The Divine Chemistry

I know what you're thinking: It must be fun being a sex blogger... Right? I mean, sure, I don’t tell anyone that I sleep with that I do it, but there’s a certain shallwesay confidence that comes with knowing I’m going to write about their penises and dissect their performance. With that confidence, or “arrogance” as some would call it, I know that I can turn on the charm (in some way/shape/form/level of inebriation) and at least claim a moderate level of success.

But that illusion has now been smashed, cruelly, by the events of last night. Even a journalistically hard-nosed professional blogger such as myself would have to admit that events did not go as planned. I’m getting ahead of myself; let me set the scene...

Luke and I have been dating for a couple of weeks now. I would like to stress that we were kicking it old school on this front; in fact we were being positively Austenian in terms of self-restraint. Which is why, on date number four, we hadn’t so much as put hands up thick-knit jumpers. I think I was approaching a new record.

We met up for drinks as our (mutual) local – take note of that for later as you picture future awkward encounters – and were having a lovely time. He is funny and intelligent and interested in the world, and at least for the time being I was managing to persuade him that I was too. Despite being the preamble to the most awkward/embarrassing events of my life, it was extremely good fun.

After the pub we went back to his, on his suggestion I hasten to add; I was still being chaste and trying to pretend I didn’t mind either way. It’s still well below freezing in London, and his flat was like the arctic tundra. So we got under a blanket on the sofa and snuggled up. It was actually kind of romantic...

We started kissing, and I twisted myself round to face him. He put his arms around me and... Stopped. I was confused. But not to worry, I was confident that there was more kissing to come.

I will now quote word for word the most mortifying sentence I have ever heard.

Luke: “Is it just me or is there no chemistry between you and me?”

Me: “!?!”

Ohmotherfuckingholygod. Did that just happen? Did that actually just happen?! But I’m a sex blogger! It’s, like, my god-given ability to make people think they have chemistry with me. That’s how I manage to write this bloody blog in the first place! I cannot physically believe that he said that. Especially when he could have just shagged me and THEN told me! Not fair. Not fair at all.

[Also, it renders this entire post completely pointless. Apart from for the sake of allowing you all to share in my cringing embarrassment, which I suppose has some value. *Sigh*]

So there we were. I hadn’t really registered it until then, but I think I’d been mentally putting rather a lot of eggs into the Luke basket. And now they lay smashed underfoot like so many little Humpty Dumptys under the hooves of all the King’s horses. And amongst those shattered eggs were the fragments of my pride and self-confidence. How had I misread this so badly?! No chemistry? No fucking chemistry?!

I realised that in the 17 silent seconds since Luke asked that fateful rhetorical question, I had shifted all the way to the far end of the sofa, and crossed my arms. I didn’t even notice I was doing it, but I’m pretty sure there’s got to be something to that whole “defensive body language” thing. I may have been – for the first time ever – rendered utterly speechless, but my angry little arms were speaking volumes.

Eventually he said “Does it make it worse if I say I’d really like us to be friends?”

Yes. Yes it fucking does.

I should actually say at this point that despite my furious tone, and despite the wonderful mileage anecdotally, I didn’t actually feel that pissed off. For someone with such a propensity for blind rage and high drama, I just felt... Disappointed.

... A revelation which leads me to believe that Luke was right all along. Maybe we didn’t have the necessary spark after all? I mean, he didn’t rip my clothes off, but I wasn’t ripping his off either. I know I was attempting to be chaste, but I’ve never managed it before so what was it about Luke that meant I could?! Yes, I’d apparently hoped for quite a lot after our first few dates, but was I just making do because on paper we’re so well suited?

Luke walked me home and gave me a kiss on the cheek (ouch). I got into my bed and screwed my face up to see if I could have a little cry. But there was nothing. I think, in all honesty, despite this being the most humiliating moment of my life to date, I’m actually not heartbroken over the loss of Luke. And lest we forget, he and I are going to be friends after all...

I wonder how that one will pan out? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Breakfast Epiphanies

*HA-LLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HA-LLELUJAH HA-LLE-LU-JAH!*

I feel like I am in a movie montage. I’m pretty sure Katrina and The Waves was playing in the background as I walked down the street just now, and there may or may not have been troupes of dancers breaking into a GAP-advert-style routine all around me as I went...

FINALLY, after almost TWO AND A HALF MONTHS, I have had some sex. GREAT sex. I’m sorry, I can’t unjam my finger from the Caps Lock... It’s just that everything is right with the world again. Life is wonderful! It is literally amazing what a good bit of sex does for morale.

Just when it got to the stage where I was so frustrated I felt like I might go into a primary school with a machine gun, along comes the man of my dreams (please excuse the very heavily rose-tinted spectacles, I am still in that post-coital phase where I am in love with the world) and sweeps me onto my back. Joy!

Adam and I have recently been reunited after several years out of contact... We met at High School, and between the ages of 11 and 16 he was the bane of my life. I loved and hated him in equal measure, and all with the passion that only a teenage girl can muster. And then I moved away to college and we just lost contact. But now, seven years later, he’s moved down to London and I’ve been showing him around the town. And by showing him around the town, I mean getting him blind drunk on black sambuca and inviting him to stay in my bed.

My housemate was awake when we got in, and I actually did a little excited jig in the kitchen with him whilst Adam went to the loo. I like to think that aforementioned housemate was incredibly impressed by the calibre of man I had bought back. Adam is devastatingly gorgeous. If I am being perfectly honest, I was incredibly impressed with myself. I was reaching breaking point, after the longest period of celibacy in... Well, years. I’d have had sex with a ginger dwarf if he’d offered. But no – here was Adam. All cheek bones and feline eyes and 6’3” of lovely broadness. There are those rose tinted specs again. But really, he is spectacular.

That of course carries its own problems... What’s the protocol when the man in your bed is so attractive you feel like you want to book out every doctor on Harley Street from now until 2012 in a futile attempt to be worthy of their attention?! Buggerbuggerbugger! Is it too much to ask that I look just a little bit more like Angelina Jolie please?! I mean, she and I share the essential genetics, but past the cellular level the similarities sadly end. Of course it doesn’t really matter... Not really really. Once you’ve got your clothes off, most men don’t care what you look like. And if you’ve mastered the blow job, well. You could be a ginger dwarf, they really wouldn’t give a flying fuck.

Having said that, so long has it been since I had sex, I had almost forgotten how it was done. “Right, so just remind me... Where does this go?” (probably best you don’t answer that). Luckily I think I managed to get back into the swing of things without too much trouble...

And wow. Wow. All I was thinking was – “Let’s never stop doing this”. I could imagine a point in the distant future where the force of my addiction to having sex with Adam meant that I wasn’t eating or sleeping, and eventually the Police would knock down the door when the smell started seeping out, and our emaciated little bodies would be found atop an enormous pile of Durex. I don’t know if this is an image I will ever share with Adam. I think perhaps not.

Sex again this morning was lovely, and a bit calmer than last night’s whirlwind. When Adam suggested we go out and get breakfast I was a) A bit panicked at the thought of letting him leave my bed, b) Thrilled at the idea of being seen having breakfast with a demigod (I know, I know. I’m being over the top), and c) Impressed. Men are so often a bit weird the morning after sex – and I know I’m not alone in having experienced this. They dart off making weird excuses, like they can hear us humming the wedding march under our breath. I realise that I have just painted a scenario where I trapped Adam into sexual assisted suicide. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT, YEAH? That’s purely a sex thing. Surely most men would like to be shagged to death?

Although... You know... It was really great at breakfast. Maybe it’s not purely a sex thing? Crikey, that’s quite the epiphany to have over a sausage sandwich (no euphemism intended). As I sat there and thought about it, I could sort of see Adam and I, a few years down the line; taking long walks along the beach with our dogs, me crying with happiness as he slips the enormous diamond engagement ring onto my finger... WhatamIsaying?!?!?! I’ve become completely irrational. I think I might be high on sex. I need to go and have a lie down and regain my senses.

And then, once I’m feeling completely back to normal, I’ll ask Adam to be my boyfriend. No! No! *deep breaths deep breaths* Be. Sensible.

I will ask him round to dinner.

Yeah... That’s what I’ll do. That seems reasonable. Right?!

I mean, we’re very old friends... There’s nothing wrong with asking a very old friend round to dinner is there? He couldn’t possibly construe anything from that. Could he?! I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ