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Sunday, 17 February 2013

#11 - Not having sex...

Having bid a final farewell to my French man I returned to England feeling a little alone, and through with love, and other dramatic song titles. In the following months I avoided the dating scene almost entirely, and returned to my home town a couple of days before Christmas feeling generally a little low about the holidays. Despite it being very clear that it was not going to work out the French man had made a suggestion that we spend New Year together, only to then realise that neither of us could afford to visit the other anyway. Moreover, I knew for certain that my poor battered heart could only withstand so much, and saying yet another tearful goodbye to him would probably push me over the edge into plate-throwing territory1

1I once threw a plate at a former boyfriend in a fit of pique. There are no blog companion notes, but I did make a show about it once. Dolly Parton featured heavily. 

Around this time I made the decision that I wanted to move back to Devon permanently - after a good spell in London and lots of additional work experience (plus countless extra-curricular experiences) I secured a new job a grade higher than my current role, and arranged to move mid February. I have been fielding questions about how happy or otherwise I am about this move for a while now, as although I am certainly pleased to be making some career progression, and very much looking forward to spending more time with friends and family, the move brings some unavoidable downsides that I will not enjoy. To put it bluntly, I won't be having any sex.

I shall be moving into my parents house, where I will have my own bedroom and study/living room, as well as a very liberal overnight guest policy and lovely laid back parents who are near impossible to shock or surprise. So good so far, agreed? 


I remember sneaking a boy into my parents' house many years ago, and thinking at the time how clever and clandestine we were. This was, in hindsight, a load of bollocks. My mother knows everything that goes on in her house. She has a sixth sense for sex. I'm fairly certain that this is why her impromptu phone calls always coincide with me waking up next to an unfamiliar face. She's better than an alarm clock, as she always provides a side dish of guilt. I can't have sex within a 5 mile radius of my mother, let alone in the upstairs bedroom - not only will she know what I'm doing, but I can't have sex with the Coronation Street theme tune drifting through the walls. I just end up picturing Ken Barlow's face.

This is not the only reason why I won't be having any more sex of course. The above scenario relies heavily on me having someone to have sex with, and that's scientifically unlikely. Yes, you heard me right. I conducted a scientific experiment, and ran a search on okcupid to find single men in my local area. In the whole of Plymouth and Torbay, my local dating area, I found five single men. I have already dated one of them, and of the remaining four, only one lived within 30 miles of me. It's official - I have run our of men to date. I used to make jokes about the fact that I had dated all the men in Plymouth, and that's why I had to move to London. The realisation that I was right all along was soberingand has left me seriously questioning whether I will ever meet any new men now I am moving back to the man-vacuum capital of the UK.

2right up until the moment I started drinking gin to deal with the fact that I have run out of men to date.

This leads me to my third, and by far most worrying reason for suspecting there will be no more sex for me in the immediate future - my best bet of any romantic or otherwise action is with men I already.....know. Y'know. Know. I don't particularly mind this - the majority of them are fairly nice, normal guys who I get on very well with, but there are reasons why they didn't work out the fist time around. More often than not it was because I got unceremoniously rejected. To even consider further contact with someone with a track record of turning me down feels like a big step backwards. After all, my last boyfriend was a tri-lingual Parisien with three engineering degrees and the most perfect face I have ever seen - it seems that I have raised my standards somewhat since moving to London 18 months ago (see #12 - The golden rule(s)...) 

I wonder if it's ever ok to ask a former lover why they didn't want to keep you around? The question is completely separate from any other dating queries encountered during the first few dates, as sex is (or maybe should) be the final step in the dating process, but this is something I have never been very good at. I tend to jump in3 and ask questions later (and I can't really complain, for every phone call not returned there's a cage fighter with muscles whose names I can't even pronounce). So maybe this is my lesson learned, to put into effect when I move, in approximately 9 hours time. I'm not going to have sex, and in doing (not doing) so, I may be able to track down the final three eligible men left in Plymouth4


4Only two of whom I have already seen naked. So that's progress.

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