The V plate. The scarlet letter you’d managed to shake off just before starting uni…
On a suitably exotic holiday you got it on with a devilishly sexy local who has a convenient lack of social media presence. Of your conquest you have just the one blurry photo, which looks eerily like Jessica Alba / Ioan Gruffudd / all of the Fantastic Four.
‘But that’s a Marvel characters trading card!’ one of your peskily perceptive friends says.
‘Beat it, nerd.’ you respond, saving your own bacon with aplomb.
These precarious stories fooled your new friends in the freshers’ drinking games. A sexual beast, a pick up artist, what chance did they stand when out clubbing with you? None, they discover, as they leave early, carrying you home. “Too drunk to pull,” you mumble to them by way of explanation. It’s a shame, you’d been eyed up by some minxes all evening.
Unfortunately, now in lockdown it has been six weeks (and twenty years) of sexual inactivity.
The actual length of time doesn’t matter. They’ve got no idea anyway. They have nothing on you.
I haven’t had sex in weeks, a friend groans. I’m struggling.
“Tell me about it”, you reply, though they don’t realise this is in earnest.
More feeble than Greg, the social competence of Rowley, and a spookily in-depth knowledge of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, what did you expect?
What matters is how you’re going to deal with it now.
This painless three point plan is proven to prolong the sexual stasis in which you reside. Perfect.
For these activities others have adopted as isolation fads are fortuitously the precise areas where you excel. So, come the end of lockdown, when the libertines happily roll their yoga mats up, turn off their PS4s and terminate their unsuccessful podcasts, you do no such thing. These domains are yours for the keeping.
And long may your faux-nonchalant attitude to pulling continue.
By Ben Hutchinson