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12-Feb-2018 10:35

I abruptly decided that my calling in life was to be a sexual anthropologist by means of dating apps. I started sleeping with actors who star in insurance commercials. But this time I’d promised myself that I would absolutely not make the first move, no matter how much wine I drank. After we ate the vegan mush that he cooked, he kindly shoved his tongue down my throat. I was packing to go back to New York for a week, hoping this was just a fleeting obsession, when I got a text from him inviting me to a Christmas party that evening.

In my first few weeks of singledom, I slept with a Cross Fit-obsessed finance guy, a Parisian law student, an Irish international peace negotiator, and a 22-year-old British anarchist who may or may not have been homeless. I felt confident that I could sustain this lifestyle forever—city hopping, writing during the days, Tindering in the evenings, spending beyond my means. And then, in early December, I got an email from Max: “I think my new debit card was accidentally mailed to your apartment.” How romantic, I thought. Right at the moment when I thought he was going to invite me to his bedroom, he stopped. Impulsively, I spent 7 on a new plane ticket so that I could make the party—a deeply uncharacteristic decision, which caused me to worry that his refusal to bang me had triggered a latent psychosis.

Ya know: If you want someone to like you, don’t sleep with them right away? I found myself thinking, Do I really like him, or do I just desperately want him to want me?

It’s hard to separate our desire for someone from our desire to be desired. Usually, the first time I sleep with someone, I can end up being a bit performative.

There are few tasks more heinous than searching for a decent one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan on a writer’s salary.

I had resigned myself to simply ignore the problem, until one morning, while walk-of-shaming back from Harlem, wearing a pink leather miniskirt and cum in my hair, I got a text from my token neuroscientist friend, Leah: A friend of a friend was giving up his rent-stabilized apartment in Gramercy, she told me.

If you get a well-typed, thoughtful paragraph about her bad day or his dinner suggestions, the most impactful response is a nice "k." Or "cool." Or how about "ha." That one always works.

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I’d collect his mail and he’d pick it up during business trips to New York.I also began to worry that, after waiting for so long, sex with him was doomed to be an anticlimax. With Max, I could be in the moment, because I felt comfortable with him.The fact that he turned the tables on me—that a dude made © 2017 Condé Nast. Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our User Agreement (effective 1/2/2014) and Privacy Policy (Effective 1/2/2014).I took the subway straight to the address and arrived at a.m., looking like a stripper on my way to the after-after-party.I was met with trepidation by the apartment’s current resident, “Max,” a lanky 40-year-old book editor in a pristinely pressed oxford shirt and thick-rimmed glasses.

I’d collect his mail and he’d pick it up during business trips to New York.

I also began to worry that, after waiting for so long, sex with him was doomed to be an anticlimax. With Max, I could be in the moment, because I felt comfortable with him.

The fact that he turned the tables on me—that a dude made © 2017 Condé Nast. Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our User Agreement (effective 1/2/2014) and Privacy Policy (Effective 1/2/2014).

I took the subway straight to the address and arrived at a.m., looking like a stripper on my way to the after-after-party.

I was met with trepidation by the apartment’s current resident, “Max,” a lanky 40-year-old book editor in a pristinely pressed oxford shirt and thick-rimmed glasses.

It recognizes the person is talking, but allows you the freedom to completely zone out and instead focus on what's important to .