It has been 224 days since I had sex.
As in, the last time I had sex I had to run out because I was late for a pantomime. It was almost Christmas.
This is not the longest I have gone without sex (376 days was a record) so I am still functioning, like a beaver who has learnt to adapt to the winter.
After a while, it seems potential sexual partners can detect that you are no longer, to quote my GP, “sexually active”. I’m like a dusty Volkswagen Beatle at the car garage, watching as buyers drive away in their shiny Fiat 500s.
Not that I mind too much. Part of me thinks that being sexless is quite empowering. I’m like an Amazonian warrior who doesn’t need a man.
Besides, I don’t think I’d know what to do in the bedroom if a penis was sprung upon me. I’d probably laugh and give it a name.
But the problem is, I’ve realised I talk about sex (or, my lack thereof) a lot. Too much, in fact. At work drinks with my new colleagues and boss, I apparently kept going on about how long it had been. Mortifying.
The downside to not having sex is that it becomes all you can think about. A man keeps the lift door open and I wonder if he is a tender lover. I meet eyes with a sweaty man on the train and wonder if that’s his post-sex glow. My dreams have become graphic and ridiculous (case in point: last night I had to have sex with an American official in order to take down Trump).
The biggest downside, however, is the time to think. The more time that passes, the more I wonder why one-night stands never turn into more regular appointments, or even boyfriends.
Is it because my personality is a bit “too much”, or is it my mediocre sexual technique?
Which led me down a rabbit hole to Reasons I’m Probably Not Having Sex:
- I’m not flexible. I went to a Pilates class, where we had to stretch our legs above our heads. The 50-year old men had no problems and looked like ballerinas. My legs were stuck at a 45-degree angle and started shaking when I tried to lift them.
- I get out of breath quickly. I have had to stop mid-sex to catch my breath. When it comes to cardiovascular activity, I am like a pensioner with asthma.
- I make weird jokes. Or, even worse, I laugh mid-sex because I find the situation amusing.
- I call sexual partners “mate”, even if I have fantasised about our wedding.
- I prefer to keep as many clothes on as possible during sex. Even if the light is off or he is blind, I need to be wearing a bra and T-shirt.
- I am lazy. Going on top is the only exercise I do in a year, and it’s painful. Arms aching, legs burning, bum wobbling…I’d much rather lie back and think of bacon.
But despite all of this, I have decided to “put myself out there” because “life begins at the end of your comfort zone” (I like inspo quotes, arrest me.)
I had intended to go speed dating, but you need to be 23 to sign up. The idea of being kicked out because I was underage was just too similar to 17-year-old me trying to buy Vodka from Tesco without an ID.
So I’ve downloaded Tinder instead. I’ve decided Bumble is designed to make you feel inept. There are multitudes of beautiful men on display, but the odds of matching one, coming up with a good first line, receiving a reply, arranging to meet up, and falling in love/lust are too slim. It’s like one of those Claw Grabber Machines at an arcade: we all know we’re not going home with the iPhone X on display.
I’m also excited because next weekend I’m going to a karaoke bar with my friends. I’m not saying I will pull there – especially given that I am as tone-deaf as a bad X Factor audition. But maybe a rendition of Singles Ladies will make me feel more empowered.