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Sex, texts & exes; Cringing over my teenage years
Exes are like a flaccid penis; laughable, embarrassing and hard to forget. Some generous people can be friends with their exes like they don’t have a vivid image of them naked on their mother’s sofa with a so-called sexy g-string on. I, for one, am not one of those people.
I struggle with the fact that there are men out there that have seen my au naturel state at 4 am on a Saturday morning spluttering through a kiss with saliva dripping onto their pre-bearded chin. I think back to them stroking my hairy legs and telling me how beautiful I am when the sanest comment would be to compare me to the finally-found Big Foot monster. It’s almost unbearable to think of my seventeen year old self canoodling a hormonal boy that re-enacted a scene from the 40 Year Old Virgin and couldn’t quite get that trusty genital-raincoat on. Memories like this should be locked away with similar cringe-worthy I-hate-myself moments such as drunkenly fondling a middle-aged barman who was trying to keep my legs from behaving like Bambi.
Of course, back in the day I had some pleasant times with these exes. We shared a laugh or two. We watched a film or two. We broke a heart or two. But now the decade of my twenties has hit and I realise that their existence haunts my memory, why did I find the shaved Nike tick on the side of his nearly-bald head a turn on?
When I think back over my impressionable years as a teenager, I remember thinking that texting the word ‘babe’ was the ultimate flirting technique. If that was followed by the ever-anticipated ‘x’ kiss at the end, that was it; life as you knew it was over. Being single back then was like a race for the sexually-deprived; who can kiss someone’s peeling dry lips first?
Other memories include some images that could fill a sex-for-dummies book which, if it doesn’t already exist, may just have to be in the pipeline. One ex thought it was a marvellous idea to light some candles one fateful Valentine’s day and surprise me with a ‘night of pleasure’. Unfortunately, he ended up burning a certain area and was sat with a bag of ever-so-attractive frozen peas whilst I revelled in the pleasure of his grimacing. Another brave warrior of a nearly-man tried to seduce me with his cutlery skills in the kitchen and ended up buying me Kentucky Fried Chicken as a ‘surprise’; I’m a vegetarian.
The most embarrassing thing about remembering these men is how I behaved and I’m sure they’d probably all agree too. I was the dictionary definition of a joke; I wore socks with sandals. They were the times when I thought Westlife were the sexiest thing since the creation of man and I owned flared trousers. I am appalled. However, the main issue was that I had a heart that always sought after teenage love like it was going to be one giant orgasm for the rest of my life. It wasn’t, I have to add. I was always the one to jump on the romance wagon and declare my undying Romeo and Juliet lets-get-married-and-be-ridiculous together love for them when really the only thing we had in common was our choice in Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
Sometimes, when I’m out and about in the bustle of London life I fear the ex-factor. They could stroll out from some unknown sidewalk and shout out how my virginal skills in the bedroom were somewhat unfortunate to the tourists ready with their cameras to ‘name and shame’. When I see a figure of a man that looks like it could be one of those exes, my heart stops… not from the thought of his hands all over my body and failing to ‘find the spot’ but from the sheer horror of having one of those awkward conversations or an I-remember-how-your-nipples-looked kind of silence.
I have tried in the past to be all hugs and kisses how’s-the-family with exes but somehow it’s always ended with me feeling slightly repulsed when I try to tuck into a small vegetarian sausage shortly afterwards. I don’t wish any negativity onto them but I do wish that they could forget my sordid past of, brace yourself, denim on denim.Tweet Share4
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