An open letter to blokes/dudes/boys* who want to make sexy time(s) with me

Sexy time! Let’s NOT make it…!

Dear blokes/dudes/boys* who want to make sexy time(s) with me,

I get it. I really do. The testosterone coursing through your system like a relentless tide is driving you crazy. I get that you are biologically wired to spread your genetic code. I get that our culture makes it easy for you to have hook-ups and casual sexy time(s) without the pesky inconvenience of a relationship (and all that that entails). I get that you can pretty much pick and choose the basis of any and all encounters. I get it. I really do. And I get that you think that I may be able to help you make sexy time(s) based on any of the following criteria:

• you know me, and it seems like a good idea
• you used to know me, and it seems like a good idea
• you just met me, and it seems like a good idea
• you work with me, and it seems like a good idea
• you used to work with me, and it seems like a good idea
• we are in the same writing group, and it seems like a good idea
• you saw me running, and it seems like a good idea
• you talk to me while I’m doing my weights, and it seems like a good idea
• you have seen my social media profile, and it seems like a good idea
• you chat to me on Twitter or Facebook, and it seems like a good idea
• your wife (or girlfriend) and I are friends, and it seems like a good idea
• you are now separated, and it seems like a good idea
• you are now single, and it seems like a good idea
• you have an itch to scratch, and it seems like a good idea
• you think that because I am friendly and chatty and confident, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think that because I’ve already made sexy time(s) with you, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think because I’m single, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think because I’m older, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think because I’ve had a couple of drinks, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think that because I’m on a tour with you, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think because I talk about sexy time(s) and men on this blog, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think because I made lots of sexy time(s) in the 80s, I’ll think it’s a good idea
• you think that I have an itch to scratch, so I’ll think it’s a good idea
• etc.
• etc.
• etc.

So I totally get why you’d think I’d like to make sexy time(s) with you. And for a nano-second (or even more) I might even consider it. After all, at my age (51… 52 this year) it’s not like I have blokes beating a path to my door any more. I don’t have dudes sitting on my doorstep late in the evening, waiting for me to get home; or boys parked in the car park near my work, waiting for me to finish for the day. (And yes, this used to happen regularly when I was young.) So I might—for a nano second, or even more—think about it, if only to view myself as an attractive, desirable woman, which your request for sexy time(s) is clearly designed to make me feel.

I totally get why you think I’d want to devalue my worth as a woman and a human being to have an encounter with you that is completely devoid of meaning and dignity and respect. After all, every word I have written and everything I articulate in conversation sends a resounding message that I am shallow and vacuous and up for being used by you. I can totally see why you’d think that me making sexy time(s) with you would be the highlight of my life because clearly, since you think that I have no depth and consider myself a throwaway item, I would be attracted to superficial blokes i.e. you, too. I can totally see why you would think that I don’t value conversation and laughter and sharing and kindness, because why the fuck would I need those kinds of enriching things in my life?

You see me as someone to be conquered, seduced and disposed of. Someone who can be used to scratch your itch. You don’t know my highest highs or my lowest lows. You don’t know my greatest achievements, my scariest fears, my softest vulnerabilities. You don’t know the decisions I’ve had to make and what they’ve cost.

I totally get why you think I’d want to undo all the hard work I’ve done reframing the how and why of whom I should allow into my life by making sexy time(s) with you. I get it, because I recognise it in you as a reflection of me. I see a boy who I might have been tempted to make sexy time(s) with—and probably would have in a past life—based on the flimsiest of chances that it could have, might have turned into something more. A friendship, partnership, relationship. Something of value. Of course, this precludes the fact that I don’t know anything about you… what sort of person you are, for instance (although I have a fair idea). But the sexy time(s) was so good—and it was such fun—that you had to be a good and decent person, right? I tried to fill a deep ache to be accepted and loved and validated via sexy time(s). I did it when I was a lost and lonely teenager, and I am still mildly tempted as a woman in her fifties.

You know what? That urge for love and acceptance and validation never goes away, except now I love and accept and validate myself. I don’t need you and your demands, persuasion, suggestions and pleas for sexy time(s) like I used to. I please myself. Literally. But you wouldn’t know about that would you? You see me as someone to be conquered, seduced and disposed of. Someone who can be used to scratch your itch. You don’t know my highest highs or my lowest lows. You don’t know my greatest achievements, my scariest fears, my softest vulnerabilities. You don’t know the decisions I’ve had to make and what they’ve cost. You don’t know that I sleep on the right hand side of the bed, and wake at 6am most mornings. You don’t know that I prefer to run early because I love the freshness and golden light of a brand new day. You don’t know that I love Nutella on rice cakes and I still find Seinfeld hilarious. You don’t know my favourite karaoke songs or the movies that make me cry. You don’t know that I enjoy learning new things, but crave the comfort of routine. You don’t know how difficult, quirky and amazing I am. You don’t know how someone like you, yes you, mangled my heart almost beyond repair. And you don’t know the work that a man, a real man, will have to do before I will open my locked away, safeguarded heart again.

You know none of this, and then some.

And you know none of this because you are only thinking (and I use that term in loosely) about yourself, and you are not at all interested in me.

And that’s what I don’t get, because you are missing out on so much awesome.

Lots of love,

Me.

*Sorry blokes/dude/boys, but you aren’t men.

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