Damn it, dudes: When it comes to sex, you have it easy.

I don’t mean in the “you can get it whenever you want it” easy–if only, right? I mean in the “you can get it then walk away the next day as if you didn’t” kind of easy.

Confusing? Let me explain.

Typically, I don’t hook up. Not because I don’t want to or I’m judgy of people who do–it’s mostly because I know me and my emotional wiring. Sex = Attachment. Connection. Emotional involvement. All of that girly stuff that freaks you guys out, especially on a first date. If I have sex right away, I will most likely sabotage any potentially good relationship because I don’t know how to keep that girly stuff from surfacing and ruining a perfectly good orgasm (or two).

So I don’t hook up. Typically. Until last week when I did.

It started out innocently enough with drinks and absolutely zero intent on my part for anything beyond a platonic evening to occur. But somehow after a few vodka tonics, he ended up behind the wheel of my Fiat, and I ended up on his couch with a glass of wine, soft music and the lights dimmed low.

A few hours later, I was the one behind the wheel of my Fiat, driving home with a heavy heart, fear for the emotional aftermath and slight frustration that I’d lost my favorite strapless bra somewhere on his bedroom floor.

The Emotional Aftermath. This is the part that sucks about being a woman and hooking up. Maybe there really are women out there who can get naked, get sexual, get intimate, get off, get on, get completely undone between the sheets with a man and still somehow get away without feelings getting involved. But I am most certainly not one of them. I’ve tried. But now my trying days are over.

It’s simply time to concede: I cannot have sex like a man.

After that night I just described, I swear I tried very hard to be dude-like about it. Keep the emotions at bay. Texting to a minimum. No next-day phone call. No “baby, sweetheart, boo” or other pet names. No “you’re amazing, I’m so glad we connected, you made me feel incredible” sentiments that might make him feel like I was ready to buy a white dress (because I’M NOT but I know how some of you can take one “you’re amazing” and interpret it as “my ring size is 7”).

I stayed pretty unemotional, actually. At least, outwardly. But inside, I could feel it all bubbling quietly under the surface. The Emotional Aftermath cannot be quieted once oxytocin is unleashed; that stuff is a bitch and not to be messed with. Unfortunately I don’t think scientists have discovered how to separate the rush of oxytocin from the exhilaration of an orgasm so with one comes the other, and that fucking oxytocin wins every damn time. At least, in my body.

Over the next few days we were in touch a little via texts, lined up a second date for the weekend, and I actually managed the oxytocin beast fairly well with my emotions in check almost (and by almost I mean “probably nothing”) like a man.

Then the weekend came and he canceled. A few hours before we were to see each other, he texted and bailed. He’d recently ended a relationship, was still struggling emotionally, and just not ready for anything right now.

I get that. I really do. Been there, done that and have the emotional roller coaster ride certificate to prove it.

But here is where nothing sucks harder than being a woman who should never hook up but did hook up and has been trying for five days to quell The Emotional Aftermath, stifle oxytocin’s bonding effects and remain quietly cool about the whole thing.

BAM. After a series of “I totally understand” and “we can still be good friends” and “let’s have drinks in a few months” texts, the tears flooded my eyes, my heart got heavier, I collapsed on the exercise ball in my room, and all I could do was cry it out.

This is what sex does to some of us, guys, even just one night in the sack – at least if it’s sex with a man we like, are attracted to beyond physical appearance and feel a connection with. For me, that kind of sex (and I rarely have had any other kind) taps into a place where passion lives, vulnerability is raw and feelings are very fragile.

And this is when I want nothing more than to be a man. You think it drives you crazy when a woman gets emotional after sex? Bitch, please. Try being the woman experiencing it all. 

I know women who say they can separate sex from emotions or attachment like a man can, and I say, “you go, girls” – more power to you. I secretly think they’re lying to themselves or they’re transgender, because oxytocin (ain’t no woman strong enough to defeat her f-ing hormones). But I cannot. And tonight my exercise ball is tear-stained enough to prove it.

Often when I write about things, I want to end with something profound that I’ve learned or tell you how I’d handle things differently next time or share some tiny nugget of wisdom I’ve gleaned because of something difficult I went through.

This time? Nah. None of that.

I’d like to say I’ll never hook up again, ever, but I’m human and I like sex so I’m going to be honest and say, “Never say never.” It’s not been the norm for me and I don’t intend to make it a pattern, but clearly a few vodka tonics with the right guy can sway my opinion. Or libido.

I’d like to say I’m wiser because of what happened this week, but I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know.

I’d like to say something profound so the next time you have sex with a woman, you’ll have a little insight into The Emotional Aftermath many of us grapple with and may be a tiny bit more sensitive and/or understanding. But I think I just did–if not profoundly, at least very honestly.

So really, the only thing left to say is, I wish I could do it like you. At least right now. Tomorrow, hopefully I’ll be back to loving my womanhood, embracing my passionate side, accepting my vulnerabilities and tolerating my hormones.

But for now? I’m just gonna hug it out with my exercise ball, let The Emotional Aftermath play out, and tend to a bruised heart.

You lucky sons of bitches.

-Sienna