Reflections from a Former ‘Coq Sportif’

A Hookup. A One Night Stand. A Jump Off. A Booty Call. A Fuck Buddy. Who among us hasn’t had one of these?

For me, there was Melissa, a former co-worker, who traveled clear across the country, twice a month to spend weekends locked away with me in my apartment. Did I mention that she had recently broken up with her fiancé, who just happened to be my ex-girlfriend’s asshole brother who directly contributed to the demise of my relationship with his sister? Did I mention that while she was racking up frequent flier miles to sweat out her perm in my bed, he was desperately trying to woo her back? Yes, I know it sounds like the plot of some soap opera or convoluted Rom-Com, but the sex was sweet while it lasted.

Then there was Amber, an ex-girlfriend with whom I remained friendly for years. Whenever we were both unattached we would scratch each other’s respective itches. Although we broke up because we argued constantly and our value systems were completely different (one of us thinks Jack Layton is God and the other would sooner move to Siberia than vote for the NDP), sex was never a problem for us. Sex was our way of expressing what we couldn’t communicate verbally to each other. In the immortal words of Peaches, Amber and I could “Fuck the pain away”.

I also have fond memories of Pam, an old university friend, who came into town to visit her family a few years back. She and I decided to go for a few drinks. During our school days she had unsuccessfully attempted to out drink me on more than one occasion, yet she was determined to try again. Unfortunately for her she wasn’t quite up to the challenge. Fortunately for me the alcohol loosened her tongue. Pam eventually confessed to having always wanted to know what my cock looked like. And tasted like. And felt like. Now she knows.

Though I no longer dabble in CSBF (if you don’t know what that means, ask a friend in the know), I often reminisce about the days of no strings attached sex. The days when “See ya later” meant just that. No expectation of imminent phone calls, and a mutual understanding that the lusty activities of the previous evening bound you to nothing more than a courteous goodbye.

Years marked by failed relationships, societal expectations, missed connections, and miscommunications have soured me on the infinite possibilities of the hallowed casual encounter. But when I read Elisabeth Rose’s poetically titled “Le Coq Sportif” I was reminded of an eternal truism about the casual hookup:

When done at the right time and in the right way, fleeting and spontaneous sexual encounters can provide all the fulfillment a body and soul needs.

VIVRE LE COQ SPORTIF!!!

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