One rainy Wednesday morning, shortly after moving from London to New York, I woke up, unexpectedly, in New Jersey next to a garlic farmer from Connecticut, who’d previously (he said) been a record producer in the music industry.
Can I remember much about the sex itself? Nope. Can I remember this nice garlic farmer’s name? Nope. Did I regret my decision to head home with a man I’d met in a bar and was unlikely to ever see again? Also no.
I didn’t absolutely recall agreeing to cross state lines the previous night, when the strength of Manhattan cocktails snuck up on me, but, aside from the colossal cab fare home to Brooklyn that morning, the only regrettable aspect was that I couldn’t find my bra anywhere. And it was a really nice bra.
I’ve had plenty of memorable one-night stands: the good, such as the Navy Seal I met in Alaska; the bad, including the bloke who somehow put his foot through the ceiling of the flat downstairs from mine in Brixton; and the downright weird, like the Russell Brand lookalike in Austin, Texas, who kept a rifle in his bedroom and a freezer full of deer meat that he’d shot himself that he wanted to feed me, naked, at 3am. Regrets? Not a single one.
So I was surprised, and not a little incensed, to see to a study released this week by researchers at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology, reporting that 35 per cent of women regret having a one-night stand compared with 20 per cent of men.
Advertisement
I’ve got multiple problems with these figures and with the study itself, which seems to seek to amplify the supposed chasm between men and women in terms of sexual behaviours. And what is it that these women are regretting? A night of shortlived, meaningless sex? Where’s the shame or regret in that? There are plenty of shortlived and meaningless things that are also briefly thrilling and fun, such as rollercoasters, fireworks and cheese soufflé.
But a solid six decades after the supposed sexual revolution, society and regressive, pseudoscientific studies like this reinforce the archaic idea that women shouldn’t be OK with something so inconsequential, that devouring a sexual snack somehow devalues us. Even the language that surrounds casual sex tells women that we shouldn’t enjoy it. At university, where I lived at the top of a hill and could (not infrequently) be spotted trotting home in last night’s clothes, my friends and I so strongly objected to “the walk of shame” that we renamed it “the stride of pride”.
Safety, respect and consent should, of course, be the baseline for any encounter, shortlived or otherwise. A strong connection and satisfying sex are also reasonable expectations, although alcohol, experience and communication skills are crucial mitigating factors. Thankfully, post #MeToo, open, honest conversations on these subjects seem to be happening a lot more.
I suspect that this alleged “regret” stems from a mismatching of other, less easily vocalised expectations, that women, more than men, hope — largely because society tells them they should — that a one-night stand might lead to something more. And sometimes it can; I’ve had casual sex that’s turned into a long-term relationship and plenty more one-night stands that have morphed into short-term romances or long-term friendships. But if you approach every casual encounter always expecting a follow-up, you’re likely to end up disappointed, which may then manifest as regret. As my best friend observed after a tryst in a tent one summer, “Some things are just best left as a one-night thing.” I reminded her of that in my speech at their wedding two years later.
Shame and regret have long been used as tools to control and suppress female sexuality, and like this one don’t help — frankly, I expected more from the Norwegians. My only regret is that I never did find that bra again.
