It’s 2025. Why don’t men want to date a slut?

(by “slut” I obviously mean me)

Last week, I went on a first date.

I knew him from college actually, but we only spoke once, about four years ago. That night, however, he left quite the impression.

“Would you mind filling out this survey?” he asked, coming up to a table of me and a few friends. It was the first words he ever said to me. A bummer, considering it was the last night of his senior year (my junior year). I looked up at the phone he handed to me—it was open to a “New Contact” page. My very first cheesy pick-up line, I thought to myself. I was thrilled.

There’s another little detail I remember from that night, something that may seem totally inconsequential to you but felt extremely consequential to me: It was the first time I’d ~gone out~ at college without straightening my hair. Some of you out there must understand the gravity of that statement. I couldn’t believe that the same night I wore my hair naturally, I got my own rom-com pick-up line. I never forgot that.

Nothing ended up happening that first night we met. We exchanged some drunken texts along the lines of “come to this party!” but never crossed paths. That is, until two weeks ago, when we matched on Hinge and quickly set-up a date. For the first time in a while, I felt excited. My dating luck has been pretty sucky lately, with ghost after ghost after jerk, but I felt confident that this guy was sweet and genuine. I mean, he asked me out when my hair wasn’t done, you know? Doesn’t that count for something? (I know my bar is extremely low. Let’s move on from that.)

The date was lovely. He shared that he’s looking for a relationship, and I shared that I try to date without expectations—but that I’d be ready for something long-term if the right person came along. We talked about self-growth and religion and politics and my job—and what my job would look like if I was in a relationship.

I can’t remember the last time I was that honest on a first date.

After two glasses of wine, he invited me to see his rooftop and later, his apartment. Eventually, we were kissing on his couch.

“Just so you know, I didn’t expect this,” he told me nervously.

“Oh!” I pulled back, unsure of what he meant. “We definitely don’t have to keep going. We can stop!” I’ve been that person on the other side of an icky hookup, where you don’t feel comfortable and don’t know how to get out of it. I would never want to put someone in that position. And I especially wouldn’t want someone to feel like because I’m a sex writer, I always expect sex or something. Does that make sense? Anyway, I started stressing.

“No,” he laughed with an ease that reassured me. “I want to!”

“Okay,” I replied. “We don’t have to go farther—whatever you want.”

It turns out that sex is what he wanted, as did I. He asked for my consent before grabbing a condom, and I double checked that he was sure he wanted to before putting it in. It was all well and kosher. And it felt great.

“I can’t believe I broke my ‘no sex on the first date rule,’” he said as we cuddled naked.

A little jarred, I tried to shrug it off. “Why don’t you normally have sex on the first date?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I like to make sure I really know the person first.”

“That makes sense,” I said. After a pause, I added, “I hope you don’t regret us having sex…?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It felt organic.”

“Good. I agree,” I replied.

Long pause. Some back scratches. Deep breaths. My eyes began to flutter in and out of sleep.

“Do you ever juggle multiple guys at once?” he asked as my eyes fled open.

“No,” I replied. “Honestly, I wish I could. But I tend to get wrapped up in one person.” I couldn’t believe how honest I was being.

He seemed somewhat satisfied by that answer, but my mouth didn’t feel like shutting up. “I’m a little slutty,” I said. “Is that something you are okay with?”

“I think so,” he responded. Looking back, I’m not sure if he was being as honest.

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I woke up the next morning to a cheeky text from him. I was excited! I had some weird feelings about our post-coital conversation, but I was still interested in getting to know him. He was the boy who asked me out when my hair wasn’t done, remember? We texted throughout the day, and I eventually asked if he wanted to get together next week.

“To be transparent,” he said, “I don’t see us being a long-term fit, and that’s what I’m looking for right now.”

Long-term fit. That fucked me up.

I wondered when he realized that he wasn’t interested—at least in that way. The long-term way. Was it something I said at drinks? Was it when I said I dated with no expectations? Was it before we had sex? Or was it when I admitted that I’m a slut?

My gut was telling me that I knew exactly why he texted me this. Why I wasn’t long-term material. “It’s because we had sex,” I told my roommate. “I know it is.”

I always preach to women that if you want to bang on the first date, you should. That if a man takes you less seriously because of that, than he isn’t the one for you. But for some reason, when it was happening to me, it was more difficult to rationalize.

I felt more bummed than I’d like to admit. Not even because of any feelings towards him—we really had just met!—but because of feelings I was having towards myself. Would I always be the girl you break your “no sex on the first date rule” for, but not the girl who’s a “long-term fit”? Would I always be someone you see tonight with, just not a future with?

Why can’t a slut also be a wife?

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What do you think? Am I off base?

Do you think it has nothing to do with the fact that we banged? I tried to give you all the information, to share what I believed to be the relevant details of our date. But it’s very possible that there’s something I missed, something I said, or just a feeling he got. Frankly, I give him major props for not ghosting me and being straight-up. He just struck a nerve he didn’t know was there.

It really shouldn’t matter. It was just one date. Unfortunately, it turns out that I am one sensitive slut.