Well, not like a virgin. I am a virgin. At 43. (Cue collective gasps of shock here) Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those sad, lonely fat women whose only friend is her tv and her cat. I have a very active social life and a wide circle of friends, which includes several single males who have on occasion made overtures and it’s not as if the subject of sex has never come…erm, up.
The first time was probably the closest I've ever come. (Ahem!)A nice dinner with lots of alcohol and a romantically dimmed bedroom. The guy went into the bathroom and came out stark naked. Sadly the dimmed lighting cast a shadow of him against the wall. A shadow that made him look like Pinocchio with his long, lying nose at the wrong end of his body. I started giggling uncontrollably and this killed the mood. Killed it dead. He thought I was laughing at him and no matter what I said, he just got angrier till he got dressed and took me home. End of that.
Then there was the guy who worked at the butcher next door to where I worked. He was fabulous. He had long hair like a rock-star and he brought me free biltong. He wore pyjama pants to work which at the time I regarded as quirky and avant-garde. Twenty years on I now realise he was just a lazy sod. I thought we were made for each other. We even went ring shopping together and I thought, yes, he’s the one! Then a very pretty blonde girl started at my company, he came into the office one day, took one look at her and gave her the biltong instead! I was devastated. This meant that I had to now pay for my biltong! Bastard.
A few romances followed, none of with resulted in anything more passionate than a make-out session in the back seat at the movies or a hurried kiss before his wife caught us. (Well, I never said I was perfect!) The married man lasted three whole days and I felt awful the whole time. I even told his wife. She laughed at me and said I wasn't the first and I certainly wouldn't be the last and that I wasn't even his type.
I concentrated on my career and other things have kept me busy. My family. My spirituality. Reading. Movies. Music. Writing poetry and short stories, a full-length novel that never saw the light of day and I’m busy with a screen-play. My days are filled with my work and my nights with exercise (well, not much exercise!), writing and the odd tv show. The week-ends are crazy busy and I spend time with my niece then. Where do I fit a man into all this? More importantly, why would I want to? Don’t misunderstand me, I love men! Of all shapes and sizes. (Yes Melanie, you've covered that already!) It’s not as if I have no interest in them at all but I don’t want one of my own. I just like to look at them.
Men equal work. Cooking and cleaning kind of work and I’m too busy looking after myself to look after someone else as well. If I ever meet someone and marry him, he’s going to have to be a master chef who knows how to vacuum! I ain't doing all the work myself! I've seen too many couples bicker and fight over who “works” the most in their marriage and the equality that I seek in a union seems to be a fallacy.
My lack of interest in sex and love may have its origins in the deep, dark recesses of a challenging childhood but it’s certainly not due to the lack of love in my parents’ marriage. They married young and even when my Dad died at 50 years old they were still deeply in love. So the fault does not lie there. It lies with me, with my own disinterest in sex. Sex articles in magazines usually result in me turning the page to get to the next fashion spread and discussions about sex bore me. (Who wants to hear about what other people do behind closed doors anyway?)
I've had a psychologist friend try to analyse what she sees as a ‘problem’. Am I afraid of sex? (Well, I've never had it so how would I know?) Was I abused as a child? (No comment) Do I have perversions that don’t include sex? (Say whaaaat?) Next question!
She’s bemused by my lack of interest in sex. As are some of my friends who constantly try and hook me up with likely men, to no avail. I get the constant questions. How do you go without it? (Umm, I just do) Don’t you miss it? (How can I miss something I've never had?) as well as the inevitable, are you never going to do it?
The answer is, I don’t know. (Unless Kevin Spacey wakes up one morning and realises that I’m the perfect woman and that he can’t live without me, probably not.) Sex just holds no interest for me. Does that make me asexual? Or just plain weird?
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