Birds do it, bees do it. Even educated fleas do it. Let’s do it. Let’s move in together to secure greater financial freedom in a housing market crisis. Moving in with your partner can be a joyous step in an intimate relationship. It can also be a terrible mistake. So how do you know which way the rental cookie will crumble? Lucky I’m here, eh?
I didn’t start having good sex until my early twenties. I lost my virginity at sixteen, complying with government legislation on the matter. I’d wrongly been led to believe that if I consensually did the sex before my sweet sixteenth, a police squad accompanied by a Channel 4 film crew would burst through my door. I’d be behind bars, watching myself star in the fictional documentary “Britain’s Teens: Young, Dumb and Full of Cum”, probably narrated by Dr Christian Jessen.
Some kids on the World Wide Web refer to the number of sexual partners a person has had as their “body count”. When I discovered this, I wanted to delete today’s blog and just publish this sentence instead: the only time a body count is relevant is if somebody has died. Then I could have logged off, sipped on a sweet Rubicon and spent the rest of my afternoon watching Frasier instead.
Once upon a time, a man turned to me after sex, looked deeply into my eyes and said, “Y’know Nikki, you should really get a boyfriend”. It was late, but I told him I’d see what I could forage from the dumpster in the morning. Prince Charming’s throwaway statement reveals so much about how we view sexually liberated, content, unattached women. I didn’t want to be this man’s girlfriend. I didn’t want to be any man’s girlfriend. I wanted to be single.
If I know memes (and believe me, I know memes), we’re supposed to hate our exes. Your ex-boyfriend is trash. Don’t pick up the phone; he’s just calling because he’s drunk and alone. Based on my extensive research, most people don’t actually loathe their exes. The majority of relationships fall apart in a slow, sad and confusing way. There are more shades of grey than a poorly written Twilight fan-fiction.
Having sex outside of a relationship is tricky because the lines are as blurred as that Robin Thicke song about sexual harassment.
None of us can agree on the terms of engagement. I would like a tweet from Theresa May or Kanye West clarifying the official position on what “seeing each other” means. I have no idea what the phrases “dating” or “hooking up” mean either. It sounds like 50 Shades of Emotional Insecurity and I’ll have no part in it, thanks.