I haven’t had sex for a year. I might just as well be married with giant children. Thing is, I could have had sex in August, if I had gone full steam ahead with P, ignored his temper and his stalker tendencies. Actually, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the builders were in my cottage, I no longer had a bathroom and a kitchen and I was staying at my friend Isobel’s, I’m pretty sure I would have invited him back for ‘coffee’. Isobel didn’t allow guests, because of Covid. Thank god for Boris Johnson! He saved me from a huge mistake.
I could have had sex with David three weeks ago, if I had not been completely turned off by the fact he was so unappreciative of the effort I had made in preparation for his mini break. No matter how many hundreds of pounds you have just spent in the supermarket, a man will always snuffle out the ONE THING you forgot to buy. In my case, cider vinegar. This from a man who failed to buy toilet roll.
David arrived wanting to have sex, of course he did. He kept trying to hug me. This is because the idea of him, the wanting a man to come for a romantic weekend – like an early Wham! video, all frosty walks and scarves – had got the better of me. I’d told him there would be a log fire and lovely food (well, not that lovely, given I was cooking it, which meant it would become a biscuit). Then I had texted him (I know, I’m ashamed – thank god my parents aren’t alive): ‘I need you in my bed! I’ve watched the episode of ER where Nurse Hathaway goes to join Doug Ross about a hundred times!’
To that he had replied, ‘Come soon.’ And I had cringed. Ewwwww! Who writes ‘Come soon’? D’you know what? My lust for him is so fragile that even a bad text can snuff it out.
So even before he turned up, got on my nerves and endangered my collies, I knew it was never going to happen. Even though I had been Extreme Hollywood Waxed.
When I was married, we didn’t have sex for nine months. I was on some panel thing with the editor of GQ, that man from Top Gear and Giles Coren.
They asked me out for dinner afterwards; I think it was an intervention. ‘Is it normal?’ I asked them. ‘To not have sex for nine months when you are married?’
‘He is having sex,’ the editor of GQ told me sagely. ‘Just not with you.’
And so now it has occurred to me, like a bolt of lightning. Oh god! Is David having sex with someone else? I had always thought no one else would have him. But then I remember something Miranda said in Sex and the City. About Steve. Along the lines of a man can have no job and live in a hostel, and still women will be falling all over him.
I have to confess here that while I briefly had custody of David’s iPad, after he forgot it when he stormed off into the night, and I had dried it out from the storm (I’d put it outside in case he drove back to fetch it), I did unfurl it. I tapped in his date of birth. I read his messages. And there was one from his ex, the one before me, the one who had texted him on our first date at the Organic Pub, and had referred to me as the She Devil. She had been contacting him, saying she is ‘worried’, and inviting him to join her Zoom pilates or yoga class or something.
‘That is,’ she wrote, ‘if you are still living alone.’
She obviously didn’t want me hovering (and Hoovering, given David always leaves specks of tobacco everywhere) in the background!
So there is always some bubble-permed harlot, desperate for a man (especially over the festive period) in the background, ready to snap up your reject, once you’ve taken your talons out.