I’d thought being an English student would prepare me for any response I might receive. It was really quite astonishing the amount of literature that was concerned with sex, and I’d read a decent chunk of it. No request could possibly be worse than suffering through 120 Days of Sodom or analyzing Chaucer’s sex puns with a professor old enough to be my grandmother. I’d realized I was out of my league when I received a response asking if I’d be interested in ice-skating. It’d sounded like an unexpectedly charming date until I got to the end of the email, which alarmingly read, I am not a cop.

I’d Googled “ice-skating” and learned that a nice, romantic date hadn’t been involved—cocaine had been. I wondered if it was worth forwarding the email to the police department.

I made a careful list of each interested party, complete with a set of characteristics, and determined to cross them off one at a time. Cocaine Guy was first. My goal of being adventurous definitely wasn’t going to involve anything that might put me in jail.

The ones hoping for a threesome were out, as were all the emails with shouty caps. I felt slightly less pathetic. At least I wasn’t the only person looking for a hook-up via Craigslist. The BDSM request was also denied. I didn’t trust anyone to tie me up and wasn’t sure if I’d enjoy the suggested spanking. Then, there was London Bridges, who must’ve been bullied all through high school with a name like that. His email read:

Hello Stranger,

My name is London Bridges (yes, that’s my real name). I might be interested in what you’re proposing. I’m new to town and hoping for something quick and casual myself. I’ve attached a picture of myself. If you’re interested, send one back. We’ll see what happens.

See you.

The picture was nice. London was attractive in a stock photo sort of way. His blond hair was spiked up in the front, probably kept in place by an alarming amount of hair gel, and he had a smile which easily could’ve been in an ad for Crest Whitestrips. He looked like he worked out, and the hints of muscle revealed through his tight t-shirt were inviting. Overall, he looked like he wasn’t quite a real person and like he was very much out of my league. There probably wasn’t much of a point in responding. He’d never be interested in someone like me.

He had good grammar and a sense of humor, though, which might make him more forgiving if I inadvertently botched this. Besides, he had offered himself on Craigslist; that meant we were at least in the same boat as far as sex-stuff went. Maybe. Or maybe he’d had a string of Craigslist hook-ups.

I’m interested, I replied, attaching the best (and only) photo I had of myself. It was about a year old and had been taken by the English Department during one of their “meet the grad students” endeavors.

Nothing left but to wait and see if he’d answer. He might never respond, after all, so I didn’t really want to get my hopes up. Besides, I had a busy day ahead. My composition class and thesis revisions took priority. It was also Derek’s last day in the apartment, so I knew some sort of gesture would be appropriate. But I had no idea what that gesture should be. I didn’t even know what Derek liked because our entire relationship had been built on ambivalence.

As long as Derek kept to his work on the chore chart and alternated buying essentials like toilet paper, there’d never been any need to actually talk to him. I hoped his replacement was equally willing to have a sullen, ambivalent partnership.

To my surprise, London answered before I even closed the email tab.

You’re kind of cute, so sure. We can meet at Hemingway’s if you find that acceptable? My treat. We can hash out the details.

Hemingway’s seemed a bit excessive for someone London just hoped to bang. I’d have to see if I could even afford that.

Great, I responded.

He emailed back immediately. Wonderful! I’ll see you at eight.

There went my plan for a quiet evening in, but at least this was something outside of my comfort zone. It definitely wasn’t what Dr. Benson had in mind when she told me to get out more, but it was something social. And I’d be able to experience sex for the first time. Surely, writing about sex couldn’t possibly be as embarrassing or awkward as doing it. And if it was an enjoyable experience, I would—hopefully—be able to muster up some passion for being more adventurous.

This was a really stupid decision, and I hoped to God that it didn’t produce stupid results. Was it too late to back out?

* * *

I did find it a little funny that London’s choice of restaurant was Hemingway’s. He couldn’t possibly realize that I was an English major and Hemingway was one of my favorite authors. It was a nice place over in Pensacola Beach. I didn’t get to go there very often; for me, anything pricier than McDonald's was expensive. It also didn't help that Pensacola Beach wasn’t exactly close to my apartment, and without a car, I was left walking there.

I arrived before London did, primarily because I’d left far earlier than I needed to. I’d figured it was better to be early than to be late; this way I’d have plenty of time to cancel. I waited outside the restaurant, pacing back and forth. Every few minutes, I’d become aware I was pacing and stop. I didn’t like looking nervous. I wondered more than once if I’d been stood up and this was all some sort of elaborate joke.

I had actually made an effort to look good for tonight. I wore my single button-up shirt and black pants, both of which were deviations from my usual tried-and-true blue jean and t-shirt combos. There wasn't really a need to make a super good impression, but I was so nervous. And I looked decent. Polished, even.

When he arrived, he actually looked like the man in his picture. The gelled blond hair, the soft blue eyes. The hints of the muscles beneath his too-tight shirt. It had crossed my mind more than once on the way over that London might not actually be the man in his photo. He might have lied, and I might find myself on a date with someone completely different. Was this even a date? Not really. Just the beginning of a one-night stand, although I hadn't realized that one-night stands began with expensive dinners. Maybe London was trying to make the situation seem more emotional and less sleazy.

I looked like my picture, too, but I felt suddenly inadequate. He was clearly more attractive than I was, and I was overdressed compared to him in his t-shirt and jeans. Dammit.

"Hey," I said.

He waved and sauntered over with a massive grin on his face. "Oh my God," he said. "Your hair is so blue."

His reading comprehension skills were really stellar. Or maybe he was colorblind. It'd been blue in the picture I sent him, too. Colorblind with poor reading skills.

"Didn't I mention that?"

"Yeah," London said. "But I didn't think it would be that bright sapphire. That's amazing! How much dye did it take you to do that?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said, vaguely thrown by his enthusiasm. “I’m a natural blond, so it wasn’t really that hard.”

"Anyway," London said. "It's nice to meet you, but you realize you didn't put your name in your emails."

I hadn’t realized that. But because I had neglected to do so, it seemed like a good time to come up with a fake name. After all, this was just a one-night stand. What was the problem if he didn’t know I was actually Chance Walker? There was no chance of him popping into my life or looking me up later if he didn't know my real name. "It's Blake," I said, cribbing off the famous Victorian writer.

"Okay, nice to meet you," he said. "Do you want to get a table? I’ve never been here, but I read decent reviews for this place on Google."

Well, I sure didn't plan on hanging around on the sidewalk all night.

"Sure," I said.

As I followed him inside, I may have checked him out more than I should have. It wasn't really my fault, though. He was just too attractive, and it was difficult to miss. I wondered if he wore all his clothing so tight. If I had been in the market for a relationship, I would have loved to have been with someone like him. The problem with trying to start a career in academia is that you never know where you’re going to end up or when. And I couldn’t possibly ask anyone to follow me all over the United States while I tried to figure it out.

As we were seated, London looked completely at ease, and I hated him for that. "So," London said dragging out the word. "How long have you lived in Pensacola?"

"A few years," I offered ambivalently.

There was no need to tell him my life story, and I always made people uncomfortable when I talked about my life anyway.

"Okay," London said. "So that's cool. It seems like a really nice place and all. I don't know if I'm going to stay here long myself, though."

Oh, God. He was one of those people that happily divulged every tiny little bit of his life, wasn't he? How horrifying.

"Anyway," London said. "I hope they have good food here."

I nodded in agreement, although I knew their food was superb. I wondered if this wasn't a bit excessive for someone you just intended to have a one-night stand with. Did people having one-night stands often go on dinner dates beforehand? Was this supposed to be part of the deal? I'd imagined we would just go straight over to his place and get it over with.

"So how many times have you done this sort of thing?" I asked.

"Done what?" London asked. "You mean one-night stands? Or do you mean taking people out to eat?"

"One-night stands," I replied.

"Oh, pretty often, actually. I mean, I've moved around quite a bit lately, so I haven't really found someone I want to pursue a steady relationship with. But I really like sex, you know?" he ended with a titter of laughter.

Okay. So it seemed that London was possibly an irredeemable man-whore. I really should have expected that considering he found me on Craigslist, but it still came as something of a shock. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it either. I hadn’t been expecting a virgin, but I also hadn’t anticipated someone who’d banged everyone and their mother.

"As long as you’re being safe, of course," London said. "You know. Using condoms, getting tested every other week, taking appropriate vaccines, that sort of thing. You want to be careful when you’re going to have sex with a bunch of people, you know?"

Well, at least he professed to be careful about it. He seemed very proactive about it, too. Mature, even. Okay. That was promising.

"So what are you interested in?" London asked.

Briefly, I contemplated lying about all of my interests, so I could be absolutely certain there was no way he would ever find me again. After all, I had already lied about my name. But I couldn’t think of a lie quickly enough. "English," I said.

"Oh? That’s cool."

“I’ve doomed myself to a long young adulthood of poverty and a competitive job hunt,” I replied.

“Possibly, but it’ll pay off in the long run, won’t it?” he asked. “You have to do what you love!”

“I think I should’ve gone for something more practical.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I shrugged. “I’m terrible at math and science, so I knew it’d be something in the humanities,” I replied. “English was my favorite.”

"I kind of do something like that," London said. "I really like looking at films and reviewing those, so I guess you could say I’m sort of an amateur film critic." He laughed again.

"It’s not quite the same thing, but I mean, they both have to do with narrative structure. I guess. That’s something, right?"

I nodded, unsure why we were even here. After all, this was a one-night stand, and surely there was no need to devote this much time and energy to a person he was never going to see again.

“So where do you review films?” I asked, expecting an indie magazine of some sort.

“YouTube,” he said. “I make my own films, too. For fun mostly.”

“I see. And you came to the very cinematic Pensacola, Florida,” I deadpanned.

“I came on a whim,” London replied. “I always wanted to see Florida, and the beaches here look pretty in photos. One day, I just left—Marshmallow and me—and came here.”

“Marshmallow?”

“My cat,” London replied, eagerly reaching for his phone. “She’s my princess.”

London showed me his screen, graced with the image of a massive, fluffy cat. “She’s so fluffy,” I said. “Is she a Maine Coon?”

“Ragdoll,” London replied, with an approving smile. “You know cat breeds?”

“Only some,” I said.

London smiled and set his phone back on the table. “So who’s your favorite writer?” he asked.

"I don't really have one."

London frowned and furrowed his forehead. He looked puzzled by me. I just wanted to get this over with. We hadn't made this arrangement to have a meal and small talk. We'd made this arrangement so we could both get laid. Why did London insist on dragging it out?

"You're shy, huh?" London asked. "Or just quiet?"

"I don't see the need in telling you all about myself."

"Why not?" London asked. "It's common courtesy to have a conversation—"

"I prefer to be courteous by not wasting your time," I said. "You don't like this either."

"No, I do. I like meeting people and talking to them. Even if I never see you again, I'll remember you. It's like..." London trailed off. "It's like how people prefer cashiers to self-checkout."

“I don't.”

"You aren’t paying just to have your groceries checked out. You're paying for a sort of emotional labor. Human beings are social creatures."

"Did you pick that up in your undergraduate sociology class?"

"No, I went one semester for biomedical science and dropped out because I realized I could make money posting silly things on YouTube."

How nice to make money for goofing off online.

The waitress returned with our food. I’d chosen tilapia, the cheapest fish on the menu, while he’d gone straight for filet mignon, twenty-something dollars. Someday, I would have tons of disposable income, but not yet. I still probably wouldn’t eat filet mignon.

But maybe food would keep London quiet. He seemed far too friendly for someone I would never see again.

For the first few seconds, he did seem like he intended to continue the meal in silence. Then London couldn’t take it anymore. “You have to try this,” London said brusquely. “It’s amazing.”

He cut a piece from his steak and offered it on his fork. “I’d rather not,” I said. “I don’t like eating after people.”

“Oh, cool. No problem!”

I wondered if he wanted me to offer some of my tilapia.

“So do you want to come to my place or would you prefer I go to yours?” London asked.

I didn’t want him to know where I lived. “Your place would be preferable,” I replied.

He nodded. “It’s a hotel room. Very nice,” he assured me.

I hoped so. I didn’t like the idea of banging in a room with mold, reused sheets, and leaks around the windows.