Last month I threw away my bullet. Poof. Gone. There was nothing wrong with it. It hadn’t worn out or wound down or fizzled up on the insides like an old radio. It still hit the spot, made me squirm and writhe and gasp and sing like a canary all over the bed sheets. I just made a decision it was time to end it and I ended it. Plop. In the bin. Another useless bit of plastic swimming in a dump somewhere. I know. I KNOW. Someone fetch an ambulance or a fire engine or a detective to find this poor woman’s marbles. What’s wrong with me? Vibrators are awesome. They’re a single woman’s best friend. They’re the slightly seedier version of getting a cat. Me, my vibe and my pussy: We’re one big, happy, creepy family.
Does anyone get the perfect amount of sex? My friends and I talk a lot about our love lives and so often sex is a bone of contention even in happy relationships. There seems to be a lot of mismatched expectation and negotiation: a lot of pleading, begging, gnashing, blocking, sighing, yearning, weeping, scrabbling, silent mounting and tearful pleas to “get off me so I can go to sleep.”
Maybe I’m naïve, but I assumed most people had the same values as me: don’t steal or lie, don’t cheat on your exams or taxes or people, be kind to others, help if you can, work hard, protect your family, protect our world. Actually, I’ve been surprised at how often our values aren’t in synch: how many people are disingenuous or dishonest; how many are cruel or lazy or neglectful; how many can’t see how their actions make our world and hearts a bleaker place.
The first time you have sex with a woman is a complete minefield. I don’t want to do men a disservice or anything, but they’re mostly pretty easily pleased between the sheets. Just swing your legs around a bit and yodel and they’ll usually sort themselves out quite happily.
Doubts have begun to creep in, like ants crawling over a summer picnic. It starts with a relatively innocent request: a sexy photo for her to moon over late at night. So one evening I get home from the office, wriggle into a slinky LBD and dim the lights ready to titillate my paramour.
For our third date the artist takes me for a walk on the beach; a little slice of Costa del Kent. I’ve come to her home town, over an hour by train from mine, with a wheelie suitcase packed with champagne, strawberries, perfume and lingerie. We still haven’t slept together and I’m a bubbling mix of lust and nerves.
For our second date I invite the Blond over to mine. She arrives thoughtfully with a bottle of white and a bottle of red, which we sip curled up on my sofa putting the world to rights. After two and a half hours though neither of us has made a move and the evening is in danger of ending with a chaste peck on the cheek and an Uber.