Londoners Magazine

A friend told me to “stop being so picky” as far as men were concerned. He knew a British guy was high on my fantasy “men-to-do” list. I told him, for the most part, the men I’d encountered since moving to London weren’t worth dating, let alone sleeping with. And I wasn’t going to lower my standards just to check something off a list. He scoffed at me.

I have a few reasons for being “picky”. I was raised Catholic and was taught God has neurotic sex issues. He would smite me for having premarital sex. I don’t think that’s true (but I don’t sleep around, just in case). There’s also the lingering, immature, misogynist concern of racking up numbers. And finally my own personal guideline of: “If I sleep with a guy, I’ll be doomed to remember him forever, so I better-fucking-well put him through a screening process.”

Then I met The Lad. He was sexy, funny, and oh-so British. I was gagging for it and ditched my rules.

It’s always a bit tricky the first time you sleep with someone. The Lad wasn’t an exception. I expected the polite British reserve to fall away when we stepped in the bedroom. I did not expect to be on top of him, mostly naked with one hand down his pants and the other grabbing for a condom, and hear him ask sincerely: “Do you want to have sex?” I feared this wouldn’t bode well for me - polite doesn’t work well in bed. But I shook my head and proceeded.

Thank Christ my fears were unfounded.

I woke up at eight the next morning with a jolt. My phone was ringing and flashing “home”. Panic caused my heart to stop. “Shit! God is smiting me,” I thought. “The first time I have a guy lying naked next to me in ages and my mom’s calling. How does she always know?” I rationalised: “She doesn’t know. It’s three in the morning her time, who died?” I answered, silently praying to God: “I know I’m a bad girl, but PLEASE don’t let The Lad make a noise.”

God spared my rotten soul: no one died, The Lad was silent, and I got a pleasant surprise. My brother was calling to announce he was coming in three days for a visit.

Disaster averted, I forgot my promises to God of reforming my wicked ways, and used the adrenaline rush to properly wake The Lad.

Later, I tried to impress him with American pancakes. But sex made me forget I can’t cook and I somehow managed to screw-up premixed batter. The Lad smiled, as if to prove he didn’t lose any teeth chewing on the rubber I served him, and said breakfast was lovely.

The Lad disappeared as I commenced the clean up. “Typical,” I thought. When I found him, he was looking at my toilet. “Was breakfast that bad?” I asked. “No,” he said. ‘ I was just trying to figure out if I could fix your toilet seat. It’s loose. Do you have a drill?”

My heart stopped a second time that day. He was going to fix stuff for me. I could have died and gone to heaven right there (although I knew I was in for an argument with St. Peter at the gate).

I felt quite smug: I screwed my fantasy, sexy Brit and he was screwing stuff in place for me. Better still, I could now laugh at my friend who thought it didn’t pay to be “picky”.

(In your face TH!)