Rating: NNNNN
My hand-written collection of erotica is growing, scrawled on slightly drooled-over pages in a frilly girl journal.
The thing is, I have a drive to fuck, and it is relentless. It asserts itself regularly, pulling me around smoky bars where the drinks are ridiculously expensive, the bathrooms a health hazard, and the only thing that stays with me longer than one night is the ringing in my ears.
Attempting to boldly enter singledom, I extract myself from my basement apartment. I push myself to remember there’s a world beyond my cave’s overheated, sleep-all-day-cuz-it’s-so-dark bedroom and snack-food-filled pantry.
It’s tempting to let my computer and phone serve as my sole reminders of the outside world. I like them. They are accommodating. They allow me to mourn my loss in relative ease and quiet. They allow me to feel connected while never requiring me to leave this stuffy sanctuary. My drive to fuck, however, does not allow such luxury..
I’m all for self-love and self-sex and self-whatever-you-can-manage-without-hurting-your-back, but realistically, there are limits. I hate to call into question the sexperts’ words of wisdom, but there are times when my own hands (or accessories) don’t cut it. Perhaps, like an old married couple, I know myself, my ways, my touch too well and crave the delicious freedom of trying someone new.
So out I go, like the posties braving snow, sleet, rain and ice in weather-inappropriate clothing. I know there’s a 90 per cent chance that tomorrow morning, my journal and I will be getting it on together – not because I got some good loving and can’t wait to tell, but because I didn’t and that brain-numbing drive has to have its say.
This incessant drive takes me to a local women’s joint. Since this environment is new to me, I have to ask my friends how one “does” this. Apparently, I lack social savvy, so my overly helpful friend quickly points out women and asks what I think. Is she my type? Am I attracted to her? Would I like to get into her pants?
I can hardly answer before my friend offers to introduce me to a friend of hers who happens to be in town for the weekend. It turns out she’s standing just steps away, wearing red lipstick, a sexy black sweater and tight jeans that are (not literally) shouting, “Fuck me!” I lower my voice, begin visibly shaking and try to make myself as small as possible.
“Well?” insists my friend. I instantly morph from my cocky out-in-the-bar-world self to a 12-year-old boy too shy to make eye contact or ask a girl to dance. My friends laugh at this sudden loss of bravado and decide I’m not yet ready for the “real thing.”
They may be right, but in the aftermath of a breakup I tend to be delusional, so after getting as far away as possible from the one woman I have a very real chance of meeting, I revert to hunter-gatherer mode my body is dictating and foolishly imagine myself capable of making a conquest.
I run into a casual acquaintance and begin chatting. She introduces me to her crowd of friends, and I think, “Great opportunity!” Through the fog of smoke I notice one cute, soft, butch woman. After we yell sound bites at each other, I decide she’s rather sweet and interesting. I ask her about herself, her work, her interests. The conversation is quite engaging, and I’m relieved to meet someone I can talk to. I fantasize getting up the courage to ask her to dance, despite the fact that my flirt-receiving radar is reading low to non-existent.
I’m on the verge of making some kind of move when her girlfriend saunters over, hands my new acquaintance a Sleemans and kisses her on the lips. The girlfriend turns to me and smiles. I act casual, trying to carry on the conversation we’ve been having. Unfortunately, my throat has closed up – from the smoke, no doubt – and I have an sudden thirst for a drink myself.
“Can I get anyone anything?” I ask as I scuttle off to find my friends and a beer.
I spend the rest of the evening avoiding the woman in lipstick, my casual acquaintance and the friend who will set me up in an instant.
Home at last, I snuggle into flannel pyjamas and discover the drive is still there. In search of relief, I pick up my pen and begin again.
