Dear John,

I’m calling you that because there’s legitimately a 50/50 chance I don't actually remember your real name. Because you’re someone specific and, yet, totally generic. Because you’re a man many women have known, then never know again: A one night stand. We met at the kind of bar that’s a half-shade above the dive I frequented in college. We were both pretty drunk. We exchanged some light banter and I made my timely exit, only to dutifully resurface when I got the predictable, but no less effective, “where are you?” text at last call. “Let’s late night at my place,” you said. Not my first rodeo—I knew exactly what that meant. We got weird and then a little less weird in the morning. I got to walk through the lobby of your apartment building in my bright heels, hair jacked up. Sitting here now, feeling that familiar, awkward sort of proud, here a few parting notes in the spirit of navigating the aftermath:

That was actually fun. You were pretty good—you didn’t jack rabbit me or do some gross shit like push my head down in your lap. I was attended to, and for that, I was more than happy to reciprocate. Thanks for hitting the gym. You smelled good too. And we actually had some laughs in the morning. Your taste in music on the ride home was questionable (no one actually likes Kelly Clarkson), but I imagine it was a lot better than having to take a cab. That said, please promptly forget where I live.

I still have your T-shirt, by the way. No, you’re not getting it back. If you ask me, which I know you won't, I'll say I lost it. In exchange, I have accepted the fact those earrings I left on your night stand have been brushed into a drawer, already long forgotten.

It was nice of you to get my number. But who are we kidding? We've already obliterated every “rule” of courtship and we both know we’re not going to end up in a healthy, functional relationship. Let’s just call it what it is. Better, spare me the agony of wondering if I’ll hear from you, so I can fully recover before next weekend.

But now that you do have my number, I’m not on-call. We may have set a questionable, drunken precedent, but do not abuse the privilege by texting me on the Batphone at 11:30PM on a Saturday night with any of the following:

“What up girl?”

“Where you at?”

“Come to the bar.”

“Come over.”

"What are you wearing?"


If you would like sex on demand, there are an infinite amount of lovely, obliging women at your disposal. You’ve cashed out with me.

But really, I never do this. Don’t fucking patronize me when I say this. At least let me believe you don’t think I’m a turbo slut.

I’m judging you just as much, though. I may say I’m not, but seriously, I was pretty drunk. High-five, champ. That was sarcasm by the way.

Yes, we waited 3-4 days for “the add.” I added you, you added me, who cares who Facebooked first? There is no real exchange of power here and Twitter is cooler anyway, so don’t be a dick about it. Really, we're both just triple checking our superficiality and making sure we didn’t accidentally sleep with someone we have 65 friends in common with.

Seriously though, thanks for wrapping it up. Stranger danger—Big Bird taught me. We knew each other for, I don't know, give or take 90 minutes before we got naked, so thanks for not giving me shit regarding the condom thing. And thanks for keeping something non-expired on your person. Regardless of how often you do this kind of thing, I'm gonna pass on any and all potential HPV that originated from someone spray-tanned. I’m clean and tested. Thanks for asking.

Yeah, it’s kind of awkward. This isn't Spring Break ’04 and no city is ever as big as you think it is. We’re probably going to run into one another at some point and we'll be faced with the monumental decision of pulling out the hello/nod combo or flat-out ignoring one another. Dude, we’re adults. I've seen little John. We made weird noises together while sweaty and naked. At one point you even pulled my hair and told me how bad I was. I think we can greet each other amicably in a public place, don’t you think?

Should you decide to defy all odds, that’s on you. You really want to see me again? Hey, that’s great! I’m a total blast, so I get it. Your move, bro. I’m not here to provide you with "crazy chick" folktales for all your buddies.

All in all, chalk it up to experience. As long as there’s no detrimental aftermath—future political aspiration compromising video footage, an unpleasant burning sensation—then hey, C'est la vie. Will I be doing it again anytime soon? Probably not. To be honest, you're kind of douchey. But I was a willing participant, and I fully accept responsibility of my actions. Either way, thanks for a good time. I will remember your naked ass fondly. Please put beach pictures up on Facebook. Talk to you never.



Jess Graves is a writer living in Atlanta. You can read her blog here and follow her on Twitter here.