Just Say No…To Sex, by Randi Braun

I had a friend named Raymond. Raymond and I had sex. Raymond and I are no longer friends.

This sounds like a typical story. Plenty of us have made this mistake at some point in our lives. However, the tale of my shattered friendship comes with a surprise discovery and some important lessons, so I’m going to put it out there. I’ll start from the beginning.

Raymond and I met in a Spanish class during the first semester of our sophomore years at New York University. We clicked right away, and since it turned out that we lived in the same dorm…on the same floor…and had some mutual friends, the circumstances couldn’t have been better for a budding friendship. So Raymond and I saw a lot of each other. As it turned out, opening up about his hopes and dreams wasn’t exactly Raymond ‘s forte, so our friendship consisted of mainly dive bars, beer, and the occasional poker game. But what was lacking in emotional depth, was made up for in laughter.

After college graduation, we both found ourselves in the New York area, so we remained in relatively close contact.

Late on a Sunday night in October of 2007, I was sitting at my kitchen table doing something completely forgettable when Raymond sent me a text message: “Are you still awake?” Since his conversation-starting texts usually consisted of one word: “Sup,” I was pretty sure that something was wrong.

After I texted him back letting him know that I was, indeed, still awake, he called me. He didn’t say “hello.” He didn’t say, “How are you doing?” He said…

Raymond: I found a lump in my left nut.

Uh oh. I secretly freaked out, knowing that a lump anywhere is never good news, but I maintained my composure and tried to reassure him that he shouldn’t think of the worst-case scenario. And that maybe the orb-shaped collection of cells in his left scrotal sac was just a cyst…or something.

The next day, Raymond took a sick day from work to see a urologist. I was wrong. It wasn’t a cyst. It was cancer. There was good news though: it was totally operable, it hadn’t spread to any of his other organs, and he wouldn’t need chemotherapy or radiation. I took this as license to relax. Raymond took this as license to mope, as his entire cancerous testicle would have to be removed. And he’d have to choose between living his life with a lop-sided scrotum, or living his life with a symmetrical scrotum that housed one god-given testicle and one saline-filled testicular implant. His surgery was scheduled for the upcoming Friday afternoon, so he had four days to think about his future genital aesthetics.

On Wednesday night, I slept over at his place. This was not an unusual occurrence. Since I lived in Manhattan and Raymond lived deep in a ghetto-licious, drug-pushing, area of Brooklyn, whenever I happened to be at his place after dark, I would usually just sleep on his couch. This wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It seemed like a much better alternative to getting stabbed in the throat or hit by a stray bullet on the walk from his apartment to the subway station.

So Wednesday evening, while we were sitting on his sofa, watching reruns of some Showtime series on DVD, Raymond “jokingly” mentioned something about my having sympathy sex with him; that it would be his “last sexual encounter with a full set of testicles.” I looked at him like he was an idiot and laughed in his face.

Raymond and I had tried that before: the “let’s-hook-up-and-just-see-what-happens” thing. What happened was our figuring out that hooking up and being friends was not a feat that could be achieved. Not by us, anyway. So after that, we kept our hands to ourselves, which was a feat that could be achieved. Since I had lost all interest in him physically/emotionally/otherwise after our unsuccessful fling, it was easy to avoid crossing that line again. And Raymond was well-behaved, so things were fine in that department.

Later in the evening, when Raymond again mentioned the idea of a sympathy romp, I sternly declared that no intercourse would be had under his roof that night. He took the sexual-rejection well, pretending that he was “just joking anyway,” but he was obviously sad. I guess he really wanted to get full use of his left ball before the doctors hacked it off. Either that, or he was just horny and using his cancer as a way to take advantage of his sympathetic friend. Looking back, I’m sure that’s all it was.

When it got late, I washed my face, rinsed my mouth with some Listerine that was in the bathroom, and changed into a t-shirt and some flannel shorts. Raymond washed up too and headed to his bedroom to go to sleep. I curled up on the sofa with a blanket and a pillow, turned out the lamp, and tried to fall asleep. However, sleep did not ensue. Staring at the ceiling ensued. And as I attempted to count the cracks in the drywall, I asked myself the same question over and over…

(Do I want to have sex with Raymond? Do I want to have sex with Raymond? Do I……..)

I felt really bad for him. In fewer than 48 hours, he would be having his first surgery ever, during which, doctors would be removing half of his manhood. And he was probably nervous. And he had CANCER for god’s sake!

(……………want to have sex with Raymond? Do I want to have sex with Raymond?)

The more I thought about it, the more it felt like it was my idea. It would just be one time. I wasn’t looking to open any doors to future rolls in the hay; that idea was clearly a road to nowhere. So there wouldn’t be any questions of “should we,” or “shouldn’t we do this again.” With that in mind, I figured…(What’s the harm? It’s just sex. Just once. And it’ll make him feel better! Yay!!).

I am such an idiot.

I sat up and walked through the darkness toward Raymond ‘s bedroom door. His lights were off, so when I pushed the door open, I was expecting to find him asleep. Or at least with his eyes closed. However, he had been doing exactly what I had been doing: lying on his back and counting the cracks in the drywall.

As I stood motionless in his doorway, he looked at me. We were both silent. I’m not sure if he knew why I had come into his room, but after walking over to his bed, sitting on the edge, and kissing him, I think he got the idea.

And so, I had been wrong. Intercourse was had under his roof that night. Kerosene was also splashed all over our friendship. If things had gone according to plan, kerosene would have played no part in our evening. But sadly, plans don’t always work out. I was supposed to have sex with Raymond, feel nothing except the satisfaction of having helped a friend, and then erase the night from my memory. While I did manage to accomplish Step 1 (having the sex), the “feeling nothing,” and “erasing the night from my memory” steps were not in the cards. I didn’t feel nothing. I felt something. In fact, I felt a HUGE something. A HUGE and TERRIBLE something. I was starting to have feelings (like…ROMANTIC feelings)…for RAYMOND!! AGHHH!!!

At first read, that doesn’t sound like such a terrible thing. “So, you had feelings for him. You two could date and live happily every after. Hooray!” No. Not hooray. Raymond is an emotionally toxic human being, which is why, when he and I were just friends, I was in the safety zone. But after our supposed “no-strings-attached” roll in the hay, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I knew I was in serious trouble the following night when I was at a bar with my friend Grace. Even though we were surrounded by a pack of hungry, attractive men, the only person I could think about was Raymond!

[Side-note: Raymond had his surgery, he chose the prosthetic ball, and he's alive and cancer-free.]

After my feelings reared their respective ugly heads, I didn’t know how to act when Raymond and I hung out. Our whole dynamic was thrown off, and we saw less and less of each other. Now, we don’t even speak (which, actually, isn’t a direct result of the sex, but the sex was the catalyst).

In the weeks after our friendship got mangled, I had a burning question: How on earth was it possible for me to go into a sexual encounter with a person for whom I didn’t have feelings, and come out on the other end…with feelings that wouldn’t go away? What the fuck! I mean, sleeping with men with whom I had no intention of sleeping again wasn’t exactly a hobby of mine, but I didn’t know that one night in the sack could conjure up emotions that had no business being there in the first place.

Eventually, when all the dust had settled and the feelings had passed, I had a revelation: Oxytocin! I had read about oxytocin in Biology class years earlier. Oxytocin is a pesky little hormone that is stored in the pituitary gland and is responsible for the feeling of emotional bonding between humans. During childbirth, the mother’s body will flood with oxytocin, partly because it aids with contractions, and partly to make sure that the woman forms a bond with her newborn child as soon as it is placed into her arms.

The pituitary glands (of both males and females) have also decided that it’s a good idea to secrete oxytocin during sexual intercourse and during climax. This seems smart… “Good little pituitary glands…good job trying to make us bond with our sexual partners instead of whoring ourselves around.” However…there is a problem: a woman’s pituitary gland thinks it’s really fun to release exponentially larger amounts of oxytocin into her body during sex than a man’s pituitary will release into his. This results in two things: 1. Women have better orgasms. (At least we get one small victory.) And 2. Women feel a greater sense of attachment to their sexual partners than men do (at least, in the early stages of courting/sympathy-sex having).

I think this explains why women tend to be the clingier sex. For instance, the following scenario is not uncommon:

While Cathy is out with her girlfriends on a Friday night, trying to have a good time and blow off some pent-up steam from her busy workweek, she’s actually ruminating about her last few exchanges with Tom, trying to figure out why he hasn’t returned either of her phone calls. As she silently stews in her own feelings of rejection, Tom is out with his buddies, playing pool, drinking beer, and complaining about Cathy: that clingy girl he just met who is already expecting him to treat her like a girlfriend.

I think this oxytocin discrepancy between males and females also explains why it’s more common (and more socially acceptable) for a man to sleep around than it is for a woman to sleep around. It probably served its evolutionary purpose once upon a time. It makes sense, if you think about it: Caveman #1 knocks up Cave-Girl #1. While Cave-Girl #1 is pregnant, Caveman #1 knocks up Cave-Girl #2, which he can do without feeling as though he has betrayed Cave-Girl #1. Caveman #1 repeats this process with Cave-girls #3, 4, 5, 6, 7…..682. After each cave-girl bears her respective child, she returns to Caveman #1 to be re-fertilized. After all…she knows that his reproductive organs are in working order.

So, because my caveman ancestors needed to hump every cave-girl in sight, I, and 51% of the world’s population are left with the emotional pieces if the new cavemen in our lives decide to flee. That, and my friendship with Raymond remains in shambles. Thanks a lot, oxytocin!
Well, to be fair, I don’t think oxytocin is as terrible as I’m making it out to be. It seems that when a serious relationship actually follows the initial courting stages, a man’s true feelings make up for his oxytocin deficit, so things tend to balance out in the end. And the little hormone wasn’t the only guilty party in the ultimate failure of my friendship with Raymond; there is more baggage than I am letting on.

This, however, does not mean that there aren’t lessons to be learned from my little mistake…

First, for the ladies: Try not to let your heartstrings get the best of you if a male friend is afflicted with some kind of non-terminal ailment that does not affect his erectile function. Nothing good can come of a sympathy shag, except an hour of carnal bliss and an orgasm or two, which aren’t things you should be getting from your friends anyway.

Second, and also for the ladies (…Sorry guys. I lured you in under false pretenses. I think you’ll recover): Try to be a prude until you’re sure that the new man in your life has true feelings for you. It’s great to be a tease (as men love a good chase). But more importantly, you don’t want your oxytocin floodgates to be opened by some schmo who you later figure out, is just looking to make you Cave-Girl #683.