Cliterary Theory: Je ne regrette rien?- the one-night stand

Ah, the one night stand. Stalwart of nymphomaniacs, heartless men, and sex columnists everywhere. Everyone knows it’s a bad idea, but in the flush of a Wednesday night Park End, fuelled by a half dozen Jaegerbombs and the melancholy strains of the Pokemon theme tune, anonymous and unhygienic sex with a semi-stranger might seem just the ticket.

I say semi-stranger, of course, because this is Oxford. You will have at least half a dozen mutual friends with anyone you care to stumble blindly home with. Just as you’re assured that you’ll never see their face again (which, after all, looked so much more enticing without the glare of the morning-after sun), they’ll turn up at a formal. Or a ball. Or a crew date. Dare to look them up on Facebook, and an alarming spattering of shared social networks will reveal itself. Or, worse, you’ll have only a few shared acquaintances with them, all of which are committed members of OUCA. (No one likes a promiscuous Tory.)

One night stands do have something to offer in terms of broadening sexual experience. If you’ve always been curious about BDSM, for example, surely the whispered “would you like to see my ball gags?” cannot fail to seduce. However, for me, sex on a one time basis is never going to quite cut it in comparison to a regular squeeze. Missionary sex, with its high levels of eye contact always a challenge for the socially awkward, is nigh on impossible with someone whom you’re only vaguely aware of the second name of, if at all.

Furthermore, you have no idea of the sexual past of the person you’ve brought home for the night. I’m not talking about STDs (though it is a great opportunity to try out those more niche genital ailments – trichomoniasis vaginitis, anyone?); I’m talking about their past shag buddies’ sexual proclivities. If, for instance, a girl has had only one partner, whose chief pleasure in the bedroom was having their balls tugged, chances are she’ll enthusiastically enact that on the next guy. Bear this in mind as you enter into any short term arrangements. Likewise, with casual sex, you’ve got no backlog of successful sexual dalliances; they’ve no idea what moves particularly tickle your fancy. Ultimately, there’s no opportunity to scream, “DO THAT THING YOU DO WITH MY EARS”, as you approach climax, which, for me, is rather a deal breaker.

Casual sex in Oxford is not all doom and gloom though, I feel honour bound to say. Quite apart from the carefree attitude you can enact towards noise pollution – you’re never going to see the neighbours, so shriek away – a hilariously disastrous sexual pairing can be a great bonding experience. Seeing someone’s genitals is a fantastic social leveller. Like Edith Piaf, I regret nothing of even my most ill-advised sexual encounters. Many of my greatest friendships have sprung from a night of bumpy entanglement with a recent acquaintance.

In conclusion, then, keeping it casual, if you’re looking for physical fulfilment, is probably not the place to start. However, in terms of trying new moves (or, as I call it, refreshing one’s sexual repertoire), and escaping the oh-so-problematic network of college family incest, it’s definitely a solid plan.

Just double check they’re not from OUCA first. One should never do anyone one will regret.