Part 57: Love (reconsidered)

The last time I blogged about love I might have given you the impression that I’m a flippant, heartless automaton. I’ve felt weird about that post ever since I wrote it as it did not reflect the sheen of sharp devotion that my spirit is capable of emitting. It came instead from the same place as that post I wrote called The Hatred, i.e: the bitter depths of my lonesome soul. I’ve moved somewhat since May though. I tell you what, this single thing, it’s not that great in terms of contented companionship, but there’s nothing like it for learning all about yourself, and why you sometimes act like a wanker. Usually it’ll be because you’re a little bit sad.

I do believe in love really – even if I am fairly jaded towards romantic love due to rejection from various caddish scoundrels and the long term effects of a torn apart heart muscle, barely stitched together in a patchwork of fury and lipstick. A heart which won’t stop secretly yearning for what it can’t have. Like steak for dinner every Wednesday (due to prohibitive price margins), and a fairytale love affair (due to me not being a seventeenth century princess). Life’s tough, innit. I didn’t truly believe it was when my Mumma used to scream those words at me during fits of teenage tantrum–rage, but it turns out she was correct about that – and less correct about the impact of drug use and bad company on my future life options. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

Anyway, now that I’ve decided love does exist it’s been a bit perplexing in terms of the continuation of this blog. Surely love, if anything, is a reason not to be single; the kind of glitter for grown-ups that blows my theories about steam trains and sleeping into tiny little laughable fragments by including fizzing acid tummy butterflies and sexual pleasure. The latter of which, as I’ve frequently admitted, is something of a drawback in terms of my current situation, which doesn’t include much opportunity for carnal debauchery. Unless you count getting stoned and eating fried chicken naked with the curtains open as carnal debauchery. You probably don’t though. If you’re normal.

The question I’m faced with then, having conceded that love is indeed non-fiction, is this: will I let the existence of romantic love scupper this blog? No, of course not. I couldn’t let that happen. Love has been far too cruel to me and can therefore go fuck itself. Yes, alright, love exists and it might feel blissful and cosy and make you emotionally and mentally stable and all that (of course, it can do the opposite if it all goes tits up and you realise you’ve put your trust into a fat, deceitful mound of flesh and bone-matter who’ll happily receive your love and then leave it in someone else’s knickers, but that’s not the point I’m making here), however, it will also make you well boring if you do it properly.

Serious. I cannot think of any coupled friends or family members who are not 300% more fabulous when they’re single. This is not only because single friends have more time to spend on leisure activities that might involve me, but also because single people (even the ones with babies) tend to be more interested in the big wide world and all it’s scary darkness than the (un)happily coupled – whose points of reference begin with their ‘other-half’ and, if you’re desperately unlucky, morph into conversations involving one or more of the following: mortgages, other people’s relationships, weddings, camping holidays, housework. This is why I always do an inner leap of joy when I hear that a close friend’s relationship has ended. Although, as legions of my dumped mates will attest, I cover this very well with outward sympathy, and good advice.

I’m not sure whether it is immaturity or jealousy which leads me to find stable romantic relationships so crashingly dull that I overdose on whisky and Prosecco whenever I’m faced with someone else’s. It might be neither. I really don’t care what causes my response though; I just want to say this: love might well be a lot of fun for those involved, but let’s acknowledge that it’s also very, very selfish. Think of your mates people, on a night out, peeling the sticker from a warming bottle of Becks and daydreaming about that time you did promiscuous felching while you do a show and tell of six million colour swatches for your new kitchen.

I know my romantically attached friends reading these words right now will be all offended. But you know I’m right. I mean, I still love you and everything, but we had much more funtime before you settled down and started measuring your success with socially normative milestones. That’s a fact, rather than a judgement.

So alright, love exists, but it’s not going to fuck this exercise in cyber-literature over, because it is impossible to juggle a relationship and participate in being regularly socially fabulous. Thus, I’m happy to report that you’ll still have to take my advice and be single if you want to be remembered for posterity, or invited to the pub. There’s no other option, if you think about it logically.

Part 56: Missionary Position

I’ll admit that Annie Lennox, circa the Eurhythmics years, has been fairly influential in terms of the curation of my current image. Well, her and Paula Yates (and Carmela Soprano, obvs, but that’s another story). That edgy, peroxide hair/peeping black roots/scarlet lipstick/skin-tight-t-shirt thing is def the style to rock single ladies – unless you want to get lots of sex, in which case I’ll be honest and say that I can’t give testimony as to its prowess in that area due to my own involuntary virtual celibacy since I adopted the look. Although I suggest we cast that minor detail aside for now, because you will need to trust me as a sexual expert for the purposes of this discussion.

Anyway, the reason I bring her up is because another thing that links the Annie of the 80s to my own current self is the missionary position – not because I know anything at all about Annie’s sex life during that period (apart from that she got it on with Dave Stewart, and then he ended up breaking her heart by shagging someone out of Bananarama – God, men are such arseholes aren’t they? Especially when they’re bearded), but because she sang that song ‘Missionary Man’ which always plays in my head when I meet a ripped bachelor cad that I’d like to wrap inside my bedclothes and perform unspeakable acts with. This isn’t because I fall for Christian men very often. It’s because the missionary is my favourite position, you know: sexually.

My understanding of relationships, such as it is, is that even when the sex is good there comes a point when your partner wants to experiment. For example, by using his strength to manoeuvre you into uncomfortable positions ‘during’, or by purchasing gifts of synthetic lacy underwear and expecting you to wear them for his titillation ‘before’. I know it’s unfashionable to say in the contemporary porn-age when we’re all supposed to confess to an urge for uninhibited, debauched sexy time, but I’m going to speak universal truth right now and you’re going to secretly nod even though you’ll want to pretend to disagree: all that effort in the bedroom, bathroom, back of a Renault Clio or wherever is a lot of unnecessary hard work for the fairly easy to achieve result of an orgasm.

My life experience has taught me that the easiest way to get something done is usually not only both cost and time effective, but also gives the best results. Like frying a steak for four minutes in foaming butter, or getting someone else to do the ironing. Faffing about for hours with sex is just not a terribly clever way to go about things. Consider: even though hippies indulge in regular Tantric carnal activity, they also smoke a lot of weed to release pent-up tension, and often forget to wash and style their hair.

I realise that you might be wary of taking my advice on sexual matters at face value after some of the sexual confessionals that I have posted here in the past few months. But, while it’s true that I’ve not necessarily garnered a reputation as a sex symbol in any of the regions of the UK I’ve inhabited, I do honestly think I’ve done alright in that area – precisely because of the advice I’m about to give you now: keep it missionary. Except when you’re on holiday, with unlimited leisure time. I mean this in all seriousness; missionary is the perfect position for maximum sexual satisfaction at the quickest speed for both partners, as long as you do it right. I’m not going to offer a how-to here though (because my little brother reads this blog and I don’t want to gross him out), suffice to say it’s fairly straightforward – I mean, come on, Christians do it.

Of course it’s not really possible to have a satisfying sexual relationship with a hot lover lover without mixing it up a bit in the bedroom. I’m not mental, I know this, and it’s why I promote single life with such fervour. Staying single means that the sporadic sexual activity you might engage in can be maximised for your own pleasure. And it never becomes tiresome for either partner. How is the next fleeting fling to know that you always revert to missionary if you only sleep with him once? He’s not (just don’t make the unfortunate mistake of sleeping with a group of hot lover lovers who know each other, and discuss their sex lives in detail).

So, while I don’t recommend the one night stand for spiritual reasons, I do recommended missionary as the go-to position when the sexual frustration is just too much. Because, yes, being single is the thing – but sometimes, you do just want a fuss free orgasm administered by someone else. There’s no need to feel guilty about that. You are only human.

Part 55: Pregnancy

Everywhere I peep lately my blue eyes land upon swollen ladies, waddling ladies with ankles spilling like muffin tops over the edges of their converse, ladies plastered in creamy foundation – attempting to cover the sallow skinned, sunken eyed tiredness of the permanently nauseated, ladies with foetuses swimming in the amniotic fluid of their stretched wombs, bellies protruding, breath short, clothes skin-tight.

Being pregnant. It’s all the rage.

Never mind that women have been growing babies inside their fertile wombs since our species emerged from the water and stopped laying eggs. Ever since teenagers started doing it regularly, pregnancy’s become vogue.

It’s a thing now.

There’s bump revealing maternity wear, baby showers, endless pictures of naked expectant celebrities wrapped in a sheet, television programmes that let you watch all the pregnant ladies exorcise a foetus from their cervix.

I’m all for exhibitionism and immodesty, but come on.

It’s a little bit disgusting.

Even if it is the most natural thing in the world.

As you’ll no doubt agree single people, other people’s pregnancies, much like other people’s dreams, are exceedingly dull.

Once you’ve seen one digital sonogram you have literally (by which I mean figuratively) seen them all. Flaunting a baby lump in a succession of floral outfits is gross enough, but flaunting photographs of your actual naked bump is taking it to another level. I don’t want to see that. Unless you’re my sister, best friend or lover. In which case, I wanna see that in the flesh, maybe, but definitely not on my facebook newsfeed, when I might be eating dinner.

Still, if other people’s pregnancies are one hideous thing, contemplating your own is another – entirely more alarming – prospect.

Consider: Youth, energy, tautness – these are things that will fade with time, nothing surer – unless you want to spend insane amounts of dollar on painful surgery that will leave you looking like a melted waxen Barbie doll, a la Meg Ryan (and still, that’ll solve only one out of three of the problems presented by ageing).

The more I think about the brevity of life the less I understand why one would voluntarily give up one’s youth, energy and tautness by growing a baby inside one’s belly, pushing it out through a small opening in one’s genitals, and staying up all night offering it tender love when what you really want to do is chuck it onto the concrete floor of a soundproofed room and GO BACK TO SLEEP.

I have furrowed my perfect brow over this for some time, and have concluded that the only reason people get pregnant is because of their personal failure to resist biological urges (incidentally, another reason that being single is to be recommended is because it gives one practice in resisting unwise biological urges. There’re only so many times you can wake up in cold panic, washed in the soapy regret that is the result of letting fat scumbags touch your silken flesh, before you learn to ignore that sex drive and just say no).

It’s not just the physical actuality of pregnancy and parenthood that’s making me glad I’ll probably never go there though. One of the reasons I’m glad to be single is that I will never have to have the ‘talk’ with a husband or boyfriend. The ‘talk’ that results in an otherwise sane couple telling friends that they’re ‘trying’ – thus conjuring an image in the friends’ minds of the couple at it. Her legs akimbo, teeth clenched, him pummeling away in a sweaty, lustless, rhythm while paranoid thoughts of virility swill through his brain mass.

That’s like, so not what I want to be visualising at social events.

Of course because contrariness is my middle name (jokes, it’s Anne) I’m not altogether anti having a child. As I’ve professed on this page often enough: squidgy fat baby hands are totally biteable. Yes, the thought of changing nappies, or feeding another human being from the nipples of my breasts, like a moo-cow, sets my teeth on edge – like the concept of touching someone else’s eyeball.

But if you’re into that, fair enough. I mean, I’m not judgemental. I wouldn’t be in the world today if my own parental unit had concluded that pregnancy was essentially a massive, uncomfortable faff producing a teeny screaming, money absorbing mass of flesh and organs with diminishing pleasure returns. I love life. It’s just, being single and childless makes it a lot easier to be fabulous. Trust me. I know shit.