By Mark Marchillo Odd Man Out
I HAD CASUAL SEX! THIS BEING A FIRST for me in my 31 years, I thought it substantial enough to let it be known: I’m all grown up. Somehow life shocks the hell out of me at every turn, and usually makes me laugh, at least a little. Here I am, the poster child of “Don’t do anyone without knowing their favorite moisturizer,” and one Saturday, as I was getting ready to meet friends at their house for game night, I decided this was the night! Yes sir, bring on the biatches! I wanted me some sex tonight.
And sex I got. Nice guy. I do choose well. It was surprisingly easy — not that he was; well I guess he was — we both were for that matter. Afterall, I was the pursuer. But how we got to that bed, to his house, rolling around naked while the “Golden Girls” chimed in with some clever wit from the TV … a true gay night of love. Well, not love. We didn’t make love, and this isn’t 1982. This was casual sex.
I suppose it wasn’t that it was so simple to make it happen that shocked me, but the lack of remorse in the morning for the betrayal to my oath, my core beliefs. Lovemaking is made for lovers. And this boy is not my lover. Nor is he even a friend. Just a nice, handsome guy I met one night (and proceeded to get to know better). And I’m OK with that. Somehow the world of casual sex has crashed down upon me and invited me to view its wares. I found it partly therapeutic; getting over the ex has been no small feat for this Joe. But what I’ve realized is that in some respects, casual sex is necessary. Maybe not for everyone, but just the idea you can go home with another, and drift away in their warm arms for just a minute. You know you’re not home, cold and alone in your bed right now. You’re with someone and he’s with you. There’s a comfort there. When you’re this lonely, a little comfort goes a long way.
It may even help you survive that moment when, walking to your car at 2 in the morning, and wham! there’s your ex in the exiting, half-smashed crowd of the Abbey, making out with some guy who looks like you only taller. Maybe younger. And you watch them walk arm in arm back to his car and drive home together. You refuse the urge to tail them (well, alright, a few blocks, but then I came to my senses and swerved onto San Vicente, onward home). And as you take that knife piercing your heart and try to breath it away, slicing the dream into reality, you know it could just be a one-night fling — more casual sex. It means very little to him and to what you mean to him, you tell yourself. Perhaps it’s the truth. Perhaps it’s a new boyfriend. Suddenly the lines and reliefs of the casual sex scenario blur into something more tangible and ugly to your core. But still letting it go, you sense the need to be loved and with someone, even the wrong person, is in everyone, even him. Especially him. And that oh-so personally stabbing sighting of the casual sex scenario/the-dreaded-new-boyfriend seems to become alright in your mind and hope for a future returns. Yes, the mind is a wacko place, and it will defend itself against the harm of bad ex-boyfriends and their sex slaves alike!
No one really knows what he or she need in this life, unless they don’t have it. For me, the infamous night of casual sex showed me that even now, I can learn about myself and what I need. Maybe some warmth, some affection. And maybe that’s enough to get by. For now. Only for now.
MARK MARCHILLO is a freelance filmmaker and all-together nice guy living in Santa Monica. Send comments or suggestions regarding his column to
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on October 5, 2007. Read the original PDF.