luke + mallory leasure

Why I'd Rather Chew My Own Arm Off Than Cuddle After Sex

My Tinder date turned to me, grinning, drenched in sweat. I was supposed to find his toothy grin charming, his sweaty arms inviting. Instead, I felt nothing.

Well, not nothing — I felt hungry. Also, I could've used a drink.

My date — let's call him Louis — was resting with his arms crossed behind his head, hanging over a pillow. Suddenly, he loosened one arm and wrapped it around me, enveloping my shoulders with his warmth. I pushed him away, said I needed to pee and snuck off to the bathroom.

It's a familiar post-coital move: The guy I'm with tries to hold me, wrap his arms around me, or push my head onto his chest. I find something else to do — wedge my arms between us, perhaps, or roll over to the other side of the bed. I excuse myself to sneak off to the bathroom so much that the guys I sleep with probably think I have a chronic UTI.

Despite the stereotype that women are always trying to get all up in a guy's business, I HATE cuddling. Like, I hate being held and I hate being touched, especially after sex.

If it's because you want to go for round two (or three, our four), I'm down. Slip your hands between my thighs and remind me that you belong there. If you want to drift off to sleep, I'm not stopping you — just move to the other side of the bed and sleep while I play on my phone or play with myself or just play with the idea of eating chicken tikka masala when I get back home. But whatever you do, don't touch me.

This isn't just a Louis thing. Louis is a great guy. Better than great. I've just never liked cuddling, regardless of the person or my relationship with them.

The same thing happened with my ex, Topher*, who I was with for three-and-a-half years. Early in our relationship, he thought that my aversion to being cuddled was because I was repulsed by him or because I didn't return his romantic feelings. That wasn't true at all, and I tried to reaffirm my feelings for him both verbally and physically. But his touch — whether we were Netflix and chilling or after we were “Netflix and chilling” — was enough of a trigger to send me to the other side of the couch.

I like my space, both metaphorically and physically. People hovering a little too close to me freak me out, whether it's my boyfriend or some random guy I had an impromptu sexytime with. It feels weird. It doesn't feel good.

Cuddling is also a strange in-between activity. It's generally a prerequisite for three things: sex, sleep or a chat. If you want to have sex, great, let's hop to it. If you want to sleep, that's fine, too. Chatting? Sure, I guess. But cuddling just feels like a waste of time to me. Gents, either whip your dick out or get out of my bed.

Plus, I don't know about you, but post-sex, I'm kind of gross. I'm sweaty. My hair looks like cow ass. I feel sticky, I need air and having some dude's arm pinned against me feels like the opposite of comfort. You want to feel "closer"? Take a shower with me, but don't touch me when we both look and smell like we belong on a farm.

Then, there's the talking. Ugh, talking. Talking is like the ugly friend that cuddling always brings to the party but no one actually wants to hang out with. What is it about lying naked with a person that makes him want to tell you about his childhood and that one time his mom forgot to hug him?

Whether you're a Tinder date, a boyfriend or anything in between -- sex is sex. I'm not your therapist.

As for Louis? Well, I eventually did have to stop hiding in the bathroom -- but thankfully, he was already asleep.