Today I told a married man who dropped by and wanted to canoodle with me for the third time, that I couldn’t do it, it couldn’t be “just sex”, because I liked him too much. As he was already committed, and that wasn’t going to change, we’d have to stop.

It was a bit dramatic but it was also just a bit sad and ordinary. We talked, understood where each other were coming from and all that shite, we hugged and he left. It was intensely frustrating. If I could have suspended my feelings I could have had another fantastic time in bed with him again – we clicked on a very simple warm level, earthy, liking each other, eyes dancing, never far from a smile. He was Irish. He was like the older boy I used to fancy in the changing rooms in school – a beefy mulletted Norseman, supercharged with sporty passion, uncomplicated. None of your fancy “top” or “bottom” roleplaying shenanigans – with him it didn’t matter. When chemistry is right, just a touch or a lick does the trick.
I’d like to say that I was thinking of his wife and doing the honourable thing in nipping it in the bud, but I was being purely selfish. I’m not built to cope with deceit. It pains me. If I had had sex with him again, afterwards, I’d have descended into the hell realm once more and be consumed with jealousy and loss and self-pity. So I didn’t. That’s maturity for you. That’s self-protection. What red-blooded male turns down really hot sex when it turns up at your door, panting? This one. This grown-up fool.
Like many men, he manages his deceit by not getting emotionally involved with anyone but his wife. “It wouldn’t be fair on you,” says he. “I’m just looking for a piece of ass,” says he. “And you’re a very nice piece of ass,” he flannels. But also: “if it doesn’t work out, I’ll be knocking on your door,” says he. Yeah, right. This is why Irish men drive me insane, as much as I love them. The fucking lying charm.
A Sikh man, with stunning lustrous eyes, silky black fur, and long blue-black tresses under his turban, once told me, when I called him, that he didn’t want to meet me again, after a highly erotic night. His reason was that I was too curious about him, I was too friendly. It angered him, “everyone” asking him about his family and culture and religion, and how he squared it with having sex with men. “It’s my right to be a sex object,” he said, “why won’t people let me be one?”
Twice this week I’ve heard intelligent, otherwise sensible women speak with contempt and disgust about men who have casual sex with women, as if they’re the lowest of the low. And we’re not talking cheating husbands here, just men who sleep around, with consenting adult women. In their value system, those men are pigs. It’s not the first time I’ve come across that scorching rant, but twice in one week from women who don’t know each other at all, I find a bit weird. I don’t think women know quite how terrifying that scorn can be, how men will avoid talking about sex honestly with them for fear of running foul of it. But that scorn is important – it is what keeps the social structure of the family going. But then so do the lies that the men tell their wives in return. Twin pillars of the institution of marriage, as old as Zeus and Hera.
Sometimes women treat me as if I’m a neutered, playful, non-sexual being, because I don’t cast my roving eye over them. They imagine that, as I’ve been baffled and hurt in the past by the behaviour of philandering boyfriends, that I must be like them, and share the same castigating view of the sexually adventurous. Truth be told, I feel extremely split sometimes; there is a part of me that feels like a suburban hausfrau, and another part that is a bit of an über-mensch throwing his dick around wherever he can get the opportunity. Hey ho.
We comfort ourselves with fictions to prevent us with dealing with all sorts of horrors: pain, cruelty, disloyalty, emptiness, meaninglessness, abuse, fear of difference. Our collective understanding of the world is built upon these fictions. That men and women understand each other about sex and relationships. That people truly understand each other. That religion is about spirituality. That politics is about doing good. That nationalism means anything. That politicians are servants of the people. That we take every care in our society to protect children from harm. That America is a democracy. That party politics matter at all, when faced with the might of the multinationals. That the West has a right to control the Middle East’s wealth. That George W Bush actually makes decisions. That Tony Blair is a decent man because he believes what he says. That those photos depicting the sexual humiliation of Iraqi prisoners will not prove to all modest Muslims that the West’s moral decay is absolute, if proof were needed. That scientists are objective, and are the best people to decide whether or not we interfere with evolution and fiddle with the genes of plants and animals. That fame brings happiness. That celebrities are to be envied. That television programmes portray real life, that the press reports the truth about poverty, and government, and corruption. That the World Bank helps poor countries. That relationships stop us feeling lonely. That life is full and fair and wholesome, and that we deserve happiness.
Trying to live a non-fiction life is not easy. Fiction at least gives us ground rules, the comfort of a beginning, a middle and an end. And a moral, if we want one.
How nice it would be to have a
moral.