5 Reasons Why I Won’t Sleep With You
Often I’m regarded as ludicrously old fashioned and “uptight” about my values when it comes to sex. Yes, there’s a debate going on pertaining to the modern idea of feminism and the expression of the sexual desires of the modern woman. You ask her, that chick with the red lippy and thigh highs sitting at the bar, “So what do you reckon, babe? Ya think women should engage in casual sex just as much as men are ostensibly able to?”
She raises an eyebrow before giving that painfully predictable throw-back remark: “I don’t care. I’ll do what I want. I have the exact same sexual needs as men.”
Maybe she’s right. There’s no concrete evidence suggesting that women are less able to emotionally deal with one night stands. It’s all fun and games, right? Yeah, it’s all good, baby.
Keeping that in mind, therefore, I’m not going to bore you with statistics, or reasons why women are biologically less able (or less inclined) to have sex with many suitors, however eligible they claim to be. Hell, I’m not even going to quote “The Female Eunuch” or bring Freud into this. Nup. What I am going to do is give you some concrete information on why I, myself, don’t want to sleep around. And I’ll tell you that it’s got nothing to do with being “fridget”, “stuck up” or keeping up the pretence of being a “unicorn” (thanks Mr Waters from Elite Daily).
It’s also not because I’ve been molested or fucked up and am therefore scared of men. Nup. Not at all. So, to all those guys who offered me their dick in a box and wondered why I didn’t untie the ribbon, please read on… you may actually encompass one of these reasons. Also, if you think my reasons are too pedantic or I’m a picky bitch who knows nothing about sex or spontaneity, I’d just like to say that I don’t give a damn what you think and you should go back to watching Youtube videos on how to twerk.
1. You Facebook messaged me in the middle of hump day with an opening line of “Oi hey, ya feel like losing your virginity to me, Charles?”
First of all, my name is not fucking “Charles”. I’m not a prince, unfortunately. But if I was, I’d get the queen to knight you for being the most audacious dweeb this side of Australia. The guy who said this was an actual human. An actual human who, three months earlier had actually arrived uninvited at a party I was throwing and stole a silver wine bucket from my house. That happened. He stole a family heirloom and then attempted to steal my innocence as well. So I told him that I’d rather have sex with a cactus because it would be more comfortable. I also told him he had a small penis. Because he did.
2. You danced over to me in the club with a vodka and lime. That was nice, but then when I mentioned my favourite Woody Allen film is “Husbands and Wives” you asked me if Buzz makes films too.
The problem is, it’s not my fault. If a guy isn’t cultured enough to like art house movies or read classics, I’m not interested. In anything. Okay, maybe a frenchie if you’re hot, but no, I’m not going to strip for you, or feel you or whatever. It’s not my fault. Something in my mind switches off and I decide I can’t risk repopulating the world with you.
3. I decided to go on a date with you. It was fine, but when I refused to go past first base, you locked the car doors and insisted you introduce me to Mr D anyway.
Rape is never okay. Never. Neither is attempted rape, because it just means you failed. Sorry about punching you in the face though. Your nose never quite looked the same.
4. We’re really good friends, but you just can’t understand there’s nothing there.
Listen, I like you. You’re different. You’re funny. You’re clever. But it doesn’t matter how many times you offer to make me another homemade spag meatballs. I’m never going to spag YOUR meatballs.
5. When we went out to coffee, you told me you couldn’t afford cake, and then looked through the Ikea cataglogue and insisted we compare furniture ideas for about 40% of the date.
So I met you in the Valley. We hooked up in the Valley. I think you grew in the Valley. And you grew without a brain. I think I muttered the same three lines to myself for a week. “But coffee goes with cake.” “Ikea catalogues shouldn’t be allowed to be printed.” “Furniture shouldn’t be discussed.”
So I guess my point here is that, while sex is good, I’d like to keep it in the boundaries of meaning and connection. It may sound lame but it isn’t. I didn’t like those guys ‘cos they were idiots, or I just didn’t feel anything, and they had a part to play in that.
The fact is, I did wait quite a while to sleep with someone for the first time. I was nineteen. However, ironically, and perhaps hypocritically, the person I chose to do it with was not my boyfriend, nor did I love him. He also happened to engage in an immense amount of casual sex himself, of which I could hardly comprehend. And to top it all off, he made it blatantly clear that he was not interested in a relationship with me, but he’d be more inclined to consider it if we had sex first. Apparently he wanted to test our “sexual compatibility” prior to making such a commitment. Aren’t men just full of it?
But I guess I didn’t care, even though I knew where it would lead me. I did it because of the connection I perceived we had. I did it because I wanted to; because it was a moment in my life I honestly wanted to have, a bit like smoking weed for the first time, or eating chocolate KitKat marble cheesecake pie. You know it’s no good, but you still want to do it, and you want to do it well.