On Saturday, our friend Daisy called us, informing us that her dad was having a huge party out at his cabin in Virginia, and did we want to drop our two kids off for the night? We didn’t have to ponder this offer for long. A back pack full of kids’ pajamas was flung into the car and my husband screeched out of the drive. It was only once we were half way to Virginia that we realized we’d actually left the kids on the front porch*. After much swearing, we drove back to pick them up, and were soon once again peeling up the freeway, a mere dozen miles over the speed limit. I was very excited. While the kids were in Virginia, John and I were going to have something we hadn’t had in many, many years. No, of course I’m not talking about mind blowing sex. I’m talking about a lie-in.
I wondered why Daisy had offered to have the kids overnight. Maybe she was still trying to woo me as a potential surrogate to have her kid. I thought I’d told her I definitely wasn’t going to do that, but maybe I hadn’t. And it had been a bit odd when, the other day, Darren (her husband), had given me an iPod out of the blue, saying, “Here, have this, we have two, we don’t need this one.”
Maybe the reason I hadn’t given them a definitive ‘no’ was simply that I appreciated the attention, the feeling that I was a young virgin being courted to be someone’s bride, in a manner of speaking. Or rather that my womb was being courted to be a vessel for his sperm. In any case, we were certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
When we got to the cabin, the party was in full swing, and I clicked with a Russian girl called Tatyana, who was a sex researcher. I said, “What are you researching?”
She said: “Sperm.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“What particular chemicals cause the sperm to find the egg.”
“Isn’t that answer rather simple?” chipped in John. “Isn’t it usually vodka or tequila that facilitates the miracle of conception?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” said Tatyana. She also went on to tell us some research she’d done on how many sexual partners people had had. Unsurprisingly, she had discovered that men multiply the amount of people they’ve slept with by three, while women divide by three. I was curious as to how there could be any way of proving how many anyone had really slept with. If you are really interested in how these things are calculated, go here.
At a certain point I realized that maybe my drinking days were over, because I was pretty drunk and had already put my foot in my mouth more often than is common, even for me.
I was simply having a laugh when I confessed to everyone at the party that Daisy had once had a Russian boyfriend called Dimitri who she had ultimately not married because he was very hairy and she is very hairy and she didn’t want the babies coming out like little apes (true).
Evidently it didn't tickle Daisy's funny bone, judging by the fact that she was squirming in her seat, hissing, “Shut up! Don’t talk about my sex life,” in my ear.
I laughed at that, because that detail wasn’t even about her sex life! But I got the message and instead, turned on Darren.
“So according to Tatyana’s research, you say you’ve slept with fifteen people. So you’ve actually slept with five.”
It was probably also a big secret that he’d told Daisy that he’d slept with fifteen people, since he looked a little disconcerted that I had this information.
Then Tatyana and I laughed about how inept English men are at seduction. I said, “You know how it goes. You’ve just met someone you quite fancy at a party, and you’re getting to know each other, just casually sitting side by side on the sofa, when suddenly he just lunges at you.”
“Ha ha!” said Tatyana. “Yes! I know what you mean. Suddenly their mouth is all hanging open and they are trying to slobber all over you. Not very attractive.”
“Just awful. They don’t give you any warning. All of a sudden their mouth is clamped onto yours and you’re drowning in saliva.”
Tatyana cracked up.
"Admittedly, I have not dabbled in the waters of many foreign men," I said. "But I would hazard a guess that The Lunge is definitely a move practiced mainly by the British male."
Darren was looking flustered. Oh shit, I remembered that Darren (a Brit) had lunged at Daisy at the end of their first date.
After six or seven more huge faux pas, John dragged me away, caveman style, by the hair and got me in the car and drove me home where we had some fairly unsuccessful drunken sex. Then on Sunday morning we both managed to have a blissful lie in.
By the way, do you think it's true that men round up and women round down about the number of people they’ve slept with? I think that anyone who is smart does not answer that question, because the numbers either make you look like a slut (if too high) or a loser (too low). Tatyana said the easiest way to get round this problem was to assess each potential shag individually, and then modify your numbers to fit with what you think they want to hear. Too complicated for me. I always say, when asked, “I can’t remember.” Which sounds bad, like there were dozens. But the reason I say it is because I really can’t remember. I mean who keeps a chart on their wall with a list of names on it? Okay maybe you do, but I definitely don’t.
* Just joking! No need to phone Social Services.
Also, I currently have a piece in Top Blog Mag (click image below) about a boyfriend I couldn't get out of my head. If you've ever felt that way too, it might be worth a gander...
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