The only thing relatively comparable to a night of fantastic sex is buying those perfect killer heels or so those flippant, hysterical, cat driven women will tell you. There is a mere grain of truth in the merits of materialism above disappointment. Let’s face it, the heels will definitely last on the endurance side of things. They will be easier to polish, won’t leave ominous stains on the carpet, ceiling or bed linen. And they definitely will be a better listener. You can kick them off when they aren’t needed, and they won’t feel betrayed when you slip your foot into a better model.
Having a man today is hard work. You can’t have an affair. Why I ask you, is fidelity so important in a college relationship? Apparently kissing another man around the back of the Union is a no-no. And having your head lodged further down the ladder is off the radar of acceptability. Actually these antics are only frowned upon when you get caught, and if you’re good, like me, guilt usually gets to you first. However, I seem to have misplaced my conscience. I suspect I left it down Mr. Friday-night’s neck.
As college boyfriends go, you probably met the dimwit with ten double vodka lime n’ lemons packed into you. Pissed off your face you probably thought it was a good idea to dirty dance with him on the sticky nightclub floor. One thing escalates to another and suddenly it’s an awesome idea to let him walk you home. For safety reason of course, namely that the campus lesbian you refused to make-out with might jump you from behind the bushes. And that’s how it starts. How you play it determines his level of interest and commitment. So girls if you’re looking for Mr.wanaseemybedcovers, being the polite twenty first century woman, you should ask him in for a tea or coffee.
When you get up the stairs to the flat and he decides he has to take a leak you have two choices: send him to your friends room and let her deal with it; or let him in and you deal with it. You weight up your emotional status, and if vodka is scheduled to give you crocodile tears. Thinking you are probably safe, you let him in. He takes a leak and you clear the bed of underwear and cosmetics. When he returns he instinctively thinks you’re up for it and slobbers on your neck for a half-hour, thinking he’s tickling your G-spot. At this stage you’re feeling like an over-lick lollipop and push play on the ipod to break his concentration. He takes his cue and proceeds to re-enact the full Monty. You cringe because you never seen one…so small. He reads your face and thinks you’re interested. Screaming “Yeah baby” he gyrates harder slapping his manhood on every surface around the room. You shout ‘mind your head.’ thinking it’s so little to function as it is, ‘don’t give it brain damage’. You’re feeling hot and bothered that this guy could have that much confidence and such an unimpressive C.V.
You take your jacket off. He dives onto the bed and takes the rest of your clothes off, unwrapping you quicker than a G.Q. magazine. You act enthusiastic, after all it has been a while and you really should air out the cobwebs. He’s eager and kisses you roughly; he’s in a hurry to head south. A frosty dread sweeps over you as you consider how long the Viking plaits are. He carries on, like Mosses on the sea. The great divide, he is an apt swimmer and navigates effortlessly. You sound out your appreciation. Suddenly he rises, and points to tell you to return the favour, you shake your head: ‘It has to last the journey.’ He gets flustered and thrusts himself on top of you. He goes for the mountainous route and tries to dislodge them. Men never realised they are attached, under the impression that the twin peaks should be treated like an opponent on the rugby field. You groan…in pain. A good sign to him.
If you’re lucky he thinks you’re a whore and whips out a condom. If he’s unprepared he obviously plays around or worse, he is woefully inexperienced. You open your bedside drawer which contains half of Pond Street Clinic’s contraception, be guaranteed, he now knows you are a whore (but a health conscientious one). You hand it over and leave it to him. You don’t want to touch him just in case it deflates. He puts on the swimming trunks and dives straight in without a word of warning and expects you to be happy for him. He wriggles around as if he is looking for change in his pocket. You seem to be going numb; you can’t feel a fecking thing. If you’re sensible you’ll groan and trash about like a woodlouse turned on its back. It saves time as he responds by cashing in all his chips. Looking at the wall, one minute and twenty seven seconds has elapsed. He has relapsed. Suddenly he is howling, sobbing up a lung on your bed. He seems to have lost his balls. You look on the floor, then under the duvet cover and final down the side of the bed. His body must have swallowed them. He cries bitterly, ‘we’ve rushed it.’ You assume his not just talking about the one and a half minute wonder. He gathers his clothes and runs from your room and is polite enough to leave the condom behind. You smile to yourself and realised, yes the shoes, I’ll definitely go for the shoes the next time.
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