<http://schema.org/articleBody>
" Blythe and I met for a drink at old dive in the East Village called Bar None. She picked the spot, having spent quite of few of her school days (she went to NYU law school) throwing back beers here.  When I arrived, she had already ordered a pitcher and was sitting in the back, sipping a frozen mug. She&amp;#039;d ordered a German ale \u2014 my favorite.  &amp;quot;Didn&amp;#039;t think I&amp;#039;d hear from you again,&amp;quot; she said.  &amp;quot;I figured you&amp;#039;re in town, probably don&amp;#039;t know anyone. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.&amp;quot;  She poured me a beer and sat back. &amp;quot;How&amp;#039;s your girlfriend? Lisa, was it?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Susan. And she&amp;#039;s not my girlfriend.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;You always shack up with your booty calls?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;She&amp;#039;s not a booty call, either.&amp;quot;  I gulped down my beer. Blythe had obviously been drinking before I arrived. Her usual preppy decorum was gone.  &amp;quot;I was surprised to hear from you,&amp;quot; she said, leaning forward on her elbows.  &amp;quot;I was surprised to see you.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I mean, after what went down in the apartment.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I know what you meant.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;If I screwed up your relationship, I&amp;#039;m sorry.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;No, you&amp;#039;re not.&amp;quot;  She smiled slyly at that, but quickly caught herself, saying, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not a relationship wrecker.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Yes, you are.&amp;quot;  She said defensively: &amp;quot;She was totally out of line. I was obviously up in her apartment, helping you find her cat.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;You kissed me, Blythe.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;So what? It was an innocent peck. I was carried away in the moment. Sue me.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I would, but you&amp;#039;re a lawyer.&amp;quot;  She raised her glass to give me a clink. I was enjoying this cat-and-mouse game, and I had no idea why.  &amp;quot;So, is that why you asked me out tonight? To call me a relationship wrecker and tear me down. Thanks a lot.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I told you \u2014 I&amp;#039;m doing the gentlemanly thing.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Right, and I don&amp;#039;t believe you. I think you&amp;#039;re here because you haven&amp;#039;t gotten over me. I think you&amp;#039;re here because you&amp;#039;re still incredibly attracted to me. I think you&amp;#039;re here because you want to f*&amp;amp;amp;k me.&amp;quot;  About 15 minutes later, Blythe and I were rolling around on the bed of her hotel room, half naked, sweaty, drunk with passion. Everything about the situation was wrong, and yet it felt so right. We were in a new city, in new circumstances, in a new setting. It was the perfect scenario for some serious ex sex.  And it was great ex sex, in an animalistic sort of way. We both hated each other for various reasons, so this was some sort of sick, ego-fueled type of revenge. But, as she said, the physical attraction had never died, no matter how much I tried to deny it.  In many ways, it was the perfect night. She was lying in the bed naked, watching me find my clothes. There was no way I was staying the night, and she didn&amp;#039;t want me to anyway. Sex with no strings. Why can&amp;#039;t it always be this easy? "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/mens-perspective/a4149/diary-he-101408/>