Somehow I missed this article from Caitlin Moran on the amount of time most people spend having sex. The average (3 to 13) minutes doesn’t sound too unreasonable - any less than three minutes and you have to wonder whether was really worth your while getting your kit off in the first place; any more than about thirty and you're either going Tantric or, let's be honest, you're just not doing it right.
One of Caitlin's comments in particular rang a bell with me. Sexual one-upmanship - we've all been guilty of it. Think about your teens and early 20s: wasn't the most important thing to claim not only the most notches on your bedpost but also the most outlandish and flamboyant sexual escapades to make your friends scream in delighted horror when you related them in their full technicolour glory? ("But how DID you get the duct tape off again? What did the vicar say? Has your mother forgiven you yet?")
If I run the gamut of my social circle today I find submissives, doms, switches, exhibitionists, voyeurs, fetishists and more, each outdoing the last in their unusual sexual practices. Special snowflakes one and all, open-minded to anything that comes their way - unless, of course, you want to just have sex. What, no rubber? No leather? No live-action video streaming? Good god, woman, what kind of freak are you?
It's not just sex it's happening to, either. In most things, this social circle is as open-minded as they come. If I was polyamorous they'd love me for it; if I decided to paint my face white, dreadlock my hair and invest in dayglo Lycra they'd accept me as a Cybergoth. The problem is that I don’t do any of that - I like my "vanilla" lifestyle. And it's when I say that that they look at me in disgust. You don't want an alternative lifestyle? You aren't stretching the boundaries of society and challenging the status quo? What are you, some kind of bimbo?
There's always the temptation to lie, to make up some extravagant fantasy or sexual fetish so that they can sigh with relief and accept me again. But instead, inspired by Caitlin's article, I think it's time to come out of the closet. So here, O best beloved, is my confession.
I like high heels. I like champagne. I like my fast car, I like my Islington flat and I like extravagant, brightly coloured cocktails. I follow fashion (albeit with limited success) and I go to members' only bars. I enjoy my PR job and damnit, I love my Jimmy Choos. I'm happy to admit that I aspire to the Sex and the City lifestyle and - most shocking of all - I can say all of this and still have a fully-functioning brain.
So here's the bottom line. If I can accept your two girlfriends, your four boyfriends and your need to be beaten with a cat-o-nine-tails three times a week, then you're going to have to learn to live with my lifestyle choices too. And if the Boy comes home tonight and proposes 13 minutes of vanilla-as-you-like missionary style sex I'm not going to kick him out of the bedroom, because I'm pretty damn sure we're both going to enjoy it.
(Still, I'm keeping the handcuffs on the bedpost... just in case.)
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