: If we’re sleeping with a man, we probably/hopefully like him, and we want to see him again. (Of course, sometimes we do it for the fun, the thrill, or sheer physical need, but that’s not what this is about.) Alas, even if it’s not our rule, and not our world, why risk ruining everything?