If you haven't realised by now that most things in life change during the course of their existence, then you're probably in need of a serious bitch-slap.One doesn't have to believe in evolution to see how easily human beings adapt to changing circumstances, whether it's biological or psychological in nature. There's a reason we call it survival of the fittest, for victory can only come to those who are mentally and physically prepared to endure the pressures of every day life, not to mention the hurdles and challenges of long-term relationships. Marriages, civil partnerships, companionship. Happily ever after doesn't just happen and stay that way without work, especially when couples aren't always necessarily on the same page. While the pro's and joys of lover's lane outweigh the cons, I couldn't help but wonder whether consistency came at the cost of compromise...
Anyone familiar with the cycle of marriage will tell you about the radical changes they experience throughout its lifespan. How romantic weekend getaways become lazy nights on the couch watching Game of Thrones marathons or how five times a week at the gym turns into "I'll start again on Monday" because physical fitness is no longer a priority. Social calendars are suddenly booked up months in advance with events hosted by people you don't even like (or worse, the dreaded play-date), and shopping, which you once thoroughly enjoyed, becomes just another mundane task. If you're mapping out your grocery list according to the store's layout, then you know you're officially in a relationship.
And then there's the sex. Sweet, glorious, sensual sex. Wherefor art thou, sex? What used to be a raging libido fit for a horny teenager soon disappears into a barren abandonment. Those record-breaking sex-athons you used to have gradually fade away into nothingness. What starts off as three to four times a week will slowly scale down to weekend sex or bi-monthly events that require banners, bells and whistles. While some situations are far worse than others, short of joining the ALWPH club (Anniversaries, Long Weekends and Public Holidays), some people have just given up on sex altogether. Does sex really become that insignificant the further along you go? Is it something that couples need to schedule into their busy diaries like some kind of bikini wax appointment? Should we keep trying to satisfy each other sexually or are sexless marriages just like Harry Style's homosexuality - inevitable?
"One of the most common misconceptions about being in a marriage or long-term relationship is that you are constantly having sex. Of course the access is there but to be honest, I'd much rather curl up with an erotic novel on my kindle." Kaitlyn, a 42 year old married mother of two, had decided to join me for breakfast one morning to chat about her recent bout of sexlessness. We were sitting across from a painfully happy young couple and their approximately 7-month old baby. "You see that there. It'll all change. They have no idea how draining a child can be and what those little monsters can do to your sex life."
Her scorn was as bitter as my double espresso, and even though I entertained her twisted taunts at the undeserving couple (who left shortly after we arrived), I found it hard to believe that children were the sole reason behind sexless sex lives of married men and women.
"They say we're supposed to be in our sexual prime now, but sex just isn't as enjoyable as it used to be. For one thing, there's only a certain amount of physical acrobatics my body can handle at this age and after popping out two watermelons, my vagina is ruined. Sex can be quite painful the older you get. And yes, we have tried all sorts of jelly's and erotic creams to ease the situation. The bedroom just isn't as exciting or intimate anymore. Don't get me wrong. I couldn't imagine myself with any one else other than Rodney, except for Alexander Skarsgard, but lately, it all seems to be a hell of a lot of effort for the whole 5 minutes it lasts."
Kaitlyn had been quite happy to adapt into a sexless marriage but could tell that Rodney was beginning to feel inadequate. "He's started to complain that we're not doing it enough. After nearly 15 years of marriage, he says he would like us to get back to three times a week. Sure, if he doesn't mind me just laying there. Sex is the last thing on my mind after a gruelling day at the office and then coming home to manage a household full of boys. Thank God I'm not that woman whose husband made her sign that prenup demanding sex 3 times a week. My lack of interest would be grounds for divorce! Whoever says that sex is not important is telling a big fat lie because the lack of it can seriously hurt your relationship."
Sex in a long-term relationship is kind of like the Big Bang theory; something that starts off with an incredible amount of heat and energy that gradually expands into a cold, expansion of nothingness. It's up to us to keep the fire burning by making the time to connect with our partners on that sexual level. A dry spell is one thing but when you haven't had sex in over a year and his tadpoles have successfully turned into frogs, then it's time to lay down the law of the bedroom. The frequency of our sex lives will inevitably change, but the intensity and quality is completely up to you.
When it comes to love and marriage, is sexual intimacy on the verge of extinction?
Thursday 28 November 2013
Sunday 17 November 2013
Movember
We're only two weeks into the month of Movember and the race to see whose boyfriend sprouts the fugliest abomination of facial fuzz is already heavily underway. For one entire month, women from all around the world are forced to face this dia-follicle frenzy as men make the not-so smooth transition into grizzly, unkempt beasts, each one sporting a variety of designer trims more hideous than the next. Landing strips, bootstraps, the horseshoe - yes, they have names. It's prickly business for a girl, one that is bound to hit Gillette sales hard in the nuts, and while the cause from which this travesty stems is truly amazing and profound, I couldn't help but wonder about the general consensus regarding facial hair for the other three-hundred and thirty five days of the year...
The way a woman feels about a man's facial plumage is the same way she feels about Jennifer Lawrence's new pixie cut. You either love it or hate it, and while most of us prefer an alabaster sensation against our sensitive and well moisturised skin, one has to acknowledge the distinguished presence and sex appeal that a well-groomed beard can contribute to a man's appearance. Some say it's that sense of primal aggression and mystery that makes a girls panty drop while others find it unruly and repugnant. What's behind the curtain of facial pubes anyway? Was shabby chic the ultimate measure of manhood and masculinity or was it all just a bunch of fluff?
"Unless you're a poet, a caveman or of Mediterranean descent, there's simply no excuse for looking like a former apartheid police officer." I was making my trademark cameo appearance at a friends birthday party recently when I bumped into an old colleague who had some pretty strong opinions (amongst other things) about a man's furry features. "A light five a clock shadow is one thing and even acceptable if he's able to maintain it, but when you're kissing a guy and it feels like you're being mauled by sandpaper, then it's time for some Sensor Excel etiquette."
"This one time, at Stellies..." Nadia proceeded to tell me about the unfortunate incident from whence her prejudice of facial fuzz had come from. She had once decided to brave the world of facebook dating and found herself hooking up with the only guy that hadn't sent her half-naked selfies or close ups of his genitals. Not that appearances mattered to Nadia, but his profile picture did depict him as clean shaven, slick and smooth just like his online flirting. "He arrived sprouting what looked like a ten-day beard which actually made him look a lot older than he was. It was borderline paedophile which would have usually put me off but I could see how handsome he was underneath the welcome mat. I didn't pay much mind to it and thought it was nothing a decent razor couldn't fix."
The date went really well and even ended up with a two hour make out session and a couple of hickies in the parking lot of Gio's Pizzeria. Nadia went to bed feeling great about herself but when she woke up in the middle of the night by some tingling sensation on the lower half of her face, she let out a shriek of horror that nearly woke up the entire campus. Who was that monster staring back at her in the mirror? When Vitamin E cream failed to sooth the burning inferno, Nadia had realised that she was a victim of first degree facial burn.
"I looked like a cast member of the Walking Dead! Half of my face had been left behind in the parking lot along with my sobriety and dignity. I don't get it. A woman will always find time to preen herself to perfection before a date no matter how hectic her day was, so why can't men offer us the same courtesy by shearing off their facial fuzz?" Nadia showed me some before and after snap-shots and she really did look like beef carpaccio (on a bad day). It looked extremely painful and apparently took nearly three weeks to heal.
"The worst part was that I really liked him and had to dodge him every time I saw him at campus. I was mortified. There was even a mother of all scabs that formed which eventually just fell off my lip. I seriously thought of donating it to the science labs. I don't care how sexy it looks on a guy, stubble equals trouble. It's impractical, painful not to mention hideous. When it comes to my personal choice, a guy's got to shave it or save it!"
If a man wants to grow a beard or a mo there's nothing we can do to stop him as long as he understands the physical and mental pain he's putting us girls through. Whether you're attracted to the rugged bush or not, there's actually a legitimate reason for fear and loathing in Las Visages. I wonder how well it would go down if women stopped shaving their legs and bikini lines for thirty days? How about armpits or vaginas? Now that's what I call social awareness.
When it comes to facial grooming, I mous-tache you a question...do women like men the same way they like our legs? Silky smooth?
The way a woman feels about a man's facial plumage is the same way she feels about Jennifer Lawrence's new pixie cut. You either love it or hate it, and while most of us prefer an alabaster sensation against our sensitive and well moisturised skin, one has to acknowledge the distinguished presence and sex appeal that a well-groomed beard can contribute to a man's appearance. Some say it's that sense of primal aggression and mystery that makes a girls panty drop while others find it unruly and repugnant. What's behind the curtain of facial pubes anyway? Was shabby chic the ultimate measure of manhood and masculinity or was it all just a bunch of fluff?
"Unless you're a poet, a caveman or of Mediterranean descent, there's simply no excuse for looking like a former apartheid police officer." I was making my trademark cameo appearance at a friends birthday party recently when I bumped into an old colleague who had some pretty strong opinions (amongst other things) about a man's furry features. "A light five a clock shadow is one thing and even acceptable if he's able to maintain it, but when you're kissing a guy and it feels like you're being mauled by sandpaper, then it's time for some Sensor Excel etiquette."
"This one time, at Stellies..." Nadia proceeded to tell me about the unfortunate incident from whence her prejudice of facial fuzz had come from. She had once decided to brave the world of facebook dating and found herself hooking up with the only guy that hadn't sent her half-naked selfies or close ups of his genitals. Not that appearances mattered to Nadia, but his profile picture did depict him as clean shaven, slick and smooth just like his online flirting. "He arrived sprouting what looked like a ten-day beard which actually made him look a lot older than he was. It was borderline paedophile which would have usually put me off but I could see how handsome he was underneath the welcome mat. I didn't pay much mind to it and thought it was nothing a decent razor couldn't fix."
The date went really well and even ended up with a two hour make out session and a couple of hickies in the parking lot of Gio's Pizzeria. Nadia went to bed feeling great about herself but when she woke up in the middle of the night by some tingling sensation on the lower half of her face, she let out a shriek of horror that nearly woke up the entire campus. Who was that monster staring back at her in the mirror? When Vitamin E cream failed to sooth the burning inferno, Nadia had realised that she was a victim of first degree facial burn.
"I looked like a cast member of the Walking Dead! Half of my face had been left behind in the parking lot along with my sobriety and dignity. I don't get it. A woman will always find time to preen herself to perfection before a date no matter how hectic her day was, so why can't men offer us the same courtesy by shearing off their facial fuzz?" Nadia showed me some before and after snap-shots and she really did look like beef carpaccio (on a bad day). It looked extremely painful and apparently took nearly three weeks to heal.
"The worst part was that I really liked him and had to dodge him every time I saw him at campus. I was mortified. There was even a mother of all scabs that formed which eventually just fell off my lip. I seriously thought of donating it to the science labs. I don't care how sexy it looks on a guy, stubble equals trouble. It's impractical, painful not to mention hideous. When it comes to my personal choice, a guy's got to shave it or save it!"
If a man wants to grow a beard or a mo there's nothing we can do to stop him as long as he understands the physical and mental pain he's putting us girls through. Whether you're attracted to the rugged bush or not, there's actually a legitimate reason for fear and loathing in Las Visages. I wonder how well it would go down if women stopped shaving their legs and bikini lines for thirty days? How about armpits or vaginas? Now that's what I call social awareness.
When it comes to facial grooming, I mous-tache you a question...do women like men the same way they like our legs? Silky smooth?
Monday 4 November 2013
Fireworx
Remember, remember the 5th of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. There's no good a reason for sex that's displeasing especially with men who are hot...
Guy Fawkes Day. South Africa's very own 4th of July without the independence and added extras of cotton candy and grilled wieners. A firecracker event to the few with a view but for others, a major inconvenience especially for dog owners who are forced to sedate their precious pooches with sausage flavoured rescue remedy or something stronger. While the concerto of elaborate firework displays are no doubt the main attraction of this uneventful celebration, I had to question the logic behind commemorating a man whose attempt to overthrow the government (or anything else for that matter) was anything but explosive.
I can't think of anything worse than having a bang with no POW, especially when the rocket in his pocket is perfectly capable of making your cherry bomb. It's false advertising and downright laziness in its cruellest form; when a gorgeous potential hunk of a future is clearly into you and has all the right goods but nothing to back it up with. Just like those silly fireworks, we're easily distracted by the charm and grandeur of pretty colours and pyrotechnics, but at the end an amazing exhibit, when the smoke and sparkle have disappeared, what good are aesthetics if the final performance fails to reach a climax?
Some people argue that sex isn't that important, but let's face it, it sure as fuck is, especially when you really like someone who manages to fit every other criterion on your check list. It's actually vital when you think about it, particularly if you're one of those hopefuls who believe in the myth of monogamy. This one person will inevitably be responsible for a lifetime supply of orgasms and sexual pleasure. That's a huge amount of pressure and commitment for one man to handle especially in a world where men generally come first. For the lucky few fortunate enough to score the jackpot on their virgin voyage, it only takes one spark to ignite that rocket ship of fiery passion, but for the rest of us desperately seekings, it takes a couple of duds before we find the one that makes us detonate.
The premature smell of gunpowder and the sound of tiny pops in the distance had me flashing back to the summer of 2'05! Mr. November. Hot, Euro-centric and god-like, but who would expect anything less from an Italian Adonis such as this. His name was Mauritzio, a 36-year old former model turned fashion photographer with a zest for life and a rental villa on Clifton beach for the rest of the season.
We met through a mutual model friend who seemed to be his latest subject and muse. It turns out I was wrong. Mauritzio wasn't one to mix business with pleasure and refused to date models on principle alone. That and the fact that he found his subjects quite dull and uninspiring in comparison to the real beauty of a naturally flawed woman. If that really was the case, then I was his latest masterpiece, a Venus of insecurities and the Mona Lisa of complexities. It was hard not to fall for someone like Mauritzio. He had a certain worldliness about him, a passion that pulled you in and a profound appreciation for simplicity. He was charming, funny, clearly financially stable and possibly the most beautiful man I had ever dated. He was perfect...
Well, almost perfect. While I may have been in the possession of the Ferrari, I still hadn't taken it for a test drive. I was too caught up in the romance and pink haze. Of course, I was nowhere near as jaded back then as I am today and was absolutely certain that my Italian stallion would deliver on the amore front.
POP! That was sound of the bubble that burst when Mauritzio exposed the tom thumb he'd been smuggling in his pants. It was an anti-climax of note, and while it wasn't the smallest I'd seen, it certainly could have sufficed had he only known how to use it properly. How on earth could a man so hot (and I'm talking Fahren-fucking-heit!) be so cold in bed, or in this case sand? And what a waste of a perfect setting? The blankets on the beach, the windless summer air, the bubbly, the Guy Fawkes firework display. Sadly the only explosions happening were the ones in the sky, and even though I went back for seconds and thirds in an attempt to have an orgasm, the magic simply wasn't there.
While sex is definitely not the be-all end-all of a romantic relationship, it certainly couldn't hurt to have a volatile sexual chemistry with your partner or potential from the get go. Some demonstrations are ultimately deceiving and leave us deflated with disappointment which is all the more reason to keep searching for that perfect sparkler. Of course, the ideal encounter would be dynamite every time, but sometimes even the tiniest bit of smoke has the potential of causing a raging fire.
When it comes to fireworks, how many pops does it take before we find the perfect bang?
Guy Fawkes Day. South Africa's very own 4th of July without the independence and added extras of cotton candy and grilled wieners. A firecracker event to the few with a view but for others, a major inconvenience especially for dog owners who are forced to sedate their precious pooches with sausage flavoured rescue remedy or something stronger. While the concerto of elaborate firework displays are no doubt the main attraction of this uneventful celebration, I had to question the logic behind commemorating a man whose attempt to overthrow the government (or anything else for that matter) was anything but explosive.
I can't think of anything worse than having a bang with no POW, especially when the rocket in his pocket is perfectly capable of making your cherry bomb. It's false advertising and downright laziness in its cruellest form; when a gorgeous potential hunk of a future is clearly into you and has all the right goods but nothing to back it up with. Just like those silly fireworks, we're easily distracted by the charm and grandeur of pretty colours and pyrotechnics, but at the end an amazing exhibit, when the smoke and sparkle have disappeared, what good are aesthetics if the final performance fails to reach a climax?
Some people argue that sex isn't that important, but let's face it, it sure as fuck is, especially when you really like someone who manages to fit every other criterion on your check list. It's actually vital when you think about it, particularly if you're one of those hopefuls who believe in the myth of monogamy. This one person will inevitably be responsible for a lifetime supply of orgasms and sexual pleasure. That's a huge amount of pressure and commitment for one man to handle especially in a world where men generally come first. For the lucky few fortunate enough to score the jackpot on their virgin voyage, it only takes one spark to ignite that rocket ship of fiery passion, but for the rest of us desperately seekings, it takes a couple of duds before we find the one that makes us detonate.
The premature smell of gunpowder and the sound of tiny pops in the distance had me flashing back to the summer of 2'05! Mr. November. Hot, Euro-centric and god-like, but who would expect anything less from an Italian Adonis such as this. His name was Mauritzio, a 36-year old former model turned fashion photographer with a zest for life and a rental villa on Clifton beach for the rest of the season.
We met through a mutual model friend who seemed to be his latest subject and muse. It turns out I was wrong. Mauritzio wasn't one to mix business with pleasure and refused to date models on principle alone. That and the fact that he found his subjects quite dull and uninspiring in comparison to the real beauty of a naturally flawed woman. If that really was the case, then I was his latest masterpiece, a Venus of insecurities and the Mona Lisa of complexities. It was hard not to fall for someone like Mauritzio. He had a certain worldliness about him, a passion that pulled you in and a profound appreciation for simplicity. He was charming, funny, clearly financially stable and possibly the most beautiful man I had ever dated. He was perfect...
Well, almost perfect. While I may have been in the possession of the Ferrari, I still hadn't taken it for a test drive. I was too caught up in the romance and pink haze. Of course, I was nowhere near as jaded back then as I am today and was absolutely certain that my Italian stallion would deliver on the amore front.
POP! That was sound of the bubble that burst when Mauritzio exposed the tom thumb he'd been smuggling in his pants. It was an anti-climax of note, and while it wasn't the smallest I'd seen, it certainly could have sufficed had he only known how to use it properly. How on earth could a man so hot (and I'm talking Fahren-fucking-heit!) be so cold in bed, or in this case sand? And what a waste of a perfect setting? The blankets on the beach, the windless summer air, the bubbly, the Guy Fawkes firework display. Sadly the only explosions happening were the ones in the sky, and even though I went back for seconds and thirds in an attempt to have an orgasm, the magic simply wasn't there.
While sex is definitely not the be-all end-all of a romantic relationship, it certainly couldn't hurt to have a volatile sexual chemistry with your partner or potential from the get go. Some demonstrations are ultimately deceiving and leave us deflated with disappointment which is all the more reason to keep searching for that perfect sparkler. Of course, the ideal encounter would be dynamite every time, but sometimes even the tiniest bit of smoke has the potential of causing a raging fire.
When it comes to fireworks, how many pops does it take before we find the perfect bang?
Friday 1 November 2013
The Casual
In this fast-paced, drive-thru world that we live in, we're all looking for the next best thing in convenience. Whether its online banking, buying or cellphone voting (one can wish), instant gratification is all we really want at the end of the day, especially for the ambitious few who rarely have the time to stop and enjoy a decent meal, let alone indulge in the ceremonials of dating rituals. As most of us already know from first hand experience, getting to know someone better requires a substantial amount of time and investing, which doesn't always suite the agendas and schedules of formidable freelancers looking for something a bit more casual.
For centuries, men have had the upper hand when it comes to recreational sex, but thanks to legendary heroines that spawned out of hit shows such as Sex and the City, more and more women are starting to enjoy the perks of uncomplicated, disposable, no strings attached sex. Fuck buddies, FWB's (Friends With Benefits), one night stands. Who needs the cow when the milk is so willingly available, and even though most girls fall victim to the post hook-up hangover, casual sex is definitely the cure for the non-committal type looking for sexual liberation between bad break ups and their next relationship.
As invigorating as casual sex may be, there are certain administrations that one needs to abide by in order to survive those unwanted feelings of emotional remorse. Biology, unfortunately, makes most of us weak and vulnerable, making it impossible to separate emotion from raw, physical lust - thanks oxytocin. So how do the Samantha Jones' of the world do it? Do they inject themselves with daily shots of testosterone or do they simply regard casual sex as a temporary employment contract; without guarantee or expectation beyond their term of service? If the position is neither fixed nor permanent to begin with, why are we constantly reviewing the prospect of a long-term relationship instead of enjoying the interaction for what it is? Hot sex.
Fresh on the stiletto's of another failed relationship with the Casanova milk man from Paris, Mandy had decided to postpone her search for Mr. Right and focus her female erection towards Mr. Right,Your Place or Mine? Mandy, who temped as a receptionist by day and sang the husky stylings of Etta James by night, was a voluptuous African beauty whose confidence and sexual prowess attracted many a foreigner longing to experience the authenticity of Africa.
After completing her set one Friday night, Mandy was enchanted by this dapper Danish dude who'd been eye-fucking her since her rendition of Proud Mary. He was rolling just like a character out of some film noir movie. Smooth, seductive and sexually alluring. He introduced himself as he casually lit her cigarette out of nowhere. There was a certain air of danger in his eyes as the pale streetlight flooded across his icy-blue eyes. Chemistry boiled through her veins, and no sooner had she ordered a Jack Daniels, had she found herself in the wheelbarrow position back at his apartment for a night of unforgettable sex.
Their fling escalated to once a week, each hook up prompted by some kind of dirty sext message. Apart from the mind-blowing sex, they genuinely seemed to enjoy each others company. Sometimes they would just hang out on the couch smoking sweet Mary Jane and talking shit for hours, watching the sunset like good lovers do.
Although the terms and conditions of their "relationship" was clear from the get go, I could tell that Mandy was beginning to fall for him. It was in her eyes and in the way she spoke about him. It started when she began to fluster over the fact that he had not texted her back about a scheduled hook up and ended with a public outburst after he was spotted chatting up some random girl. The Great Dane was taken by surprise and thought they had a mutual understanding. Were Mandy's feelings of anger and jealousy justified, or was she the one who had breached the terms and conditions of their agreement? Did her reaction substantiate the ludicrous claim that women are incapable of having casual sex without complicating it with emotions, or had she simply gotten in over her head? Realising what she had done, she quickly terminated the contract and jumped onto the next international sexpress.
Convenient sexing is fun, adventurous, liberating and sexually educational, but if you aren't familiar with the basic rules and regulations, then it's probably best to keep dating until you find someone worth caring for. While most people end up having genuine feelings for their fuck buddy in the long run, it's probably best to keep things as straightforward as possible. Set the boundaries from the beginning and stick to them before you end up hurting someone unintentionally. Keep it light. Keep it physical and by all means, DON'T fall in love.
When it comes to the casualties of meaningless sex, how do we get by without the emotional attachment?
For centuries, men have had the upper hand when it comes to recreational sex, but thanks to legendary heroines that spawned out of hit shows such as Sex and the City, more and more women are starting to enjoy the perks of uncomplicated, disposable, no strings attached sex. Fuck buddies, FWB's (Friends With Benefits), one night stands. Who needs the cow when the milk is so willingly available, and even though most girls fall victim to the post hook-up hangover, casual sex is definitely the cure for the non-committal type looking for sexual liberation between bad break ups and their next relationship.
As invigorating as casual sex may be, there are certain administrations that one needs to abide by in order to survive those unwanted feelings of emotional remorse. Biology, unfortunately, makes most of us weak and vulnerable, making it impossible to separate emotion from raw, physical lust - thanks oxytocin. So how do the Samantha Jones' of the world do it? Do they inject themselves with daily shots of testosterone or do they simply regard casual sex as a temporary employment contract; without guarantee or expectation beyond their term of service? If the position is neither fixed nor permanent to begin with, why are we constantly reviewing the prospect of a long-term relationship instead of enjoying the interaction for what it is? Hot sex.
Fresh on the stiletto's of another failed relationship with the Casanova milk man from Paris, Mandy had decided to postpone her search for Mr. Right and focus her female erection towards Mr. Right,Your Place or Mine? Mandy, who temped as a receptionist by day and sang the husky stylings of Etta James by night, was a voluptuous African beauty whose confidence and sexual prowess attracted many a foreigner longing to experience the authenticity of Africa.
After completing her set one Friday night, Mandy was enchanted by this dapper Danish dude who'd been eye-fucking her since her rendition of Proud Mary. He was rolling just like a character out of some film noir movie. Smooth, seductive and sexually alluring. He introduced himself as he casually lit her cigarette out of nowhere. There was a certain air of danger in his eyes as the pale streetlight flooded across his icy-blue eyes. Chemistry boiled through her veins, and no sooner had she ordered a Jack Daniels, had she found herself in the wheelbarrow position back at his apartment for a night of unforgettable sex.
Their fling escalated to once a week, each hook up prompted by some kind of dirty sext message. Apart from the mind-blowing sex, they genuinely seemed to enjoy each others company. Sometimes they would just hang out on the couch smoking sweet Mary Jane and talking shit for hours, watching the sunset like good lovers do.
Although the terms and conditions of their "relationship" was clear from the get go, I could tell that Mandy was beginning to fall for him. It was in her eyes and in the way she spoke about him. It started when she began to fluster over the fact that he had not texted her back about a scheduled hook up and ended with a public outburst after he was spotted chatting up some random girl. The Great Dane was taken by surprise and thought they had a mutual understanding. Were Mandy's feelings of anger and jealousy justified, or was she the one who had breached the terms and conditions of their agreement? Did her reaction substantiate the ludicrous claim that women are incapable of having casual sex without complicating it with emotions, or had she simply gotten in over her head? Realising what she had done, she quickly terminated the contract and jumped onto the next international sexpress.
Convenient sexing is fun, adventurous, liberating and sexually educational, but if you aren't familiar with the basic rules and regulations, then it's probably best to keep dating until you find someone worth caring for. While most people end up having genuine feelings for their fuck buddy in the long run, it's probably best to keep things as straightforward as possible. Set the boundaries from the beginning and stick to them before you end up hurting someone unintentionally. Keep it light. Keep it physical and by all means, DON'T fall in love.
When it comes to the casualties of meaningless sex, how do we get by without the emotional attachment?
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