Sunday, 15 November 2009
As I walk across London on a crisp autumnal afternoon I am struck by the most simple thought: I am normal. Incredibly normal. In fact, I'm so normal it's almost scary. I'm a white, 28-year-old man of medium build and height. I have no distinguishing body piercings or tattoos. My hair is inoffensive, albeit a little red, and my most daring feature to date was goatee beard that lasted a week until a girl I admired at university suggested it be removed. I have never made such a rapid move for a razor as I did that day.
Relationships baffle me. I'm talking about the relationship between a man and a woman that begins with an intensity and excitement that gradually dwindles over time until the time spent with one another is simply out of habit. And yet we settle for it. We're happy to just meander along as the alternative to this appears to be loneliness. Far better, it seems, to have someone to love you no matter what your feelings for them, than to endure the feeling of solitude. I sat next to a couple at a wedding a few months back and left the table feeling disturbed. Now in their late-twenties, having dated since their teens, they could barely manage a few grunts to one another across the table. Perhaps they'd had a rough time lately and I shouldn't jump to conclusions. But as the wedding wore on and their contempt for one another became more apparent, I was safe to assume they were together for that simple reason: they didn't want to be alone.
But who am I to judge? My only long-term relationship lasted just over two years and ended when I cheated on my girlfriend in a nightclub and was subsequently caught a day later by her best friend. So much for keeping it quiet! I was stupid, foolish, call it what you will, but it was an important lesson to learn at the time. I was only 20.
For the next eight years I have been my own worst enemy when it comes to women. Having moved to London two years ago from a sleepy Kentish village, I am only just starting to fully grasp the dating game. Like many men my age, some of whom would refuse to admit it, I have read my fair share of seduction guides, starting with The Game, and am gradually eliminating basic errors that previously sabotaged my relationships with women. Most importantly, I've learnt to relax and treat a beautiful woman as you would a great friend. I'm still prone to chasing girls however, I simply can't help myself.
I'm currently dating a cute American girl, Andrea, three years my senior but who looks no older than 22. We've been on four dates and last week we finally had sex. I'd love to say I gave the performance of a lifetime, but I was so startled by the experience that it was over in seconds. At least that's my excuse! I was shocking though. Andrea hastily cleaned up and jumped into her jogging bottoms quicker than you can say 'premature ejaculation' before rolling away from me. I just lay there, flat on my back, wishing she was still on top of me and wondering if this girl could even bring herself to look at me, let alone see me again. She tried to reassure me with "it happens sometimes" and "Peter, I'm not worried" but I was a broken man. Premature ejaculation has to be one of the most deflating experiences for a man. You feel like a little boy, unable to execute a simple act that has been performed for generations but is seemingly beyond your capability. I don't suffer from it all the time. Sometimes I can go for hours (usually following 8 pints in the local pub) and this just makes it more frustrating.
I may be seeing Andrea tonight, she's supposed to cook me dinner. But I can't help but feel I'm walking a tightrope and that another case of premature ejaculation will lead to permanent rejection. Perhaps I should crack open the beers now!
Wish me luck. I'll update tomorrow.
