There's No Horn Like Post-Breakup Horn

"I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to eat. I just want to get wasted and fuck."

“We’re definitely not gonna fuck tonight,” I tell myself as I throw a last-minute, just-in-case bottle of lube in my bag on the way out the door. 

For one thing, my vagina is sore. I’m about a month post-breakup, and having shuffled through the stages of post-breakup grief rather quickly — confusion, anger, apathy, nausea, relief — I’ve landed on the best of all: unbridled horniness. Call me callous, but there are a lot of things I genuinely enjoy about breakups. There’s the freedom, the invitation to do something weird with your hair, the hall pass to generally act chaotic and/or weep in public, I could go on. But the best, by far, is the post-breakup horn. 

This is my favorite phase of a breakup, probably because it always comes as such a surprise. No matter how good the sex is in a relationship, no matter how good a fit the dick, I always reach a point a few months in where I find myself wondering if my birth control is fucking with my sex drive, or if maybe, I’m just asexual. (This is probably an indication that I, as I’ve often assumed, am simply not cut out for monogamy, but we don’t have time to unpack all of that right now.) After a breakup, however, I am invariably treated to a welcome reminder that I am definitely not asexual. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. What I am is unconscionably horny.

For the past week or so, I have been utterly consumed by post-breakup horn. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to eat. I just want to get wasted and fuck. I’ve taken Plan B three times this week. At this point, I’m pretty sure my blood is just a degenerate cocktail of alcohol, cum, and levonorgestrel. I’m a disaster. I’m ecstatic. 

For another thing, I’m not even that into him, am I? The “him” in question, the one I’m on my way to meet tonight with a bottle of lube in tow, is not at all my type. My type is old, rich, and inexplicably, Long Island Italian. He is not that. He is fifteen years younger than my ex (though still ten years older than I am, so you do the math). We’d never match on a dating app. He’s loud, maybe even a little annoying. He drinks an inordinate amount of orange juice at inappropriate times of the day, and it’s deeply unsexy. I can’t stop fucking him. 

I fucked him on Wednesday. (I fucked someone else on Thursday.) I’m going to fuck him tonight, and I don’t know it yet, but I’m also going to fuck him tomorrow morning. 

And now here we are, several drinks deep around midnight on Friday night, about to fuck on the couch in his office. We can’t go back to his apartment — his parents are visiting — so when I happen to gesture vaguely around a certain area of Midtown and say, off-handedly, “This is where my old office used to be,” he gets a brilliant, horny idea.