My Only One-Night Stand by Amy Schumer

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by Amy Schumer 

I’ve only had one one-night stand in my life. I’m so sorry to disappoint anyone who thinks I walk around at all times with a margarita in one hand and a dildo in the other. But believe it or not, the thought of some mystery cock entering me doesn’t get my pulse going. Well, except for this one time. . .

I was on tour and traveling between two horrendous cities: Fayetteville, North Carolina, and Tampa, Florida. It was early morning and I was hungover, because there is nothing to do in Fayetteville after your show except drink until your eyes close. I got to the airport as I usually do—wearing zero makeup or bra, sweatpants, a T-shirt, and flats. I’m not someone who looks adorable in the morning. I would argue I look exactly like Beetlejuice—the Michael Keaton character, not the Howard Stern regular. One way for me to verify that I drank too much the night before is if I wake up with red-wine teeth and enough eyeliner smeared underneath my eyes that I resemble a tight end for the New England Patriots. The point is, on this particular morning, I looked heinous and smelled like curry, and if someone had put a dollar in my coffee cup, thinking I was homeless, I would have thought, Yep.
I got to airport security and there he was: a six-foot-two-inch strapping strawberry blond of about thirty-five years. My first kiss was with a redhead so I’ve always had a weakness for them. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, and I was immediately turned on just looking at him.
I audibly sighed, and before he walked through the metal detector, he looked at me. All the blood rushed to my vagina, and I smiled at him before immediately remembering I looked like Bruce Vilanch. (For those of you who don’t know who he is and are too lazy to Google it, just picture a barn owl wearing a blond wig.)
I ran to the bathroom to try to find makeup in my purse, which is an actual bottomless pit when I need something (and at all other times). I’m not lying when I say my purse has all the contents of an actual ostrich’s nest. I’ll never do a celebrity magazine “What’s in your purse?” story because people would see the array of fun, gross surprises in there and probably think I needed to be hospitalized. I found some blush and ChapStick, and thought, Perfect. That’s all I need to take me from a two to a four. I rolled my sweatpants up to half-calf height, thinking, Let’s highlight my strongest zone. I brushed my teeth with my finger and splashed water all over myself. I walked out like I was on a runway and floated right past him. He at no time, for even one second, looked at me in the terminal.
I bought some gum and a magazine with Jennifer Aniston on the cover and boarded the plane, defeated. I got to my tiny window seat and started reading about how Jennifer was going to die alone and it wasn’t fair, and there he was again, boarding the plane. He walked down the aisle and I watched him, his arms bulging and his huge hands gripping his bag as he navigated his way between the seats. I was thinking, Maybe when he walks by, I can pretend to sneeze . . . and fall on the floor in front of him . . . and he will trip and fall inside of me. Then I saw him take the seat right next to me.
Game, set, fucking match, I thought, IT IS ON.
“Hi, I’m Amy.”
He smiled, revealing a tiny gap between his front teeth. I love a gap more than anything on a man. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he said, in an English accent.

Photo: Cover of The Girl With The Lower Back Tattoo (courtesy of Simon & Schuster)
I soon found out that he was in the British version of the marines. I couldn’t fucking handle it. It was all too much. I felt possessed and lost all control of my voice, like Sigourney Weaver at the end of Ghostbusters. I was in heat, as they say. Who says this? I don’t know. Shut up and keep reading about my getting pummeled by this British superhero. There was zero turbulence, yet I still found reasons to grab his arm and bury my face in his shoulder. My clitoris was thumping like the Tell-Tale Heart and I kept thinking of the 98 Degrees song “Give Me Just One Night (Una Noche).” I told him I had a show that night and that maybe I would see him after. We exchanged emails and I prayed to every god that it would happen.
I’ve been in this kind of situation a couple other times but I always decide against one night stands—mostly out of pure laziness. I think of the practical things, like, When can I leave so I can eat pasta? Or What if I look like a blond Shrek in the a.m.? But the Sam situation felt different. He was such a turn-on. After we parted ways in the airport, I held my breath hoping that I would hear from him. Sure enough, when my show was over that night, I had an email from him asking me how it had gone. I joked that I had gotten discovered and was going to make it in this business.
He wrote back: “Who discovered you?”
I wrote: “A magician. I’m going to be his assistant.” Which I thought was pretty funny.
He wrote: “Is he gonna saw you in half?”
I answered: “I was hoping you would.”
BAM! That is the most sexually aggressive yet true thing I’ve ever written. And it worked. We made plans to meet up at the dance club in the lobby of my hotel. We had half a beer, we danced to Ice Cube telling us we could do it if we put our back into it, and we left to go to my room.
I really needed a boost of sexual confidence during that time of my life. I’d recently learned that a guy I’d been in love with and had dated in the past was gay. Even though it had been a while since we had dated, it still broke my heart when he came out to me. And it made me begin to question myself. This person who made me feel beautiful and sexy for so long was attracted to men. When you get older and wiser, you get your confidence from within, not from the person you are having sex with. But finding out someone I’d dated was gay at that moment in my life was giving me a hard time. I was having trouble feeling like a sexual being and was wondering about my own worth.
Enter Sam—this beautiful, masculine fantasy man who wanted to help Stella get her groove back. The elevator to my room could not travel fast enough. We got to my room and wasted no time.
I dropped my bag and we stripped down to our underwear and got into bed. I can’t Fifty Shades out right now and write a sensual paragraph, so I’ll just tell you some facts. We were both very giving (head). We both couldn’t believe it was happening (we both came a lot). He was so appreciative and excited (we high-fived at one point). Which felt amazing (the sex, not the high five). Coming off the depressing discovery that a guy I’d had a lot of sex with was attracted to men, it felt incredible to have this heavenly being take me in his arms and make me feel both wanted and beautiful.
When we were finished, I told him it was perfect and that I would never have a one-night stand again because it would pale in comparison. We kissed good-bye, and I went to sleep with the biggest smile on my face, thinking, Thank you.
I do realize that one of the best nights of my life was just a one-night stand in Tampa. But I felt like Marlene Dietrich in Morocco. Let the record show that I’m not suggesting one-night stands are cure-alls for broken hearts and low self-esteem—but sometimes they really can fix a specific problem. And even better, sometimes sex is just its own reward. No lessons to be learned. No agenda other than fun.
Sam reached out to me a couple more times when he was back in the US but I stayed true to wanting to keep sacred what strangely felt like the purest night of my life. And it still is./Amy Schumer’s notes

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