So I’ve got two potentially frisky parties this Thursday followed by what promises to be an absolute humdinger on Saturday. A proper blow-out. And so my question to you is not what to wear; is not what to drink; is not even what to say. My question to you is this: should I have a wax? Because maybe, just maybe, there might be an opportunity to get laid. Remember party sex? The sex you would never have had if you hadn’t happened to be exactly that drunk at exactly that party?
Could it be that there is a ‘victim’ – I use that term in jest (no I don’t) – just standing by the bar willing to get drunker than drunk and then slope off in a let’s-pretend-we’re-going-back-to-my-flat-to-talk kind of a way. Someone new. Fresh meat – I use this term in jest (no I don’t) – who has never encountered me before and just…fancies a go. Of course, that man propping up the bar may be my future husband – I use that term in jest (actually I do – a triumph of experience over hope). There are no future husbands until perhaps, one day, maybe, possibly, there is one. And then I could have party sex with him. For the rest of my life.
Equally, I may become so tequila-trigger-happy that I make one of those few and far between booty calls. To someone who will… tick the box. It never feels great after these (twice yearly) calls but they are a thousand times easier than the self-loathing and misery that sits in for 24 hours after a bad date. Dates are risky. They hurt.
What I am really asking when I am asking the waxing question is this: am I too old for party sex? I say no. I say that I used to be too young for it and now I am practically engineered for it. It’s a celebration. As long as no one knows. Because it’s none of anyone’s business. And they might judge me. And I really can’t be arsed with that.