Australia Boy
The date down under that established my individual outlook on casual hook-ups.
Shoulders. I notice them before I know who they belong to. The Uniqlo collarless jacket throws me for a minute, but I mask my distaste under an intentional smile, stroking a hand through my hair. The same strands of hair I had decided against washing for an extra two days to keep the bombshell waves intact. Two days too long. Underneath the perfume of a pond of dry shampoo was the grease, oil, and tangles of the last week spent moving to this foreign city. I pondered for a moment if hair too could be jetlagged, I decided yes, call it jet locks.
I flick the sudden pang of nervousness away by habit and pull the Uniqlo jacket man into a casual hug. The hug made it evident that he is much shorter than advertised on the app we matched on two days prior. This is Australia, and they do use cm, so my conversion could’ve been a little wonky. The music of the rooftop bar is pumping; it’s a Thursday, I have class tomorrow, but I don’t mind. He leads me to a table with a beautiful view of the skyline, illuminated only by fluorescent office lighting and neon signs.
He looks amused. I wonder how many American exchange students he’s sat with on this very rooftop. Again, I don’t really mind. He can flirt; he’s good at it, too. The accent helps, but he doesn’t rely on it. I’m quieter than usual, not because I’m nervous anymore; I think I’m taking it all in. The sounds, smells, and scenes of the city I’ll call home for the next five months.
We are talking about sports now. He is a swimmer. That explains the shoulders. I observe him as he speaks of the summer training spent in my home country, a place as foreign to him as the one I now live in. One might say he’s bragging, but I think he plays it off well with self-deprecation. Although a little too often, he adjusts this one curl of hair that keeps falling out of place onto his forehead. It’s only distracting because he has a great head of hair. I surprise myself by temporarily lapsing into fantasy, one in which I have a fistful of curls in my hand, ruffling them, coaxing him to tell me more about his swimming accolades.
I’m brought back to reality when he hands me a drink menu, pointing specifically at the beers. Sure, I’ll have a beer. He suggests surprising me with two options, and he’ll take whichever one I don’t like. Deal. The beers arrive, and I pick the one to my left, bringing it to my lips tentatively as though I’m Vizzini across from the masked figure who will decide my fate in The Princess Bride.
Luckily, this isn’t a Battle of Wits; it’s a battle between the USA vs. Australia, and the cups aren’t poison; they are bottles of beer. The stakes are much lower; Equally good news for me, the man offering the drinks is not masked; he is an Australian guy from Hinge.
After sipping from both bottles, I select the beer on the left. It’s a Bud Light, I know it. He smirks and comments on my uncultured palate, which doesn’t yet favor a Carlton Draught over an American delicacy. Seems, he got the beer he wanted in the end, and so did I; our Battle of the Wits ends in a tie.
The cultural comparison talk gets us each 3/4 of the way through our beers. I learn that diners don’t exist in Australia, nor do coffee pots. I take a quick moment to mourn the two quintessentially American treasures. The word cunt is not only normalized but cherished. Calling someone buddy is as rare as finding paper towels in a public bathroom. Air dryers only, and mate or champ is always preferable. The topic of travel soon arises. I ask him what places I should prioritize during my time here. I’m still enjoying myself; he’s giving great recommendations. I’m attracted. I tell him I’ll be flying back to the States via Hong Kong when I’m done with the exchange, so I can visit for a few days. He gets excited and tells me that’s where he’ll be tomorrow. What?
I inquire further. Tomorrow, he restates…on his layover… on his way to Europe…where he’ll be for the next three months. I pause. I’m not sure I understood him correctly. Accent thicker than I thought? No, I heard it right. He’ll be gone in less than 24 hours. Why bother taking me out?
Oh. I mean- oh no. Wait, I mean- oh, naurrrr.
I must react, say something. The wheels are still turning in my head as I disguise holy shit with that sounds like fun!
He takes care of our beers, and it’s a quiet elevator ride together down to the lobby. Earlier in the evening, we had briefly discussed going to another spot, but I’m tired, and I still can’t decide what I want to do with him. This boy and his one-way ticket to Europe at dawn. This is where I begin to weigh my options and contemplate casual sex in a way that, in retrospect, was kind of ideal.
Part of me wants to take him home; he can spend the night, I can pull his hair, he can wrap me in his broad swimmer shoulders, and tell me how badly he wanted this, the California girl, for one night before he jetsets off to Europe. I wouldn’t ever have to see him again. That’s comforting. But what if the sex is bad and I wake up feeling like I wasted my time, only fulfilling his desire for a parting sleepover? I sigh. This is the problem with being an overthinker. I think logistically and then emotionally. The logistics of him coming back to my dorm, where I’ve just moved in, with its elevated twin XL bed with a singular pillow, bed sheet, and blanket. It’s not much better than a boy’s room in a frat house for the matter. Plus, I had two new roommates I’d interacted with barely twice. Did I want to introduce our houseguest the next morning? Would he even stay over at all? Did I even want that? Am I going to have sex with him purely out of desire for more experience? For the plot? I don’t know!!!
This internal monologue of raging question marks continues as I sit in the back of the Uber he called for us. Two stops, mine is first. His right arm is now wrapped around my body, and we are laughing about our celebrity doppelgangers. The Uber makes a left onto the familiar gravel road leading to my dorm, towards my twin XL… I’m running out of time.
It feels good, knowing that whatever I decide to do is a choice that’s entirely my own. The night is my oyster, I guess. The stakes are low. Well, B, then why can’t you decide what you want to do? I don’t owe him anything. It’s not that big of a deal, right? That’s when I realize that maybe it is, at least more than I’m admitting. I try with all my might to make it seem chill, tell myself the choice is inconsequential, trivial even, but I don’t think it is to me. That is probably why I’m still weighing my pros and cons, and I should probably take that as a sign. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with him; I do, eventually, maybe, but time is not a luxury I have right now. I don’t know if I’m ready to do so after two hours, two beers, and no last name, and an impending flight out of the continent. But see, what a story that would make!
I moved across the world, met an Aussie that first week, had a one-night stand, and quite literally kicked off study abroad with a BANG. I’m a writer, of course, I LOVE that fucking narrative. I would sink my teeth into that story if a girlfriend of mine recounted it, but as that Toyota Camry came screeching to a halt outside my dorm, I came to realize that I am not the girl in that narrative. If I bring him up, I am doing so for him, not for me.
Three years later, I think about my date with the Australia Boy and how it was such a marker in understanding myself and my feelings toward casual sex. I write this in retrospect, feeling grateful that the opportunity was presented to me in such a natural and consensual way. As my friend, Bernice (hi legend), handed me back my laptop after reading the first draft of this piece, she asked me the exact question I am trying to articulate here. The question being indicative of knowing if you are ready to sleep with someone casually:
“Is it worth it to risk bad sex to know what good sex is?”
The simplest answer? You must be the judge of that. And guess what, it is no one else’s damn business what your answer is!! Do what makes you feel confident. Casual sex, no sex, have fun, be safe. If you need more history, move at your own pace. If you change your mind and want it, then don’t; you can change your mind over and over again. That’s your prerogative.
Women are practically programmed to think that having casual sex is shameful and promiscuous (s/o deeply ingrained sexual double standards and social stigma). I say that in 2026, it can be more empowering and self-expressive than ever. In fact, Nelly Furtado was well ahead of her time. She didn’t write a 90s bop about it for nothing. Whether you take the lyrics to action or just enjoy singing along, do it with confidence. Girl, literally whatever.
Until next time, 2BDs…
Stay bold :)
xx 2BD