You probably know what that phrase means. That smug, accusatory phrase. The belittling name we call someone we used to think we'd never fuck. The joke we make at our own expense before someone else can. The lie that barely covers our loneliness.
If a one night stand is romantic, it isn't one. The verbiage spells it out pretty clearly: there was nothing there worth going back for. By its nature it is fraught with ulterior motives and the playing out of a vengeance as precisely targeted as an H-bomb. It's an agressive, competitive act. The stuff of notches on bedposts.
You always wanted to try anal sex. When her face collapsed in dismayed tears you knew you'd end up on the street that night. The seed was planted and it was bitter. No, not her, sobbing beneath her down coverlet. But the forty year old in the leather skirt at the end of the bar. The part you omit in the retelling is the strap-on in the nightstand and that turnabout is fair play.
He's been fucking you from head to toe at every door you've walked through for the past three years, but he doesn't know you know. When you walk in sober, you're bitter and you don't want to be fucked that way tonight. When you're drunk, the bar is a sea of far off tables and you float adrift while neon spills gleefully over all the other hands creeping closer to all the other crotches. And you smile at him and know it will be easy.
It's summer and you wander loose-limbed through a town boarded up with adults in their offices. You meet him at the bus stop and he gets off on your street. Alone for two more hours, so why not? He's dangerous and he smokes Camels. You share one on the back porch and after a half-hearted negotiation and a fast mess, you get a phone number you're too embarassed to call.
She leaves her drink and floats towards the bathroom, drunk and trusting. Nothing more complicated than a little slight of hand. When she begins to get dizzy, you grab her coat and her waist. Quick now. Don't make a scene.
He's your friend, but he's his best friend. You'll never console him with the knowledge that his Brutus couldn't get it up. After tonight, it'll be years before they speak again.
Bravado gets us through while the fact is still fresh in the minds of our friends. But we aim to forget, and hope they will too. It's one yes and one maybe, but the next morning it's just no, no, no. Each public victory is a private wince. We leave the pretense of desire smeared across the sheets as quickly as we can find our underwear.
We sell our hearts for what we can get for them. By the time we wake up, the profit has already been spent and we're just left with another hollow where we carved a piece off. | 
