Sex on Friday

Welcome to NYC’s Cuffing Season

I don’t know about the rest of you, New York, but I am getting ready to Lock. It. Down. I’m trading in my sun-dresses for sweatpants and my ClassPass for Seamless. That’s right, I’m about to get real fat and real lazy real fast. Winter is fucking coming. 

Except this year it’s time for a change. This year I will not be doing it alone. This year I'll be taking part in cuffing season.

What the hell is cuffing season, you ask? 

That charlatan of a season that masquerades as “fall.” You might think of it with nothing but joy as crisp, leaf-rustling breezes blow through, bringing with it the anticipation of plum- and jewel-colored hues, decorative gourds, Pilgrims, and sidewalk chalkboards boasting pumpkin-flavored everything. Oh how naive you are.

While you sit there in your scarf and cockel hat gnawing on pumpkin-flavored bacon, the rest of us are freaking the fuck out because this SAME crisp breeze is also blowing the front doors of all potential one-night stands closed. The only times these doors will reopen is when a delivery man bearing Thai food or wine is on the other side. NO ONE is going outside when they can have the outside brought to them. Better bust out that Costco-sized vessel of lotion, because you’re not going ANYWHERE until May. 

But not me. 

Not this year. 

Because much like a bear, I am stocking up for winter by landing a pot of honey all my own to last me 'til April. If we’re making out at The Frying Pan (Pier A Harbor House [Bohemian Beer Hall {ANY OUTDOOR BAR}]) over the next few weeks, you will probably be thinking “awesome.” And then you'll think we’re going to have thin-and-tan sex before you're back to your regularly scheduled randos by October. That’s cute that you think that. But no. Sorry. This is about to become ofish REAL fast. All winter long. There’s nothing you can do because you never even saw it coming.

And that’s how it’s done. Trick... err... woo someone into committing (read: CUFFING) themselves to you for the entire fall/winter just so you know you both are ALWAYS getting sex.

Let’s face it. You were the fucking king of summer. Every night your phone was blowing up with “U up?” And yes, yes U were. But now your phone is lying awfully quiet in your pocket. You may take it out every now and then and stare at its very dark, non-illuminated-with-potential-booty screen and give a defeated sigh. Where are they, these maidens who once stripped down for you with such ease and then even had the decency to leave before morning? Your self esteem is shot. You’re stumbling now like a weak deer. And I’ve got you in my crosshairs.


And once you're there Ima be like, “Hey man, let’s not make this serious. I’m not looking for anything ‘real,’ ya feel? I’m just doing me. You should do me, too.” And you're gonna be like, “Girl, you’re like... so cool. How can I get more of your coolness?” Then I’m just gonna smile and without breaking your gaze, throw my arms up parallel to the side of your head. Doesn’t matter that that’s a weird thing to do because boom. Touchdown. You’ve just been Cuffed.  

Welcome to six months of ME.

There’s no reason to be afraid. You’re going to like having sex with me all winter long. Promise. And then when we’re done cupping each other’s budding love handles, we will hold hands and go on Seamless together. I might even let you pick the restaurant. And that’s pretty much how it’s going to be. But don’t get too comfortable, because once those April showers start reaping May flowers, cuffing season (and likely us) will be done -- the doors of NYC’s eligible bachelors and bachelorettes will swing open to the sounds of angels as freshly firmed-and-cut silhouettes shed those extra layers and hit the pavement, hearts and legs wide open, ready for another summery season of single.

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Meagan Drillinger is a freelancer for Thrillist and is ready to lock it down. Follow her on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook at @drillinjourneys.