dating, friendship, humour, single and happy

67. Capitalism stole my sex life!

I think I’ve realised why people get married so young. I always wondered what the big rush was. What’s your hurry honey? Forever can wait another year or two. Strap on a backpack and hit the road. See the world. Make love with the wrong people. Make friends with the right people. Mess up. Learn. Fill your head with memories that will nourish you in the decades to come.

Well, what do I know? I should have gotten hitched when I had the chance. Because once you’re in your thirties your time disappears. Poof. Gone. But, wait, it was right here. It was right fucking here! Where did it go? Two words: rat race. I am in it, my friends. The pistol was fired, I started jogging and a decade later I had morphed into the human equivalent of IBM. I am a keyboard. I am a logo. I am emails-on-the-go and coffee going cold and back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-black meetings.

I don’t even like running. I’ve got knees like a couple of warm Babybels, I shouldn’t be putting any pressure on those runny fuckers whatsoever. And yet here I am pounding the streets of London with all the other vermin. I wake up in the wee hours and frantically send emails over soggy cereal. I come home and spend the evening wining and dining a spreadsheet. I lug my laptop around like it’s a third arm or a big, shiny, exhausting baby.

The thought of going on dates with people is absurd. By the end of the working day, I’m good for nothing but being swept into the garbage like a broken bowl. I stagger home with a clutch of ready meals and a head buzzing with angry flies. I can’t even imagine having sex with anyone. What would I say?

“Shall we make love?”

“No because making love implies time. Don’t talk to me. Don’t cuddle me. Don’t fondle me, flirt with me, titillate or tease me. I don’t want candles or wine or playlists or sensuously peeling off your lingerie with my teeth. Forget the massage, changing positions or gunning for multiples. Just go straight for the clit, stay there relentlessly until it’s done and then let me go to sleep.”


Thankfully I’m going on holiday in a few days. Two weeks of star gazing and yoga and wine and sunshine and all the laughter with my best friend. I’m going to shove my laptop under the bed and fill my bag with books. I’m going to turn off my alarm, my wifi and my roaming. I’ll be a glutton for banishment, a happy hermit in big ruddy boots and a splash of sunscreen. I’m going to sleep – lavishly –and let my strength steep.

I might not get my sex life back but at least I’ll get my life back. And I’m sure my mojo won’t be far behind.

Ps. I’m taking a break for a couple of weeks. I’ll be back on Tuesday 17 April x

Photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash