LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which David complains about our sex life (or lack of)

So, the last two nights I saw David, we didn’t have sex. I know he wanted to. I think he’d been spoiled. In our first two years of dating, barely a night went by without some sort of action. Even if he was exhausted, he always insisted he would ‘have a go’.

But this time, on the second night, we’d been watching a film on my iPad, and in it a couple started having sex in the middle of the day. Isn’t it always awkward when you’re in bed with a man, he isn’t wearing pants (what is it about men and nudity – what’s wrong with pyjamas?), you’ve had a big dinner and people on the screen are having wild sex and you aren’t? I said something about how overly noisy and appreciative the couple were and ‘Why aren’t they at work?’ David got up huffily and disappeared into the bathroom (another thing: why are men always getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and switching on lights?). ‘At least they are having sex more than once a year,’ he said.

I suppose he meant him (if anyone’s curious and wants to picture David, he is a doppelgänger to Steven Mackintosh, randy star of Wanderlust) because we have had sex precisely once since last October and Niece’s Wedding-gate. That one time was when I was staying at Home House, after my friend’s birthday celebration at Nobu (I hadn’t eaten much, as I can’t stand sushi, so was good to go). David’s lack of sex in the past 12 months
is a situation that is clearly not my fault. We weren’t even going out, so if he hasn’t seen any action that’s because he was too lazy to get a replacement girlfriend.

Bee Murphy

I didn’t say anything. It was weird that he wanted sex as I’d already told him I’d been feeling dizzy. Only the day before I’d been in Shoreditch, doing an interview with a reality TV star, and had to go to A&E straight after as I could hardly stand and certainly couldn’t manage stairs. I had loads of tests – heart, brain – and was told I have an inner ear virus, which would go away in a few days.

All of which reaffirms a fact we have known all along: men will have sex with anything, however inappropriate. I don’t even think they have to fancy us that much. But isn’t it strange they think they can get us in the mood with moaning and snide comments. No. If anything, saying, ‘At least they are having sex once a year’ in a miserable voice  will make a woman even more inclined to wear a face and scalp mask to bed, topped off with a pore strip, and Bliss softening mitts and slippers; indicating clearly that the only purpose of a man is for his back to act as a prop for the new William Boyd novel.

After dinner, we had walked (slowly) to the top of Primrose Hill to take in the view. We sat on a bench. There were lots of young couples scattered, snogging. It’s clearly a romantic place. I’d thought we might have some sort of moment. Like most things that are supposed to be magical – a mini break to Paris, say, or a proposal from a man on bended knee – the reality never quite measures up. So we just sat for a bit then David started to feel cold and wanted to go.

But I am feeling less terrified, in no small part due to being back in town, where every street holds a memory. I feel safer. I think that’s why I’m seeing David again: he’s like a tent peg. A connection with my past, when everything else – CDs, furniture, my Vogues – has been blown away in a strong gust of wind. Anyway, feeling kind, I texted him. ‘I’m in London on Saturday, before I drive to Birmingham for work. D’you fancy coming round, cooking dinner?’

He shot back: ‘I’ll get the ingredients. Tell me what you would like to eat.’

Me: ‘Anything, as long as it’s vegan and you don’t make a mess.’

Him: ‘I will try not to.’

I felt bad then, so I added: ‘I’m looking forward to being molested.’

Him: ‘I was hoping as much and thinking the same. Something I do often.’

Oh dear. A bit creepy, no?