Although it should be noted that I’m not a fan of excessive body hair, especially when it culminates on the chest and back. I’d landed up in bed with a man some years back whose chest was covered in so much coarse hair – almost boar-like – that I broke out in a severe rash from the constant rubbing back and forth. I had to go to my doctor the next day for rash cream.
I usually liked the way men smelled too, except for that date I’d gone on with the man who smelled like a pack of freshly opened Vienna sausages. And then of course there’s the whole sex part. Sex has always been somewhat of a mystery to me. The act is essentially the same in the way it’s physically conducted, and yet it can vary so much from person to person. And it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly what makes for good sex, and what makes for bad sex. And of course it’s also impossible to gauge what sort of sex it will be prior to having it. I’ve often wondered why dating apps don’t have some kind of rating system for that sort of thing. It would save so much trouble. Landing up in bed with someone who you’re just not sexually compatible with can be a very unpleasant experience.
For example, had I known that one of my online dates was into dirty talk during sex I would never have slept with him. I’m not a fan of conversation in general; I find it awkward and hard to keep up with. But when paired with sex and the man you’re with constantly describing in real time in graphic detail what he’s doing to you and what he intends to do with you next, it’s very off-putting. I shouted in his ear that he should ‘shut the hell up’, but this only seemed to encourage him, as he told me what a ‘naughty, naughty slut’ I was. I think ‘slut’ is a disgusting-sounding word.
But when sex is done correctly, when all those intangible elements come together, I enjoy it immensely, because it gets me out of my head. For a few blissful seconds the rampaging thoughts stop and the millions of conversations I have going on inside my head all at once, all the time, fade into oblivion. And for one moment, one amazing, glorious, awe-inspiring, blissful moment –silence.
Unfortunately, sex doesn’t come around as often as I would like it to, despite the fact that I’m fairly attractive and pride myself on being sufficiently good at the act of sex. The sex isn’t the hard part; it’s the converting of a meeting between two people into sex which is the part I fail at almost every single time. I’ve never been good at dating. Sipping awkwardly on wine while making polite small talk in which you make very shallow attempts to grab at mutual straws just to be able to tick the box of ‘getting to know each other’. This part always seems like the most ineffective use of time. Superfluous, unnecessary window-dressing that comes before the real undressing.
My thoughts dragged me back to one specifically disastrous sexual moment. The time I’d gotten my hair stuck in my date’s zipper after being in that general area for longer than I would have liked to be. It’s not that I’m against giving blow-jobs, but by the one-minute mark I’m always wondering why they can’t hurry up, and by the five-minute mark I’m wondering whether or not I should defrost the ready-meal for dinner or eat the leftovers or give them to the dogs?
Although I’d put my phone on silent mode, it suddenly burst forth with a series of dramatic vibrations that increased exponentially. I picked it up, swiped a few times and came face to face with the cause of said vibrations. A photo had been posted on the group. I enlarged the photo and peered at it. Class of 2013. I traced my eyes over the faces, trying to locate myself. It wasn’t that hard. I’d stuck out, even though we were all wearing the same school uniform. Flaming-red hair always scraped back into a high, tight bun on the top of my head. Everyone else seemed to have wispy bits of hair that hung around their faces. In fact, I’d seen them purposely pull those strands of hair out of their ponytails in the mornings. I’d never understood this – surely you would want your hair out of your face for school. I’d also worn chunky, ‘severe’ glasses back then, as my mother had called them. Every holiday she’d tried to take me to an optometrist to buy a more delicate pair, but I liked the ones I had. They were very hard-wearing, and I often dropped them – or dropped myself, to be more accurate – my clumsiness was well renowned. I scanned the photo for my only friend, Jennifer. She also stood out with her dyed-jet-black pixie cut and her pale face (she refused to sit in the sun). Speaking of Jennifer . . .
Jennifer:Gggrrrr! The WhatsApp group!
Pippa:I know!
Jennifer:They’ll all the same. Nothing’s changed, other than the fact that they seem to be incredibly prolific breeders. And marriers.
Jennifer:In fact, one of them seems to be regaling us with a story of her water birth right now.
My phone vibrated again, and I saw the message Jennifer was referring to. I typed back quickly.
Pippa:She used the word ‘enchanting’.
Jennifer:Last word I would have used. Mind you, I’ve never actually had a conscious water birth, or any kind of birth.
Jennifer:I wish I was there so I could go.
Pippa:You actually want to go?
Jennifer:Don’t you?
Pippa:No!
Jennifer:Come on – morbid curiosity. Like slowing down at a car crash. You have to go and then tell me all about it.
Pippa:Why don’t you go if you’re so eager?
Jennifer:Well, I live on this little island called Australia – you heard of it?
Jennifer:Not to mention the fact that I’m currently in my psychiatry residency and am trying to douse the flames of a full religious war raging on my ward.
Pippa:The two Jesuses still there?
Jennifer:One of them thinks he might be Moses now. He’s trying to part things. The poor nurses are constantly having to put the furniture back together.
Jennifer:Please go to the reunion . . .
Jennifer:I want to know what they look like now. In fact, buy one of those button cameras and stream it live to me.
Pippa:You seriously want me to go?
Jennifer:Yes!
Jennifer:Besides, it might actually be good for them to see someone whose sole purpose in life is not to give birth and walk down the aisle. Think of it as your duty as a fulfilled, single career woman.
Pippa:I’ll think about it.
