The Single Girl: Time for a break, time for a break up

Stephen and I are on a break. We weren’t going out, so whether we can be on a break or not is, I should point out, still a bone of contention between us — though, right now, it’s probably the smallest bone.

Speaking of bones, last time we left each other’s company Stephen and I were about to jump on the good foot and do the bad thing (the operative word there being bad).

And given the first paragraph of this piece, I can imagine you’ve worked out how that went. Well, I’m going to tell you anyway.

Keen readers will remember that Stephen and I had agreed that in order to combat our deeply underwhelming sex, I would offer tidbits of constructive advice during intercourse. A plan I’m sure many couples faced with the same issue have struck upon and executed without issue.

It did not go so well for us.

Though miraculously, initially, it did, my first two interjections were met with enthusiasm and were implemented immediately, with staggeringly good results. There was, after all, hope for us. It was starting to feel good!

My third interjection was implemented without question. My fourth was half-implemented.

But when I proffered my fifth, there was a long pause, after which he seemed like all four previous suggestions were suddenly chucked out of the window, along with any hope of mutually enjoyable sex.

“Woah, woah, woah, we were doing so well,” I said.
“I’m not your performing monkey,” said Stephen, he face red, his feelings clearly aching.

I wanted to ask whether this made me an organ grinder, and if it did, whether he’d like to try it as a role play, but thought better of it.

“I was just giving tips — we’d agree I was going to give tips. They were working!”
“So, you just tell me what to do, and all of a sudden I’m not a shit fuck,” he said. I recognised anger in his voice for the first time since the first night we met. I didn’t like it.

“I’m just trying to help!”
“You’re not helping,”
“I literally am helping,” I said, by now, just kind of confused.

He was lying on his back, fuming at the ceiling, and all of a sudden I really wanted him not to be there. A feeling he apparently agreed with; he bolted upright, without saying a word, pulled on his clothes in under a second, and was out of my front door before my feet hit the floor of the bedroom.

“It didn’t go so well,” I said on the phone to Clem the next morning.
“He didn’t take it well?”
“Nah, he took the news fine, we had trouble with the implementing of the solution,”
“The solution?”
“I was going to make suggestion, mid…” a few eyes in the train carriage lifted from their phones and books, “…stride.”
“He didn’t like that?”
“No, he stormed off, mid… way through,”
“He’s a touchy turtle,”
“He is, what should I do!?”
“Nothing,”
“Nothing?”
“Honey, I reckon it’s over,” said Clem, the rare note of genuine concern in her voice, stopping me cold. Maybe she was right; the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

I hung-up in a panic, and texted Clem immediately, blaming poor reception. Then I texted Stephen.

Are we over?

No reply.

I confessed the events to Davo over a lunchtime parma, my suggestion. Whenever the prospect of a break up rears its ugly head, you will usually find me at the nearest RSL imbibing pots of VB and mainlining parma.

“God, as if bad sex still happens,” said Davo, as if the concept were a historical footnote.
“What would you do?”
“If I was dating a girl who I really liked, who was shit in bed?”
“Yeah, and who got really offended when you tried to help, and initially agreeing to giving it a try,”
“Well, at that point, I’d think she was a bit of dick.”

I text Stephen on the way back to the office.

You’re being a bit of a dick.

No reply.

The afternoon unfolded in an elaborately excruciating fashion, with meeting after meeting, of peculiar nothingness. Sue, sat at her desk, had been trying to come up with a sufficiently disgusting metaphor for a garlic roti since 10.30am.

“Sue, it’s all gone wrong,” I said, before relaying the events of the previous evening in PG-terms.

“Time to let him go I reckon love,” she said, confidently.
“A garlicy pancake, forgotten in the attic?” I said.
“It’s not quite there,” she said.

Not only didn’t I have a man, I couldn’t even come up with a sufficiently cutting metaphor for Sue to include in her latest Google review. Really, what was becoming of me?

Finally, he replied:

 We need to talk
 Mate, pls
 Seriously. When are you free?
 I’m in Sydney till Wed.

I lied.

He replied:

Weds fine by me, will text then

Oh will you, sunshine? Oh. Will. You?

This, dear readers, is going to be the first break up we’ll go through together. And on a Wednesday. Who breaks up on a Wednesday?

Previous post: Telling the man you’re seeing the sex has to be better

Want more? Like us on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and  Pinterest for daily posts and upcoming news