One minute you are minding your own business in a meeting or on your daily commute and next minute your brain has summoned, unbidden, some x-rated memory and you have a frankly sexcruciating flashback. Like…
The First Orgasm
Remember that Israeli soldier on your gap year on a small beach in Thailand and you were a bit stoned and so completely shellshocked after that you just got up and left? And every now and then you are reminded of how that felt and feel quite dizzy with it.
The Sex Smash Up
Nothing livens up a bus journey then a sudden full-blown sexback, from the morning, or last week or that time on the kitchen table at University, and you do a full body blush and you are in the cereal aisle and you think everyone can tell I am thinking about sex right now. Your hands are shaking. Are you having a hot flush? Christ is this the menopause?
The Oh My God You Are Right In Front Of Me
Nothing like being at a party/christening/farmer’s market and bumping into someone you’ve had sex with. So you are just standing there and thinking, ‘Is he thinking about you naked and that time you had sex in his mother’s bed or is he just thinking shit you look old.’
The Random Body Part
There you are on the Victoria line when a tongue, or an inner thigh or a neck tuft swims across your vision and whoosh you are there. You are not sure whose it was or at what point in the, er, proceedings it came into focus, but it’s such a visceral memory you twitch a bit. At least it’s not a smell. This time.
The Who’s That girl?
Remember when you were working in Paris and you met a boy/man/whatever at a party and you left and spent tout le weekend shagging and smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine? Who was that girl? You think of her every so-often. Was she happy?
The Shaming Memory
Sometimes your mind will drag back a Neolithic memory that you really really don’t want to remember – like that Australian guy you met in Earls Court and you all went out for drinks and then you snogged his much nicer friend but, and why you will never know, still went back and shagged the Aussie. And still you can’t go to Earls Court now without feeling the fear. You hate Earls Court. And Australians. You can’t believe you are admitting this to yourself.
The Just Before You Sleep Memory
You are finally drifting off after an exemplary sleep hygiene session – no phones, no alcohol, no scary thrillers, only lavender and whale music – and suddenly you remember the IT guy. Please not the IT guy. You thought you’d performed a sexorcism on him. You hadn’t. It remains a low point.