When I was 22, and new to the world of work, I believed in Making An Effort. I turned up to meetings with a notebook filled with ideas in my neatest handwriting, and two kinds of pens in case an unspecified inky disaster befell me. As my career progressed, or rather, didn’t, I realised that there was no point bringing your all to an area with a finite effort-reward ratio. I learned that it was possible to get by and get the same results with a hangover instead of an ideas folder, and that “preparing” could include showering before work. Even that wasn’t necessarily a given.
Eventually I got so comfortable that I got fired, and so I managed to raise my professional game slightly. Still, there are slightly scary parallels between my work life and my sex life. I used to approach the latter as diligently as the former, I knew my ben-wah from my butt plugs, and approached each assignment correctly dressed and slightly too prepared. Then I relaxed and discovered that sex is so much better when it’s slightly messy and strange and you don’t stop in the middle to recharge the Clitorax 5000, which has fallen somewhere under the bed.
But now I’m too comfortable. I’m older and wiser and I know my body better than ever – and my body can’t be bothered. I’m busy, I know what works and I don’t have the time or the inclination to explore any alternatives, no matter how thrilling they might be. Going on a voyage of erotic discovery seems as ridiculous as palming your Uber driver an extra tenner to take you on the scenic route, via Finchley. I like the idea of getting it on, but when the moment arises I realise I’m more interested in getting it over with. At my peak, I might have given myself a sexual Michelin star, but now, in dark moments of self loathing, I wonder whether sleeping with me is like eating a Subway sandwich.
I suspect it’s connected with selfishness, maturity, and a diminishing tolerance for bullshit, especially my own. Really, ‘good in bed’ is shorthand for ‘too eager to please’ and if I’m turning into a lazy lay it might simply be a sign that I’ve finally finished entertaining the nonsense I’ve spent too long swallowing – that, to paraphrase Jerry Hall, we need to be into jam making and anal in order to be Complete Women. That said, it would be nice to generate a little more enthusiasm, for the sake of self respect. Like having a go at a smoky eye with a YouTube tutorial the night before a party, five minutes of concentration is worth it for everyone…
By Daisy Buchanan @notrollergirl