On Impotence and being Earnest.

On Friday I spent two of the sunniest hours of the day cooped up inside the dank, syphilitic dungeon that is Camberwell GUM Clinic awaiting a check-up. And in case you’re wondering... I am a-symptomatic. You may be wondering why I spent such a very large part of a warm day getting my non-existent symptoms for non-existent STIs checked out. Why, when there is so much pear cider to be drunk?

Well, amongst other things, this week has seen me almost have sex with a boy wearing nothing but a smile and a beard. And I mean nothing – not even a nod to prophylaxis. So. Best to get it all checked out. And as a reward for sitting in there for two – I hope – totally pointless hours, I decided to start a blog about my sex life. Because sometimes it’s nice to get it off (your chest).

The week’s leading man had been Jim (no, obviously I’m not going to use real names), an absurdly thin Russell-Brand-alike that I met a month or so ago at a friend’s leaving drinks. We went on a day-date on Wednesday... I was a bit nervous to be honest – mostly because young Jim could actually be the poster boy for anorexia, striding around in women’s skinny jeans, whilst I on the other hand am looking more and more like the human haggis. It’s lucky he’s quite tall; otherwise he’d look like my bearded child. That’s a lot of pressure to heap on a gal, especially when putting together the dreaded date outfit (Before you ask: Aerosmith wife-beater and denim jacket, tights, plimsolls. Big hair. Sunglasses. Yeah – pretty 80s.)

We went for drinks in the afternoon, and then suddenly without me noticing it’s 7pm and I’m drunk. And then I behaved – well, quite badly really, all in all. I abandoned him to go to a gig I’d just been invited to, left the gig early, called and texted him several times, demanded he leave the party he was at to come and meet me, and then got into his bed with all my clothes on. No, I wasn’t feeling that amorous after 8 pints (I know, hideous), and just quite wanted to go to sleep thankyouverymuch. So why did I commute all the way to the other end of the Victoria line to go to his instead of mine?! I always think I’m quite normal and level. But I’m not. I’m bonkers. I am a bonkers woman - and I mean that in the pre-Dizzee sense.

He eventually got most of my clothes off, and then removed his at lightning speed. As he got on top of me (I’m thinking: ‘he’s as light as a feather’) and looked set to go for it sans condom, I said – a bit dramatically - “This is wildly irresponsible”. To which he replied “My cock’s wildly irresponsible”... *Suppressed laughter* (‘He didn’t just say that did he? He must, must, must have been joking. Shit, I don’t think he was joking’).

I love being a blogger. I’m having a fag and typing the word ‘cock’. If only the other attendees at the clinic had known... “I’m not rife with gonorrhoea! I’m going to be blogging about it! It’s for my blog!”. In the waiting room I am constantly scanning the other people there hoping that someone is showing signs of something horrific, whilst all the while making sure to Never. Make. Eye. Contact. On this visit I had a great nurse or healthcare assistant or something called Sofia. At the end of the appointment she offered me a “news leaflet”... I had to ask her what she meant 3 times before I realised she was saying “lubricant”. Oh, how we laughed.

(ALSO – Why am I being offered lube?! What’s lube got to do with sexual health? Oh God - Does she think I’m being bummed?!! She thinks I’m being bummed. She’s saving me from my own lifestyle by protecting my bum with tiny sachets of lube. How reassuring.)

Anyway. Back to Jim. Where were we? Ah yes – Mycock’swildlyirresponsible, suppressedlaughter... And then... Nothing. No wildly irresponsible cock in sight. His cock wasn’t wildly irresponsible; it was the Chairman of the Neighbourhood Watch. And so it remained, despite some quite earnest attempts by both of us over the next howeverlong. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in bed with Jim (night we met, missed last train etc etc) and this isn’t the first time this has happened...*Alarm bells alarm bells*... Am I wrong to be worrying at this stage? Should I be worried - if he does ever agree to see me again after my somewhat high-maintenance and selfish behaviour on Wednesday – that this might be some sort of (whisper it) problem? Because I’ve done dating (again, whisper it) boys who couldn’t get it up before, and frankly it’s a ball ache. For all concerned. But that’s a story for another day.

So. Do I bring it up, this not having sex that we’re doing? Or am I over-reacting to what is possibly just him being a bit pissed on two occasions? I enjoy his company a lot, but what are we doing here apart from just enjoying each other’s company in between jumping in to bed? I don’t want a boyfriend out of this situation, certainly not one who’s not having sex with me.

This is all, of course, assuming that he’s not currently holed-up somewhere up there in North London writing an anonymous blog about the insanely demanding girl in the Aerosmith t-shirt who is bloody hard work and better not want to be his girlfriend, or even ever see him again for that matter... But assuming all of that...

So there I was, in the GUM clinic, being responsible and pro-active and all those things you’re supposed to be where your genitalia are concerned. I thought about Jim, grinding his ineffectual penis against the inside of my thigh, and hoped he didn’t have the clap. Whilst I was waiting, two of the staff attempted to re-programme one of the vending machines - A seemingly endless process involving said vending machine emitting a high-pitched computer game style *BEEP BEEP* on and off for an hour... I wanted to beat a Chlamydia-ridden teen to death with a can of Vimto.

What to do about the impotent Mr Ripley? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ