‘The sex wasn’t great … I was really nervous’

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/may/23/the-sex-wasnt-great-i-was-really-nervous

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Until yesterday, I’d seen Marc every day since getting home, and sometimes twice. We’ve been out to eat and on urban strolls, to the pub and to look at art. I’ve now lost count of the number of dates we’ve had. “Hang on, I’ll have to think how many” is probably the right number to signal the beginning of a sexual relationship. (At least for me. You can do what you like.)

We’ve eaten out, been shopping, drunk beer and … had sex. We’ve arrived at something, somewhere I was afraid might be the end and that he was sure would be the beginning, and it’s hard to say what will happen next.

The sex, you see, wasn’t great. I know – almost all first sex isn’t great. It so commonly isn’t that it’s almost a defining situation. I was really nervous, which didn’t help. I avoided a full unveiling by ensuring that we relocated from his sofa and out of bright light at a key moment. I sent him off ahead to close the blinds and turned off the already dimmed main light in his bedroom (he laughed), and approached the duvet with so much haste – hoping to be a blur – that I almost broke his nose. Part under the covers, I got the chance to present myself in the only way I could bear to: in the dark, half aware that I was shielding my stomach with a carefully placed forearm. All that self-consciousness wasn’t ideal for letting go of the mind and becoming a sensory being.

The momentous event took place in a silence that continued afterwards, when I lifted his arm to put my head on his shoulder. I had to go to the bathroom and he turned on his lamp and made fun of me for feeling the need to put my shirt on from a sitting position in the bed. That was essential, though, to avoid being seen standing up in my full glory. (I was ready for sex but I wasn’t ready for that.) I had chosen a loose shirt that falls to the thigh for this occasion, so I could be casual about hiding myself. I rushed off and galloped back, attempting jollity, as if I’d missed him, but honestly, I just wanted to get home. A kind of humiliation had already struck. When I came back to the bed he wondered if I’d like a strong drink, because he was having one.

No explicit criticism of anything surrounding the question of performance was made; we didn’t talk about it. But I did wonder. There’s so much written, now, about male expectation, about extreme grooming and the necessity of being toned, and all that. The question I find myself asking myself is this: just what kind of sex do bachelors like Marc have, or expect to have? I’ve been out of the loop, regarding sexual culture, for so long, having been married a long time and thus far unsuccessful in the dating pool.

I don’t know how many other women he’s slept with or if he watches a lot of porn; I’m not quite neurotic enough to ask. But a miasma of disappointment hung around us for the rest of that evening, drinking gin on his masculine sofa in his masculine pad. It’s a classic of the genre: all greys and blacks, print-free, painting-free, with expensive lighting, full of technology.

Giant fridge with ice maker: check. Shower made for two: oh yes. All these cues and prompts were feeding into my nervousness. The fact that he has a lot of magazines (consumer, motor, music, culture) and hardly any books. The fact that his music collection seems to be all post-1990, even if it does include some excellent film music. The fact that his stove looks far too shiny and new for someone who, according to his dating profile, likes to cook to relax. I did think: wow, we are really unalike.

Yesterday my post-sex text message had three kisses on it. “Are we doing anything tonight?” I asked. It wasn’t a new question. It was the one he’d asked me the day I got back. He didn’t answer until just before 8pm. “Sorry! Just got this. Not tonight. Tired.” No kisses: instead, that smiley emoticon, one smiling so insincerely that I wanted to stab it in the eye. I replied saying, “What about tomorrow? Film?”

“Not tomorrow or day after; my mother’s here,” he said. “But I’m free the day after that.” The day after that is arranged.

• Stella Grey is a pseudonym

@GreyStellaGrey