I love intercourse – so why has it been so long since I actually had any?
I first had sex when I was 16; I have since had quite a few people inside my body. Some were more welcome than others – like the surgeon who removed my inflamed appendix, and that incredibly hot Dutch photographer in a Utrecht Airbnb, to whom I would have given my appendix, had he asked. Others have only penetrated me with their words or in my fantasies. Some of the experiences feel unreal, like the guy who referred to himself as “Big Mike” and claimed that he was moving to Finland the next day, despite there being no packed moving boxes or suitcases in his house. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup today.
I am torn between two different versions of that story. In one, I was twentysomething, wild, confident and single. I met a hot guy in a bar and we went back to his place. He read me some of his poems, I elegantly undressed and we had sex. Twice. The next day, when I was deliciously hungover, I revelled in the fact that we didn’t even exchange phone numbers, as if I was in Sex and the City.
