How single is single? There’s single(adjective) describing something that is solitary, or there is the type of single that has a phone full of unsaved numbers and a fuck buddy on speed dial. Or there is cats and noodles single. I am of the latter, without the cats.
I am the type of single that doesn’t need to shave for months. That would fall into the category of what I call VERY single indeed. Being a firm believer that fuck buddies get you nowhere I am stuck in a limbo of my own making. I loathe the idea of settling for anything with a pulse and a penis, living out a stale life in front of Netflix and occasionally arguing whilst drunk. I envision a dwindling sex life and meals out sat in silence. However, a woman has needs- those needs can’t always be fully met by fictional television characters and random hot men on posters.
Whenever I get close to securing the fuck buddy contract there’s always something that holds me back. The inevitable question
“what’s the point?”
To which I always answer,
“The point is an orgasm and possibly some chicken McNuggets.”
As tempting as both those things may be, the answer will always be no.
I’m not a woman designed for an episode of Peaky Blinders and a shag, I want a Henry the eighth style romance- complete with a serenade on a 16th century lute.
However a day in the life of the VERY single woman means that hookups find you everywhere. They’re in the magazines you read, the articles on your news feeds, your friends tales of hot sex in hotel rooms. Even Kermit “can’t commit” to Miss Piggy forever.
Am I just a fossil? A relic somehow left over from the ages of Chris de Burgh when he sang that famous song Lady in Red? Am I clinging to the crumbling institution of marriage as I fall into the abyss of self-imposed spinsterhood?
Am I wrong for wanting to get to know someone before I sleep with them?
A friend recently accused me of “putting sex on a pedestal”, but I recall in high school I had tabloid style rumours spreading about me for kissing a few boys. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t it seems.
I just don’t like the idea of swapping bodily fluids with a man who’s invested little more than an emoji or two on me. I don’t judge the women who do, that’s their prerogative to fulfil their sexual needs as they please.
Living life as a VERY single mum can sometimes be dull. I torture myself with romantic movies, I marry and divorce perfect strangers on public transport- all in my head.
“It will never work, those jeans he’s wearing are a little flared.”
I sometimes wonder if I will ever wear a wedding dress, or if I’m just insane and all those arsehole ex boyfriends who had the good graces to tell me were right all along. (I assure you, I’m the good kind of insane)
My interactions with couples are almost vampyrical, I almost need them to live happily ever after to confirm that it isn’t impossible. (The divorce of Channing Tatum and his wife set me back a bit I must say)
The fuck buddies wait in the darkness, hoping I might slip. I might have two glasses of wine and finally text them to come over. I might respond to “wyd 2nite?” instead of leaving it on read or making up some excuse. I might actually invite someone up to my place Post date, instead of awkwardly running out of their cars like an utter weirdo.
I digress, there’s a little 16th century maiden locked inside me and she won’t allow such nonsense (except maybe after a bottle of wine and a poetic tribute to my beauty written on parchment).
So maybe I will get a little more obsessed with that hot guy with the steel like abs I saw on a London Underground poster on the 10th December 2017 (still waiting for him to call me) and maybe I will be my hometown’s answer to Bigfoot as my bodily hair starts to take over my entire body, but I’m going to hold out for the best. I deserve the best. Because I’ve sure as hell had some of the worst in my time.