The Best One Night Stand Ever

The Spectator

founded 2004 by ron cruger

A place for intelligent writers
A place for intelligent readers

Your comments on this column are welcome. E-mail Josh @

What exactly is a one night stand? Is it as quick and dirty and kind of disgusting as it sounds? Sometimes, but not necessarily. Before I continue, let me say that I don't completely advocate for random "hookups" as they're called today and you should always make sure you know what you're jumping into bed with, but a boy's got needs!

This past weekend I was in San Francisco for a design conference. I was staying in a beautiful room at the Westin St. Francis right on Union Square. As if San Francisco doesn't have enough handsome young successful men, the conference brought even more inventory, most of them gay. Oh what a dream. In the new delivery of merchandise was a boy named Ryan, a digital interface designer from Atlanta, Georgia. Standing at six-two with dark blond hair right out of an American Crew ad, a face too cute and boyish for words, and a charm right out of the good old south, he immediately caught my attention, and to my surprise, I caught his.

So we started talking, which turned into dinner and it was nice, to say the least. We went back to the room, cuddled up under the covers to watch a movie together, then of course did what usually follows dinner and a movie on the agenda.

But perhaps the most satisfying part of the night came, well, after we did. We hit the shower together, he kissed me under the steamy mist, and then jumped back in bed. It wasn't like a regular quick and dirty hookup (I still hate that term). I probably shouldn't say there was chemistry there, but there was at least a small mutual desire. A desire to be together. Even if just for a few more hours. We lay there together, just happy to have some company.

I watched as his eyes slowly closed. I kissed him on the lips, gently, which he returned, and then said good night. As I lay there, his built, six foot two figure wrapped around my slightly smaller one, I took in the night that we'd just shared. I listened to the soft hum of the central air and the muffled late night sounds of the city. I gazed out at the twinkling lights of the beautiful San Franciscan cityscape. The fog had rolled in hours earlier and almost blanketed the tops of San Francisco's skyscrapers in a soft, lilac haze. It was chilly outside but under the thick comforter, thousand thread count sheets, and in the arms of a beautiful man, his breathing steady and rhythmic, calming, I was safe and warm. And lying there, I started to remember what it's like to be in a relationship where the guy who has is arms around you is more than a random stranger turned friend-for-the-night.

In case you haven't been following my romantic misadventures, it's been about seven months since I broke up with my last serious boyfriend and in that time I'd been trying so hard to just get the fuck over him, traveling through Europe for a month by myself, burying myself in work, completely ignoring the emotional and social needs every human being has. And in those few hours with wide-eyed Ryan, all of it came back to me: how great it feels to be touched, to be embraced, to be wanted by someone else, to be loved by someone.

When we woke up the next morning, after snuggling for a bit and playing around under the covers, we hit the shower and then went for breakfast at a little place called Sears, one block up from Union Square on Powell. We sat at a table off to the side, against a window. Sears to begin with feels like you've stepped back into the vintage beauty of the sixties. And there, against the window, sat two well-dressed, handsome young men that to anyone else would have just looked like a couple enjoying breakfast. At least, that's how I think we looked, how I hope we looked. He was so handsome, sitting there, his blond hair playfully swept to the side, soft blue eyes gazing out the window. He was the kind of man that anyone would be proud to be with.

Like a gentleman, he walked me back to Union Square. We both had plans for the day, and there, right at the corner, in what I can only describe as a disgustingly cliche and yet so damn bittersweet moment, he kissed me goodbye right in front of the big red heart commemorating Tony Bennett's I Left My Heart In San Francisco. I held onto him for a moment before letting go. I stood there for a moment, watching him walk away. I was certainly leaving my heart in San Francisco.

I didn't hear from him after that. I didn't have to, wasn't supposed to. It was only a one night stand, after all. The best fucking one night stand I've ever had. The one night stand that reminded me why I hate them so much, the one that reminded me what I want so much. The following day I left for Los Angeles and I'm sure soon after he left for Atlanta. On the drive down I couldn't stop thinking about it. Not about Ryan, or the sex, or any combination of the two, but simply about what they both represented.

Maybe it's time I get myself back out there, take another turn on the battlefield to find the elusive love. Only, this time, I think I'll put on a bulletproof vest first.