Sometimes you hear it when you’re on holidays. Other times, anniversaries.
The voice that occasionally crops up with a little message that says: “You should be having sex.”
I myself thought I was immune to that voice, until what is now known as “the Valentine’s incident”, where I sadly fell victim to its powers.
It was the weekend after Valentine’s Day, and my partner and I ended up getting a hotel. I checked in before him to “freshen up” – I thought I’d do, or rather wear, something special; a lacy red number with a lovely uncomfortable garter and stockings.
Right from the get-go I could hear those voices creeping up: “That’s right, snare your man! Don’t dress in those daggy baggies, get out that red ensemble and seduce him like Giselle would!”
After much grunting, sweating, huffing and puffing, I was finally in my unforgiving, uncomfortable and highly unnatural get-up.
How badly I wanted my pink Peter Alexander baggy pj’s and fluffy slippers at that moment, you do not know.
But alas, this was happening and there was no turning back.
Let me tell you why this situation is always potentially embarrassing. The fear of rejection when you’re in these outfits – even though it’s with someone you love and trust – tends to creep up. You’re pretty vulnerable, whether you like it or not.
See, there’s no other reason you would be wearing these outfits. It’s not like you can say “It’s ok; I just wear these around the house when I’m just sitting around watching TV by myself anyway!!” (Sorry to disappoint you male readers but no, women don’t do that. Unless you’re Lady Gaga who from what I hear does her ironing in them).
Needless to say the night didn’t really go as I’d planned. After arriving at the hotel my other half proceeded to throw himself on the bed, exhausted, and tell me how terrible his day was. Fine, I thought, slightly panicky, this isn’t really setting the mood but he’ll get there.
Moments later he noticed my lovely little garment underneath my work outfit, smiled, but continued the discussion about work.
A whole HOUR later, with not another mere mention of said garment, we were still watching the news and the “things” were still, mercilessly, on.
Well actually, he was watching while I tried to sit in a position that was comfortable and slowly counted the seconds until I can rip them off and be done with it. I think the exact words in my head were “let’s get this over and done with so I can tuck into the thai takeaway we’ve ordered.” Romantic, huh?
Suddenly I went from being Mad Men-style sexy to on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And what for? I don’t exactly know. But I think there was something in my head going “there’s something wrong if you’re not having sex rightnow.”