A month out of my last relationship, I still hadn’t had sex.

I didn’t feel sad anymore, just a little empty. It takes a lot to readjust: going straight home after work every day, sleeping alone every night. I still sleep on one side of the bed, as if I’m waiting for someone to come in late and lay next to me, to kiss my head even though they think I’m asleep. (I don’t recommend listening to Gilbert O’Sullivan when you feel this way.)

Downloading Grindr again was weird: After two years, it seemed like an entirely new app. It took me a while to figure out how to swipe, see stats, update my own… It made me feel old.

Feeling empty and old, there was only one thing to do: have some friends over and drink. And so I did; and so we did. I started with a glass of merlot, quickly switching to coconut rum and pineapple juice. Around midnight, the party wound down and everyone went home—so I went out to The Ritz.

A couple more drinks and something resembling dancing later, I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. “I read about your breakup in the column!” he yelled at me on the dance floor. “I’m sorry to hear that!”

I couldn’t think of what to say in response, so instead, I kissed him, hard. Before the next song started, we were in a cab back uptown to my apartment.

I’m not proud of anything that happened next: We walked into my room, clothes thrown all over. My cats knocked over the remainder of someone’s drink from the party, creating a sticky spot that we both stepped in.

I’d become one of the nightmare hookups that I write about every week. But wait, it gets better.

After I insisted he give me a 30-minute massage, I reached under my bed for a condom. Rolling it on him, he said, “Are you sure you want to do this? We really don’t have to.” To which I said, “Shut up,” and pulled him inside of me.

OK, I was really, really drunk, and I hadn’t had sex in a VERY long time—much longer than just the month since the breakup. And those are my excuses for what happened next.

I pulled him inside of me, he thrusted twice—and I came. Just like that. In an instant.

“Fuck,” I mumbled.

“What’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?”

“I already came. This is so embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He paused, then repeated, “Do you want me to stop?”

“Obviously,” I rolled my eyes, pulling him out.

“Seriously, don’t be embarrassed. If anything, I take it as a compliment.” He cuddled up to me, and I realized he planned to spend the night. But when I woke up, hungover, he was gone.

And there I was, sleeping on one side of the bed, alone again.