The next day, Paul was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it’s an early meeting. Either way, my horniness is like a second skin, patting me up and down. It may as well reach into my skull and slap my brain, rouse lurid thoughts and incite some action. I have to be sick to grab my laptop, walk toward the kitchen and open the damned thing before I switch on the electric kettle.
As the water adjusts to its assault, I wait for the laptop to load and once everything is on track, I open the familiar dating site and type a message to Waterboy:
“Why don’t we get things on track? I’d love to meet up for a coffee. We can take things from there.”
I press send and feel 100 percent confident that he’ll agree. I’m basing this confidence on factors beyond my libido. Some would agree, say that modern technology reduces the angst behind dating and casual get togethers. As recent as five years ago, internet dating was considered strange. Go back another decade, and many thought it weird, crazy and desperate. Now, it’s all about convenience and personal screening. Why attend many dates when personal requirements can be discussed prior to the first date? That’s if people even have first dates. Even the definition of date is shifting.
Many claim to have met online and they meet as they’re drinking coffee or eating a snack or a microwave dinner. It could very well be an alternative date. People no longer have to meet at parties, bars or wretched blind dates set up by friends or relatives. They can, and do, meet online. Twenty years from now and it won’t be a weird thing. What will be weird? Meeting face to face will be stranger than, let’s say having that first date at a restaurant. I don’t know, but if I’m in a fancy restaurant with heavenly food, I’m more interested in the food than Date 101 small talk. The internet has turned everything on its head, altered preconceptions, rules and relationship standards.
After I make my coffee, I return to the laptop to check for any new messages or a response from Waterboy. Satisfied that I have received five more messages and no response from my next hopeful conquest, I consider breakfasting at a nearby café that has free wireless internet coverage. No matter where I try to take my thoughts, my libido doesn’t allow me to ignore it. Reading the newspaper online, arriving at yet another aggregate study discussing another difference between the genders, I remember the story about the couple that had sex every day for a year. The female partner decided to give her husband a present: sex. He didn’t express any disappointment. Who’d be disappointed with that? He couldn’t complain, as most couples do after years of marital existence. This thought changes. I keep the sex within the thought. I also keep the everyday frequency. Interesting, I think. I just can’t imagine having sex with my husband each day for a year. 365 days. 365 blowjobs.
I’m no Vogue model, but I do make the effort to maintain my physical fitness. Paul cannot say the same about his physical routine. It’s not that I don’t find him attractive. It’s just that I see his slight paunch. It’s hardly noticeable after he puts on his business shirt, but I know it’s there. For women, midriff flab is referred to as a muffin top. Men don’t have a term for them. They’re either paunchy, even this doesn’t sound terrible, or they’re chubby. They don’t have muffin tops. I’m raving a little, but facts are facts. Paul hasn’t performed a push up for years. He hasn’t done a stomach crunch and I doubt he can carry ten grocery bags without mentioning something about arm strain. The thing that began putting me off fucking Paul: his biceps or the lack of biceps. I don’t know how or why, but the day I noticed the lack of definition in his torso was the day that I started making excuses about sex.
Women make excuses not to have sex for various reasons. The fact that we find the thought of revealing the horrible truths painful is the reason why we create excuses in the first place. To say that you’re finding your partner less attractive is like amputating them at the knee. But what makes it even more dreadful is the prospect of being on the receiving end of a similar sentiment. But Paul couldn’t point out an extra Goodyear tyre around my middle or butt and hips.
There have been many times I’ve pondered sex with Paul. We turn off the lights. I don’t look at him. He tries to coax me to consider a brightly lit sex scene, but I act like I’m immersed in the passionate throes of sex to bother with the bedside lamp. We kiss and grope. Then we fuck in missionary position for a few minutes. He climaxes. It’s done.
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