‘I don’t get it? Why do they do that?’
I’d just received a Facebook message from Junior. The first for weeks, it had come completely out of the blue. It was a simple message, just asking me how I was and if I was currently dating anyone.
‘Because his dick twitched,’ she replied, ‘he’s horny and thought who can I fuck?’
Ok, so Robyn is a little anti-man at the moment. Slim has been driving her crazy with his prolonged absences in communication and she hasn’t gotten laid in a month. She’s a little bitter and several shades of frustrated. But, she’s also right.
Now, any normal, self-respecting woman would shrug off the interest of a man like Junior. A man who claims to be really interested in them, then disappears off the face of the earth, isn’t worth the time of day. Any normal, self-respecting woman would see his Facebook activity, of flirting with other women and claiming to be in a relationship, and would ignore any advances he may make towards her. Any normal, self-respecting woman would refuse to entertain the idea of being a casual back-up plan fuck for a horny little twenty year old player.
I however, am not a normal, self-respecting woman.
Let’s rewind to half an hour before the message from Junior appeared on my phone…
I’m sat in my living room watching some mindless dross on the television and wondering what I’m going to do with the upcoming weekend. Finances are tight, but my son is away from Thursday to Sunday, so I really feel like I should do something with my free time. It’s been a good couple of weeks since I’ve had sex and I’m kind of enjoying how simple my life is without it. Part of me wants to save my re-grown virginity for someone who matters, a guy who actually likes me, so that when I do have sex I can feel that emotional connection again. I haven’t felt that in such a long time and I miss it. That said, I’m permanently horny. I know, I’ll make plans with the Mountie. It’s not deep, meaningful emotional sex, but at least I’m not adding another notch to my bedpost while I scratch the carnal itch. Do dirt bikes and shotguns sound good? Yes, yes they do. So that’s sorted then. I’ll hang with the Mountie this weekend, get my fill of rugged, outdoorsy-ness and get a pussy pounding thrown in for good measure.
But hold on, what am I going to do Thursday night? I could tidy my room I guess, my wardrobe is doing that thing where it spills out onto the floor like some slow creeping alien slime. Xbox maybe? Grab a drink with Isaac? Nah. I’ll probably just stay home and masturbate to porn. Oh. My. God. I am not a teenage boy! I need to step away from the god damn porn! Get a life Lola! At the very least, save your poor fingers from excessive use and inevitable arthritic problems in the future! What can I do Thursday night that is cheap and enjoyable and not something I would usually do when I’m in mother-mode?
So yes. His dick twitched and that automatically triggered a response in his fingers to type a message to me. I should be pissed at him. I should be insulted. Instead, my head is saying; ‘hey, this is the guy who walked for two and a half hours to see me and didn’t even get laid. You can be forgiven for wanting to give him a second chance…just keep your knickers on, please!’
My vagina is saying, ‘FRESH MEAT! FRESH YOUNG MEAT! FUCK HIM! FUUUUUUCK HIM!!!!’
My vagina is not the rational one in this battle of wills. She’s the reckless one, the fearless one, the one who doesn’t worry about the consequences and is only out for a good time. I like her. I like how she throws caution to the wind and doesn’t give a damn about anyone’s opinions. She isn’t afraid to go on an adventure or try something new.
My head is more cautious. My head is in complete agreement with my vagina about the lure of a strong, toned young body, but she can see the pitfalls. She worries that he’ll have a small dick or won’t know how to kiss. She worries that my vagina is going to get assaulted by poor technique. Most of all, my head doesn’t want me to have any more regrets to add to the long list of fuck ups and shouldn’t haves.
My vagina is excited about the concept of something new. She wants the excitement and the new sensations. She wants a new man in my bed. She’s hopeful; a positive thinker who envisages an evening of lust, passion, sweaty, naked writhing bodies and delicious multiple orgasms.
My head is a realist. She envisages no oral, a rough finger banging and the embarrassing process of trying to put a condom on a semi hard, semi average pecker. She suspects I’ll end the night crying in the bathtub while scrubbing myself furiously with a loofer.
As of now, I don’t know who is going to win this battle. There’s a strong chance that my old pal, Utter Exhaustion, will take the decision out of both their metaphorical hands and I’ll end up in a vegetative state on the sofa watching Josh Hartnett movies and ramming kebab into my face.
‘So you up to much this weekend?’ Junior asks.
‘No plans yet,’ I reply.