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And yet I’d still willingly fall into flings with these guys. One Friday night, I’d double-booked myself on two dates.After about a half-dozen such romances, I’d finally had enough. I was meant to have early drinks with bachelor number one, followed by a casual cocktails-and-appetizers date with bachelor number two.His name was Will*, and he was a theater actor with a side hustle as a carpenter, and a slight Texan drawl. We immediately bonded over our love of cheap beer, theater, and Johnny Cash.For the next five hours, the booze flowed; we moved to another bar, split a plate of nachos, and then drunkenly fell into a cab together back to my apartment.I liked Will, but there was a lot about him that I didn’t want in a relationship.We continued to see one another, but we were explicit about keeping things casual.My dating life followed a very specific pattern in my early 20s.
He knew casual sex was all that I could give at the moment, and when he started wanting something more, he walked away.By projecting my own desires onto our situation rather than hearing and respecting what they had told me at the start, I was setting myself up for heartbreak. The problem wasn’t casual sex, or the fact that it’s what they wanted.