Suitors

I have been celibate for over 18 months. That means that no p in v action for the equivalent of two human gestation periods. The last time I had sex, Colonel Gaddafi was still alive. When my last relationship ended abruptly in April last year, I did not expect I would be so very very single for so very very long. In fact, the following week I was to attend a party, and feeling a little emotionally bruised, I fully intended on seeking out some male company.

The party in question was a house party thrown by a super organised Bostonian girl named Joanie. More specifically, this was a cocktail party. There was a dress code (black tie), and an impressive array of spirits; some decent, most crap, all extremely alcoholic. My companions at the party were fellow PhD students, including three (totally platonic) male friends, and two female friends. Two of the guys (Michael and Tom), immediately got stuck in preparing themselves cocktails, whilst the third guy, Rob, looked on awkwardly.

You see Rob is an ale drinker. In his eyes, cocktails are girly and pointless. However, realising he would have to get drunk somehow, he grabbed a plastic cup. Originally reticent, the scientist within him was suddenly struck with the limitless permutations of potential beverages. He turned to me excitedly and said “So I can add vodka and..lime..to..ginger beer?”. “Yes, in fact that’s a Moscow Mule”, I replied. He replaced the vodka and continued to scan the many bottles. He picked up two at random and read the labels, and asked “can I add Morgan’s spiced rum to Cream.. dee”-“Crème de menthe” I interjected, “um, best not”, I added. And so this continued for a while. Rob was in his element. A lengthy tasting process ensued.

After a few of Rob’s “cocktails”, I decided to mingle. I stood up, and fell back down immediately. Once the room had stopped spinning like a dradle, I surveyed my surroundings. There were men. Lots of them. In suits. The party suddenly held renewed promise. Remembering that I have questionable taste in men, and limited flirting skills, I decided to enlist the help of my friend Michael. Questionable drink in hand, I sidled up to him. “Find me a suitor”, I slurred. He smiled at me pitifully, and said: “Look, you need to stay single for a while. Take a break”. I stared at him incredulously. Deflated, I promptly excused myself, and vomited.

I didn’t expect to take Michael’s words to heart. In fact, once I had recovered from the hangover from hell I began in earnest updating my online dating profile. Messages started trickling into my inbox. I clicked on the first message: “Hey howz u hun?”. Urgh, delete! I systematically read (and subsequently deleted) a string of messages before I realised my heart just wasn’t in it. Maybe I did need a break after all.

In the last year-and-a-half, I have had physical contact with a grand total of four men, none of which has progressed beyond first base (i.e. tongue-in-mouth action). So have I missed male company? Hugs? Kisses? Sex? Well, of course. Occasionally after a few glasses of wine, the craving kicks in and I log onto my dating profile. Logging onto POF is like the equivalent of an ex-smoker popping out for a furtive cigarette when drunk: I always end up ashamed, and with a bad taste in my mouth.

However, I have recently made the decision to “get back out there”. It’s been far too long. Even Michael has grown concerned with my newly acquired fear of the opposite sex. He has even offered to ‘find me a suitor’.

Look out boys; the Single Female Scientist is BACK!