Twenty-eight days. Twenty-eight wretched days. That’s how long I’ve been celibate recently. It’s not that I’ve become a reformed character, taken up religion or developed a chronic illness. Rest assured!

Luckily, I do have a very good reason for this perverse behaviour – I’d want to, or Mr Stokes might decide to hand me my P45 for dereliction of duty. The problem is that my lovely, sweet and delicious Conor has gone off to work in London.
Those of you who read this column regularly will know that I spent the last few weeks in South Africa. It was lovely blah blah blah – but just a little far from the UK to pop over for the weekend. So upon my return home I was counting the days until I could present myself at the Ryanair check-in counter and head over for some much-missed TLC.
Now I don’t mean to grumble, nor do I think my trip into the sexual desert is particularly noteworthy. I don’t expect to see headlines in the tabloids – Sex Columnist in Celibacy Shocker! Slapper Admits to Month of No Nooky! However, while complaining to one of South African mates about my enforced celibacy, I was surprised to learn that he hadn’t been laid for months. And unlike me, the poor guy had no foreseeable solution to the problem.
I have been celibate for varying lengths at different times in my life. The longest episode was about six months – and I was actually dating someone at the time! But that’s a whole different story.
I decided to do a survey among my friends. I was shocked – and somewhat relieved – to find I was not the only one who’d done without, or rather had to do without, sex. Their feelings about the situation varied, but as you’d expect, the blokes seemed to be suffering more frequently than the girls.
I was amused when one of my mates admitted, in an embarrassed whisper, that he’d once failed to score for two whole weeks. Granted he’s a bit of a player, but you’d think he’d been confessing to some particularly nasty fungal infection around the privates. In truth, Warren’s two-week deprivation paled into nothing when I learnt that two of my friends had been celibate for nearly two years. Two years! I am rarely at a loss for words, but that revelation had me stumped.
Why do attractive, intelligent, young people not get laid for long periods of time? My lovelorn friends do not have a penchant for Hawaiian shirts, sacrificing kittens or yodelling. They are both perfectly lovely, so I could not understand why they hadn’t managed to hook up with someone. Like a modern day Miss Marple, I decided to do some snooping.
Since this was a serious social study, scientific methodology was required. It is well documented that the application of large quantities of alcohol has the effect of loosening the tongue, so I opted for this time-honoured technique. Here’s what I found…
For some people celibacy is a choice. My friend Henri had decided that one-night stands were not for him, nor was he ready to be in a relationship. Olivia, on her part, was waiting for Mr Right. Fact is, that most sexual relationships, no matter how casual, involve a degree of compromise, and if you are unable or unwilling to do this, it may be easier to snuggle up with a book instead.
If you choose celibacy, that’s one thing; you’ve made your bed, so you’re welcome to lie in it alone. But a number of people end up being celibate, essentially because they are scared of rejection. This seems a real shame to me, as it’s not lack of opportunity, but lack of courage that’s at the root of it. I used to be incredibly shy, so I’m sympathetic. Not only do they miss out on the joys of sex, but on all the pleasures of a relationship too.
Somebody should organise a Speed-dating evening for the shy. You can mumble you’re way through your three minutes, while the other person blushes back at you. Anyone who fails to call at least two people the following week should be penalised €50.
Celibacy can become more common, as we get older. 30-somethings may find fewer singles of their own age out on the prowl. But perhaps they only have themselves to blame. Certainly, Adam – who confessed weariness at the whole idea of going out to score – has no one else to blame. He reckoned having to get rid of yet another girl he wouldn’t be interested in seeing again outweighed the pleasure of sex.
Fair enough, if that’s your style, but in the next breath he complained about being single. He wanted a girlfriend, but not the hassle of actually finding one. You can order sex over the phone along with a pizza and a DVD if you’re not averse to that kind of thing – but if you want romance, you gotta put in the hard graft.
In my youth I suspected that most married couples were reduced to sex about once a week. Between making packed lunches, worrying about the mortgage and fighting over the remote control, you’d think that they wouldn’t have a whole lot of time. If anyone should be turning the country into a mass of heaving, sweaty, naked bodies, you’d think it would be single people.
Truth is – as surveys confirm – married people generally have more sex than singles. Maybe the ready availability of porn is undermining the moral fibre of this generation after all.
I was explaining to my older, married sister why my cosy cohabitation had become a long-distance relationship and that I was planning to see Conor every two weeks. She was appalled. Without any regard for my feelings for the boy, she recommended that I replace him with a more geographically convenient mate as soon as possible. Two weeks, she declared, was just too long.
My sister has four kids and been married for fifteen years; it seems grossly unfair that she’s having sex more frequently than I am. But compared to some of my mates, I guess I have no right to complain. And if the two weeks apart do seem very long, well, at least I have sex toys and a filthy imagination to keep me going.
Unlike hotpress, I don’t plan on coming fortnightly.