Single White Female

There is an ancient Chinese curse “May you live in interesting times”. Well, my sex life had become just a bit too interesting in the last few months, but not in a good way. Between break-ups, tearful reconciliations, and even more break-ups, there wasn’t a dull moment. Like our relationship, my break-up with Conor was passionate. If I’d been Mediterranean, not Irish, I would have thrown plates at his head.

After yet another argument and with a heartfelt sigh of regret, I decided long distance romance had lost its charms and that the single life was for me. And thus the knot was undone.
There are two schools of thought on being romantically unattached. On the one hand, there’s the misery bunch that stay at home contemplating their TV remotes; and on the other, those who remember that the world is now theirs for the taking. Well, I wasn’t going to become a shrinking violet. I did what any sensible girl would do. I went out, determined to make hay while the sun shone.
I’ve always enjoyed being single. So much so that, for long periods of my life, I have been allergic to anyone who looked like potential boyfriend material. Instead of riding off into the sunset with the handsome hero, I preferred to go carousing with the villain. Cosy coupledom has its advantages, but late nights flirting with beautiful strangers are not to be sniffed at either.
I have never understood serial monogamy. If you are single, you should make the most of it. Between relationships, I like to take my time checking the temperature. You need a decent break from all that fidelity, cross-checking of schedules and constant body maintenance. Plus, if you play it effectively, you get to date a variety of people, snog strangers and generally misbehave with members of the opposite sex. Singledom is like a tapas bar. You can have a nibble of this and a taster of that, without having to commit to a three course Sunday lunch with the family.
For the most part it’s all fun and games, but – as most of you will know only too well – casual dating has its hazards. There is always the remote chance that a perfectly harmless looking stranger will turn out to be an axe murderer or have a supply of Rohypnol in his back pocket. But extreme cases aside, usually the worst that can happen is that you waken up the morning after remembering a disappointing date.
The person you thought looked great under the influence of strobe lights may turn out to have no conversational skills, as well as filthy fingernails or a brood of Mini-mes. What I was hoping for was a number of erotically charged casual encounters during which our lives – mine and my newest lovers, that is – intersected for a few intensely pleasurable, but mercifully brief, moments before I skipped off onto the next one. But damn it! That’s not what happened.
In the not too distant past I met Thomas. He ticked all the boxes – good looking, intelligent and single. Punch drunk on a combination of my newly found freedom, feminist bolshiness and perhaps a touch too much Chablis, I decided to ask him out. Thankfully, he said yes.
On Friday of the following week I met him for dinner and drinks. It was one of those evenings where it all comes together. He looked good and smelt even better. We had plenty to talk about, shared similar interests, and liked the same music and movies. He even laughed at my jokes. He seemed to be that mythical creature, the Perfect Man. Surely there had to be a flaw?
Unlike a regular human being, the Perfect Man does not try following you home on the first date. Being interested in your mind, they are prepared to wait for the right moment to get their hands on your body. Fair enough. I have no objection to slow seduction; it’s good for building sexual tension. Not rushing in is an almost sure-fire method of making a woman want to sleep with you – if sex is being held in reserve, we get even friskier.
After a certain number of perfect but sexually uneventful dates had passed, I began to worry. At this stage the sexual tension was running so high, I had practically burnt out the motor on my favourite vibrator. What if the whole thing was a complete let-down? What if our bodies didn’t work together? Or he screamed something weird upon ejaculation? Perhaps he’d find me a disappointment? Worse again, maybe it would all turn out to be just a little bit boring?
Having sex with someone you really like for the first time can be a little scary. When the fateful day finally arrived, I felt like a reborn virgin – weighed down by an excess of pent up sexual frustration and more than a little nervous. At least part of the appeal of a one-night stand is that you won’t have to face the person again. In the event that it all goes horribly wrong, there’s no need for awkwardness afterwards. You say your goodbyes, no mess, no fuss. Things had gone so well on every other front that this was not going to be the way here.
Like most worries in life, this one turned out to be pointless. Like everything in the build-up, it was perfect.
It’s a rare man that plays hard to get. Through mutual friends Thomas had heard tales of my break-up with Conor. Out of consideration for my recently demised relationship, he suggested he preferred to wait. A likely story, hah! Personally I think he's just a smart fecker who realised that if I’d had sex with him too soon, I might have dumped him and moved on, Perfect Man or not.
And of course he was right. Like the spring weather, I find that my mood is changeable. Suddenly serial monogamy doesn’t seem like quite such a bad idea after all. I could even get into it, as they say…