Diary of a Crap Lesbian: Sex & The Singleton

Diary of a ‘crap lesbian’ part six…

Mummy – I know you are proud of me, that I have achieved something, no matter how small. I know you like to read what I write, but in this case I am going to suggest that you don’t, because I am going to talk about sex. I know that we can, and do, have conversations about pretty much anything, especially after a G&T or five, but on some subjects, I feel the less said the better. So, I’ll make you a deal; you stop reading now, and I won’t tell anyone you like Il Divo.

Right, that said, let’s talk about sex, baby.

My usual method of research for a column such as this is conversation. I will pick up on an idea that’s being discussed, an anecdote that has been told, or call my girls in the wee small hours to get their take on an thought I’ve had myself. Unhappily, in this case that’s not to be. My friends are married, engaged, or happily committed to their partners. I am not. So very much not that I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me. So, it is with some consternation that I embark on the subject of sex, without an army of quotes and stories to back me up.

You, astute as you are, have probably picked up that I am a single lady. I am also a vacuum cleaner; I have a number of attachments, at least one of which has no particular function so far as I can ascertain, but I’m sure will come in handy some day. If that sounds harsh a propos the person involved, well, it is. As sure as I am that they hold me the same regard, I make no bones about declaring it publicly. At the time of writing I have three regular partners, all of whom are aware that there is no exclusivity to our relationship. In the immortal word of Phoebe Buffay – I am an oat-sewin’-field-playin’ juggler. Once my balls have been juggled, my field has been played and my oats have been sewed maybe I’ll settle down to monogamy. Somehow I doubt it. Que sera sera.

Valentines Day is just around the corner. Hallmark doesn’t make a ‘Congratulations You’re A Slut’ card. Having introduced civil partnership cards just recently, maybe there’s hope for me yet.

There – I admitted it. I’m a slut, and I’m reclaiming the term. It’s nothing groundbreaking. The word has been reclaimed before and by far better than me, but now it’s my turn. I’m no Black Lace heroine, I’m not indiscriminate, and though a few of my choices have been somewhat influenced by gin, on the whole they are rather good. There have been times, a few infamous incidents (remind me to tell you some time) spring immediately to mind, where my sexual choices have been less than appropriate, but if I had to go back and do it (or them) all again, I would. Give me the chance to make my mistakes again, and I’ll do it with enthusiasm and much greater aplomb and cool style. They have made me who I am.

There are two difficulties with my sluttery, though the first is not mine. It is this – since when did friends exes become a no-go area? Let me explain – I have two, fairly separate, groups of friends. The first, the newest, holds a philosophy of share and share alike, but do it with an eye on your, and your lovers, ethics. You have your own moral code, and try to ensure that anyone with whom you might enter into a relationship holds a similar stance. The other group, the old school friends, ex-colleagues et cetera, maintain a more traditional view. They are monogamous, at least in theory, and partners come and go. Once a significant other has gone, he or she is damaged goods. Off the market for anyone who knew them as part of the couple. Why? I understand that one may not want one’s friends enlightened to one’s sexual kinks and inadequacies, but surely a partner that would commit such a faux pas is Bad News, and not a suitable mate.

The other difficulty I have is entirely my own. I’ll be blunt. I have a titanic sex drive. On my mission to find someone who can keep up, thus far a search entirely without fruit, I have come across a number of poor, disillusioned souls who trot out the line ‘well, let’s see if we can’t do something about that’. Sorry boys (and it is invariably boys who say this), but you can’t. Once upon a time I believed people who said that to me, they never delivered, and I was left cynical and unsatisfied.

I’m not saying that the sex I have is bad, quite the opposite: it is uniformly good and I am grateful for it. It just that it doesn’t last long enough. All too often I am left with Romeo’s ‘wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied’ running through my brain. Quality over quantity they say. Fine, if we were discussing art I’d be inclined to agree with you (after all, the Mona Lisa is tiny and still beautiful) but we are not, so let’s dispel that myth right here and now. Get it on a t-shirt if you must, quality alone is good, but quality with quantity is better. In my case, quality without quantity is not quality at all. Maybe that was a little harsh, and not entirely true. I have, as noted above some good sex, some great sex and a little truly mind-blowing sex. Why isn’t it enough? I’m greedy, I always want more. I recover quickly and I’m ready to go again. This is a flaw, and one I am deeply aware of. I need to curb my enthusiasm. Bromide in my tea may be the best way to go, but as a last resort. How else can I calm myself down?

Answers on a postcard.
Libby