real life

"All I want is a good looking companion with no strings attached."

No strings, thanks.







Becoming recently single has presented me with a great deal of frustration, particularly when all I want is a good looking companion with no strings attached. I’m a busy lass with a business to run, friends to see, places to go and priorities that don’t include a relationship.

Men: don’t automatically assume women are emotional sponges, desperately grasping at your freedom to hurl out along with your Zoo Weekly magazines.

Let me lay it down for you fellas… with much love from all the women out there who are misunderstood.

I text to say I’ll be over at 7pm … I’ll ask if you want me to pick you up some take-away too. I ask because a) I’m polite and b) I’m freaking hungry, but because I want to force a romantic feed upon you.

Devouring my food, you knock my socks off by my clearing away my plate and rubbish – so I shoot you a smile. But no, I didn’t just envisage you being a domestic God in our new house. I’m just impressed you’re cleaning up.

Your arm is just bloody comfy.

Whilst relaxing on the couch waiting for my food to digest, the topic of your family pops up in conversation, so I ask a few mindless questions about them.

Don’t presume I’m internally assessing our family’s compatibility; I’m just bored of watching the ESPN shit that you’ve got playing on TV.


Feeling that my food is adequately digested, I decide to crawl on over and get jiggy with it – to which you respond with a resounding arrogant groan (loosely translated to “Yep, she wants me, bad”).

Well, I’ll hand you this one – the ‘scruffy relaxed look’ you’ve got going on is working for you tonight, but I’m also keen to get home to the Vogue mag I purchased today.

Suggesting to relocate the romp to your bedroom does not mean I want to get unnecessarily personal. Your lounge room is simply cold.

Lets fast-forward: It gets steamy. You’re good, it’s good, all is good.

Thus, I say so and you eyeball me cautiously.

Back up pal, I’m not cryptically insisting we date.

I’m just saying the sex was good. End of story.

Falling back on the bed in total relaxation, if by chance your arm is feasible enough to double up as a pillow, yeah, I may feel inclined to temporarily make use of it.

This temporary invasion does not mean I’m marking my territory, nor will your scent trigger a deep impulse to stake claim.

Your arm is just bloody comfy.

You roll off the bed and trundle towards the shower… to which I follow suit.

I don’t want your intimacy. I want your soap.

Please don’t mistake my hygienic streak for wanting to get up close and personal. I don’t want your intimacy, I want your soap.

Wrapping the towel around his fine, muscly waist that ripples with every movement, he observes as I throw my clothes on.

“Soooo… I’ll call you?” he says tentatively.

“Yep,” I reply, short and sweet.

He looks momentarily perplexed – is it really this simple? Surely not?

He continues… “Yeah I’ll give you a call over the weekend.”

I do a mental scan of my plans…

“Next week, I’m busy on the weekend… thanks for tonight,” and I plant a kiss on his cheek and haste my exit.

He pauses… “Do you want to stay tonight?” – looking at me with interest.

“No thanks.”

“No?” he says


Why? Because I want to get back to my centrally heated house, call my best friend about her work dramas, lather my face in La Mer and sleep in my sheets that smell like ‘Fluffy’.

Thanks for the night, it was fun and yes let’s do it again sometime with the same level of commitment. I.e: none.

I want strings just as much as you want your toenails painted.

The author is known to Mamamia but wishes to remain anonymous.