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Harry Styles may be a lot of things: Talented, gorgeous, a fashionista; but to me, he and the rest of One Direction are forever intertwined into the fabric of my sex life, and they are part of the worst thread.
The year One Direction was at their peak position was the same year I started having sex. I was having a lot of it. Random hookups became my norm and while some were great, there were a couple that left me questioning my life choices. The worst came the night I saw the largest boy band in recent years play the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA.
A friend had an extra, free ticket. I don’t care what anyone says; if a show is free — you have to go. The only problem was that the Rose Bowl was far from my apartment and afterward, the bus home would be daunting. I didn’t have a phone capable of having an app like Uber or Lyft, and I was not going to walk 20 minutes home from the last stop at 1 am. What to do, what to do?
There were a couple of guys in my DMs at the time. One was cute, liked The Office and had a car. Perfect, I thought. I told him we could hang out after I got back from the show, but he had to pick me up. I realize now that this exchange harkens back to the oldest profession in the world, but I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. Being a young man who wanted one thing and one thing only, he agreed to meet a total stranger in the middle of the night at some random bus stop and take her home. Clearly, neither of us were thinking straight. Anyone who has ever hooked up with a random person knows that the conversation in real life isn’t usually the greatest. We stumbled through forming sentences as we made our way from the bus stop to my place. We weren’t focused on building rapport. I wanted a ride. He wanted sex. Within five minutes of being in the door, sex was had — and it was the absolute creepiest, worst human interaction I’ve ever had (with or without clothes) in my life.
To anyone reading this, if you are not Gomez Addams do not kiss someone’s arm up and down if you just met them. And do not do it slowly. This is especially true if the person makes this face as you’re doing it:
The disturbing kissing should’ve been a clear warning sign that he would have little to no game once his pants were down. I was still a sex novice, but even I knew once we wrapped up why he was willing to give someone a ride in order to take a little ride himself. All I could think of when he tried to hint at wanting more was:
That’s when I faked an Oscar-worthy yawn and said I had work in the morning. Lies. I worked from home and could wake up at noon if I wanted. As soon as he left, I hopped in the shower to scrub off a later of skin. The sex was so freaking bad. That’s really all I can say to sum up the whole experience.
Hell, even the concert wasn’t that great. Sorry Directioners, but they are far from an amazing boy band. No synchronized dancing and Zayn looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there: It was as disappointing as both my rides that night.
I learned my lesson, though. There are way better ways to get home from a concert that doesn’t involve getting it on with some stray you found online, but hey, it makes for a good story I can tell my daughter one day. The biggest downside from it all, though, is that now I can’t hear One Direction without thinking of bad sex. Which is truly a shame because Harry Styles is one hell of a looker.