“9-1-1 urgent sex” or how to plan an awesome booty call with a first responder

Booty calls sometimes get a bad rap. That’s because these experiences are often tricky to navigate, especially as new desires and expectations can arise over time. As the queen of catching feelings, I know this all too well. Despite that, nothing beats a simple, straightforward booty call.

At the end of the day, isn’t a booty call just all the good times without the feelings? For a true, no-strings encounter free of complications, you need three things: open dialogue, mutual desire, and a first responder.

Okay, maybe the last bit is more of a “me” thing but still. Firemen, paramedics—I can’t be the only one with a thing for first responders. Just saying.

It was summer 2017. I had just completed my CEGEP studies. Bare thigh season was upon us: the perfect time of year for all things fleeting. Flowers, sunburns, summer love, sex.

I’d been living with my best friend for a while now. We had found a filthy but spacious apartment on a noisy street. His new girlfriend was over at our place pretty regularly. Our walking score was great.

June came in swinging. It was scorching. I needed a swim and a good fuck. Maybe even a cold shower. Whatever it was, I needed something to take my mind off the heat. I turned to what seemed to be the best option at the moment: Tinder.

It didn’t take long for the magic to happen.

After a brief text exchange—I usually prefer using my tongue to using my thumb—I went to bed that night with plans to meet up a few days later, at a pool bar on Mont-Royal street.

I spent the next few days playing out scenarios in my mind. I was excited. I wanted to connect. To smell their scent. To taste their vibe.

I exited the metro, my stomach in knots. I felt extra vulnerable as I lingered near the pool cues. My excitement was peaking. I had plenty of time to choreograph this ritual. I picked out the right outfit, I was feeling myself. I knew that tonight I’d be having sex. Or at least I kept telling myself that.

I arrived at the bar. I’d already spotted him from afar. There he was, this person from my youth, still as good-looking as ever. Even though I noticed him, I kept my distance at first. Butterflies can make us do funny things sometimes. I suddenly had nowhere to hide. It was time to take the plunge. As I climbed up to the last step, he noticed me and turned around. That was the moment I knew.

I’m getting laid tonight.

That first moment of eye contact is always electric. I could tell he felt it too. We exchanged greetings—a simple “hello” and an “it’s been a while.” I let out a small, nervous laugh.

The waiter led us to our table, tucked away in a secluded corner, almost as if he could sense the tension between us. I ordered three shots of their cheapest whiskey.

I scan this man, the subject of my teenage fantasies. I’m a woman now, seated in an almost-empty bar. I smiled. What’s more, we were having a nice conversation. I liked my date. An all-around good guy with an even better accent. Plus, he just graduated from CEGEP with a diploma in pre-hospital emergency care. Hot.

Beneath my thighs, I feel the sweat pooling on the leather seat. Our eyes wander, flitting from lips to napes of necks, charged with tension. Between my thighs, it’s like a can of gasoline catching a fresh spark. I’m burning up inside. The killer question lingers on my lips.

What are you looking for?

I find the expression “nothing serious” misleading, because the makeout session that ensued was serious indeed. The kind of passion worthy of a porn Oscar (yes, there’s such a thing). Agile gymnastics. Confident lips. Controlled saliva. A nibble on the lower lip. We stopped for a moment to catch our breath and then started right back up again.

He took my head in his hands, reminding me again. It’s just sex. I repeat his words. Just sex. The waiter hands us the payment terminal. My ambulance driver paid the bill, and off we went.

Something I’ve always found cool about booty calls is their slightly anarchistic side. By escaping the boundaries of a romantic relationship, you can sometimes break free from trying to look and behave like a marriage-material type of woman. Seeing as I had nothing to prove to my paramedic-lover, I could get off scot-free. Get off indeed.

Most of my clothing had already been removed by the time we made it back to his two-bedroom apartment. Inside, I noticed his paramedic uniform draped over the corner of his bedroom door. Hot. Off in the corner, I even spotted a defibrillator. I didn’t have much time to dwell on his furniture before he lifted me off the floor and pushed me onto his bed. I was so excited, it felt like I was having a heart attack.

The first thing I felt was his breath on my neck. He nibbled my earlobes, sending electricity all the way down to my pelvis. Without wasting too much time, we picked up where we left off and made out some more. Soon, his mouth found its way to my breasts, but this time, he started nibbling my nipples. First the left, then the right. My breath quickened. I could feel his erection swelling against my thigh, my wetness gathering in my panties.

The urge suddenly washed over me. I’m someone who likes to suck. Popsicle, hickey, cock, clit, you name it. Freud would say I’m in the oral stage. Regardless of what Freud thinks, at that moment I was living my best life. Pulling a nearly jiu-jitsu-like move, I managed to get the ambulance driver on his back. Where he belonged.

I want to suck your cock. 

He responded by removing his underwear. I could feel him harder than ever. I wrapped my lips around it. He let out a moan of pleasure. I wasn’t holding back. Though I wasn’t necessarily deep-throating him, I put everything I had into it. I could feel his body trembling.

Just like that, he was ready. Hard and lubricated. I climb up on his body and let my pussy swallow him. I’m riding the ambulance, a cowgirl satisfied with her steed. Very satisfied, if my vocal performance was any indication. He grabbed my hips, guiding my movements. I felt safe in his hands. He led me back to him. I took in the scent of his neck as he accelerated his pelvic thrusts.

Take me from behind. 

He obliged. On all fours on the mattress, I presented my body to him. His surprise lick made me moan, just before he inserted himself inside me again.

I instinctively bit down on the sheets to muffle my cries of pleasure. Doggy style is my favourite finale. I barely had time to massage my clit before I realized I was already orgasming. As if he couldn’t handle the spasms hugging his cock, he orgasmed too.

The next morning, I sipped my coffee in his kitchen, drinking my coffee with messy hair and a trace of mascara smudged beneath my lower eyelid. Casual, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a coffee about it.

Let’s do it again sometime? 

Yes, let’s absolutely do it again.

I pulled out my phone. We exchanged numbers. I finished off my coffee and put on my sweater. Don’t get me wrong, I like to drink my hot coffee in the nude—it’s both comfortable and daring—but I was ready to part ways. My needs were met, and I had a new emergency contact in my phone, too.

We didn’t kiss at the door on my way out. No need for any confusion.

A few weeks later, I received a text from him. 9-1-1 urgent sex, it said. Direct, just the way I liked it. We met at another Montreal bar, catching up over pints of crisp blonde.

This has been our routine for years.

All this to say, first responders are definitely essential workers.