Sometimes, You Just Know

Like the day I knew I couldn't be with my live-in boyfriend - The Mummy's Boy (on steroids) - anymore.

Having spent the day tirelessly and patiently collecting beer cans and preparing potato salads for an all-male drink-fest at our new abode, I was feeling pretty much over boys, beer and being a domestic goddess. It's rare for me to so much as sniff alcohol and not become an active, table-dancing drinking participant. More rare for me to clean up after anyone - including myself. A trail of clothing, shoes, handbags, keys leads directly to my bedroom any day of the week. Robbers - you know exactly where to go. Rapists, feel free: it's been about 3 weeks since my last shag.

After throwing my hideously drunk Mummy's Boy into the shower, I was horrified to glance over my shoulder (in a mirror of course - where else would one be on a Saturday afternoon but in front of a mirror, examining one's pores?) and see a monster.

First, I saw his butt. Two slices of prime beef, with a hefty slathering of hair perkily pointed in my direction. I briefly thought "I've had enough arseholes for one day, thanks." The thought died in the neuron receptors, as they processed the vision of a white towel, folded in half and very neatly nestled beneath the monstrously hairy arse cheeks of my apparently adult lover. Legs akimbo and pulled up to his chest, I stared in horror at the heartbreakingly child-like expression on his face.

"Change me" he whimpered, as he clutched at his toes.

You Give Good Text

Saturday night was a dress-up party. We don't celebrate Halloween here in Australia - unless you're a lame hipster attempting to channel Brooklyn-chic - so this was pure costume, for no reason other than the fact that costume parties are:

1. an opportunity to dress as sexily/skankily as possible; and
2. an opportunity to judge people - guys in particular. If they play it safe or don't dress up they're outta there. There are no '3 strikes' in costume-party-world.

Of course I leapt at the opportunity to dress in all my skin-tight, black, pussy-cat glory: tequila is wasted on the girl in the corner dressed as Mary Poppins.

3am approached. While I'd burned up the dance-floor and writhed senselessly with the doorframe, my whiskers were yet to be smudged by a tiger. My drunken text, only somewhat sophisticated by the addition of a picture, was delivered to 2 inboxes - a social experiment had unwittingly been created.

Option 1: Babe u are ridiculously hot, we are having a massive cook up should get here ... biggest babe ever! Mwah mwah.

I'm not joking. Every time I see "cook up", I think "cock-up". That was the worst text message I've ever seen... Except perhaps for "you can't keep drinking tequila like that".

Option 2: God you look good. Apart from a lot of kissing, I would definitely have to pay a great deal of attention to your breasts tonight. ....

(And then it became X-rated).

The Facebook Stalker

Facebook is indeed a very useful social utility. Not only can you stalk people, you can find out when someone you had previously been stalking has removed you from their friends list - possibly due to excessive stalking, or a proliferation of comments that were totally inappropriate and probably offensive when read by their girlfriend.

I have two comments to make about Facebook for today:

1. The Vet has had every opportunity to add me as a friend and has not. This suggests he doesn't want to stalk me which, bizarrely, also means he doesn't want to sleep with me. Epic fail.
2. I decided to check in on Rugby.

You may be thinking I did this because I was having regrets. I am still at the grand total of zero regrets, so never fear. I stalked out of curiousity, and to see whether he'd made some ridiculous comment about how "fucked" women are, or to see a public notice that he'd harmed himself on the weekend.*

Nothing.

Instead I saw what could only be described as a Rugby-Loving looking woman (from her profile picture, which of course I stalked) referencing the "footy" season and making suggestive comments about her, some rum, him and a pub. I firmly believe that one of the best ways to get over someone is to get under someone else, so for his sake I hope he catches up with her quickly. I think she will probably take care of the rest.

Thank you, Facebook.

* Rugby had rather pitifully whined (via email) that he has been "pretty down about a lot of stuff lately" and that this somehow explains his thumb's inability to stay in his pocket, rather than pressed rather insistently on the "call" button of his phone. To me, this was another "run for the hills" indicator (I'm sorry, but I have a preference for happy people), and - to be blunt - the final nail in the coffin.

How to Handle A Break-Up 101

Key words: Detached. Aloof. Dignity. Self-respect.

Key activities: Flush SIM card down toilet. Avoid alcohol unless SIM card is down toilet. Get busy. Get under someone else. Have a bikini wax, and remember that physical pain will always trump heartbreak in the OUCH! stakes. Have pedicure, and remember there will be others who will suffer your stinky feet (even if you have to pay them). See friends - remember others will love you (you shouldn't have to pay these ones). Keep trap shut about heartbreak to all others bar pedicurist and circle-of-trust friends.

Simple enough measures: if you're a non-rugby-player that is.

It was time to flick pass Rugby to another team. Although I will miss his lovely chest, I will not miss uninspiring sex, boring dates and a bizarre dearth of conversation.

It was gentle enough. I used line #12 in the break-up book of lines: "I don't have the time nor the inclination for a relationship right now, and it is not fair on you. I know you want something more, and I can't give you that."

He took it relatively well. Except for his monstrously lame comment that he "sure would miss the great sex". Please note, I did not add "great" to make myself sound good. He actually said that.

Not for the first time, I thought: WTF?

Having secured his promise to return a pile of CDs I was not willing to give up, I hung up the phone and resumed perving on other men.

I awok Sunday morning to a blaze of numbers which caused my head to ache. (Nothing to do with the tequila). I'm not much of a statistician, but my mobile phone is:

• 46 missed calls
• 12 drunk, slurry, voice mail that indicated his wildly optimistic view that I might be out at a rugby bar and desperate for his cock and if so, "let's catch up"
• 6 incomprehensible text messages (although one seemed to be suggesting we might like to have sex in the intervening period until I am ready for a relationship).

Or don't.

A few more, easily digestible statistics.

• Number of regrets since ending things with Rugby: none.
• Points of clarification: One. I am not that good in bed.

I Wish I Had Made This Up

But I didn't.

The characters in this article are real and any resemblance to other persons living or dead is purely coincidental and terribly bad news for people who have dated or are dating them.

This has been extracted simply because time is a-ticking on the dreaded assignment due in less than 2 weeks now.

Stress attacks: 50. Wanky lattes consumed as considered stressful state: 49. Actual work done: minimal.

• I studied all weekend.
• Studying all weekend makes me depressed. I hate it, I wish I was outside and/or having sex, I grow resentful of others who are outside and/or having sex, I feel stressed, my back aches etc.
• Rugby knows the above.
• Rugby wanted to catch up this wkend. I said let me know what you're doing Saturday night and maybe we can hang out.
• I hear from him at about 4pm saying he'd be over, but not until "later" in the night.
• I respond. Ask will he need food out of politeness (assuming that "later" means after dinner).
• Him: yes will need food.
• I panic. Have no food in house, and had been planning on eating tinned spaghetti on toast or some such instant dinner.
• Waste precious study time searching for food.
• Waste precious study time showering.
• Receive text at 7pm saying he'll be there in 15 mins. What part of 7:15pm = later?
• Waste precious study time panicking about cooking.
• Waste precious study time actually cooking and preparing a f *cking salad. what was I thinking? He's a rugby player. Like he eats salad.
• He arrives.


• He arrives empty-handed.
• No wine, no dessert, no bread, no cheese, no eff-ing anything.


• Murderous thoughts flit through my head. Do not consider this waste of time as so enraged following brilliant preparation and execution of seafood lasagne and rocket & parmesan salad.
• He comments, as I am muttering darkly about how I hope the food is ok (I didn't mean that sentiment at all, but felt it was the polite thing to say), that he had been thinking "all day" about cooking dinner for me.
• ALL DAY. And he arrived empty-handed.
• I am gobsmacked briefly.
• Resume brilliant preparation.
• Ask if he wants a glass of wine. Yes he would.
• Not that he brought a bottle.
• Eat. Delicious.
• Dessert. Also delicious.
• He still looks hungry, but I refrain from offering more food.
• I am tired and achy and crabby. He does not pick up on this.
• I request back rub.
• He looks at me as though have asked him to murder his mother.
• He commences lame, feather-light "massage".
• I suggest he take things up a notch and actually put some pressure on my muscles: "Well go on. That's what your muscles are for".
• He sighs. He SIGHED after I cooked him delicious dinner!!!!!
• 3 minutes of horrifyingly gentle, non-massage-y and also totally non-sexual "back rub" later - he announces "I'm stopping now". As though he is a martyr for allowing this highly inconvenient intrusion into his Saturday night in the first place.
• *sigh*
• I fall asleep on couch. Wake up. Tell him am going to bed.
• He continues watching 'Groundhog Day'. On free to air tv. With ads.
• Some time later, he appears beside me in bed with boner pressing into my tired, aching back expecting sex.
• I mutter something incoherent as in that stage of sleep where so tired, it's like swimming out of concrete to wake up.
• He SIGHED! again!!!!! And grumbled!
• And rolled over and did ANGRY SLEEP MANOEUVRE!
• Me = unimpressed.
• He drops me at library in morning and we have coffee. He sits silent as though we have been married 80 years and have exhausted all avenues of conversation.
• I take the opportunity to discuss how busy I am all week. This is building up to the "I don't have time for this and it's not fair on you" excuse.
• Receive text message later in day saying: "Hi Penny. It was fun hanging out this weekend. It seems i like you even when you're slightly demanding".
• Me = WTF?

Cents and Sensibility

I have a very uptight, English view on money: don't talk about it, but if you must, pretend you have loads of it. This means I regularly do things I can't afford (unless I eat tinned spaghetti for the remainder of the year - in March), and simply can't stand those who bang on about money and how little of it they have. After all, if you have nothing nice to say, keep your trap shut.

Rugby, I fear, is not of this school of thought. Staring at the menu of a nice-ish (approximately mid-ranking in my restaurant categorisations which consist of excellent! and cheap!! through to excellent! but expensive) restaurant with mains at about $30 I already knew not to even think about entree and dessert if we ate there. Definitely not drinks. It got worse. I watched with fascination as his already-thin lips pursed a little further, and indignation whipped across his face like an August wind.

"That," he said as he jabbed at the menu, "is ridiculous!".

Uh-oh. I knew what was going to happen here. Cheap Chinese, and the rest of the night agreeing that it tasted just as good - if not better! - than that stuck-up restaurant and how criminal it was what they charged for a meal these days. I could already feel myself prematurely ageing.

I stared at the 3 tiny straps of Italian gold leather that had been categorised by an import official as "shoes", and that had cost $200, and sighed. I decided now was not the time to declare my penchant for good, MSG-free food nor should I mention my plans of being a housewife to a Very Rich Man.

Pray Not for Mercy

Mercy measures (collective noun): a group of activities that involve one merciful person performing an activity or favour for the benefit of another. Motivated primarily by extreme sympathy for the other person. Occasionally guilt or boredom may be a factor in a person's decision to perform mercy. See also: mercy date or a mercy f*ck.* He has cancer, and I felt really bad for him, so I mercy f*cked him. or She wouldn't stop texting me, so I just mercy dated her in the end.

I have on occasion implemented "mercy measures". The merciful giver often gives with a bit of smugness, a little glint of superiority flashing in their eyes. Should this ever happen to you, may I advise you politely decline their merciful measure and walk with determination, and your eyes firmly fixed on a point that is far enough away for you to stride towards, and at your eye level. No lowering of eyes, stooping of head, or shuffling of feet. You wouldn't accept a loaf of bread from a complete stranger who thinks you're homeless (when you're not actually homeless obv.) would you?

A mercy date can occasionally be pleasant - for the merciful giver it enables them to feel like the last great philanthropist on the planet, and for the receiver of mercy because they are desparately enjoying the moment and kidding themselves it's only onwards and upwards from here. As for a mercy shag, I've done it once and it was a disaster. How to drive yourself and another person insane in 7 minutes. Just don't.

Having only ever been a smug merciful giver in the past, I was horrified when I realised I had been the subject of mercy this weekend, finding myself ensconced in a semi-awkward conversation with an ex-hayroller: the Vet.

By way of background (I don't want to spoil my next post) the Vet broke a lot of rules of a one-night stand - primarily by being far too nice and affectionate. I broke the rules of a one-night stand by believing it was something more than it was. However in my defence his OTT affection and tailor-made compliments were misleading. Bygones.

While I may have briefly tuned out during our chat to consider the possibility of nipping up the road for a quick pash, it took a while for me to realise what had motivated his conversation instigation.

A mutual friend approached me, and her apparent concern threw me. She asked "how it went".

"Well", I replied, suspiciously.
"That's good. I thought you handled it really well."

An alarm started sounding...

Handled what well? My mind ricocheted through the possibilities:

• He had broken, and realised I was more than a booty call - I was Rich Man's Wife material - and he had to have me before anyone else snapped me up. (I love pleasant thoughts, don't you?)
• He liked me, and was too shy to admit it (I think there's a chapter in He's Just Not That Into You on that)
• He felt sorry for me - perhaps because options 1 & 2 were plastered across my face. [Note: they bloody weren't].

"Well, he was just worried that it would be awkward during lunch, so he just wanted to chat to you and make sure no one felt uncomfortable right up front".

That, my friends, is a mercy chat. And I was its pitiful subject.

Mummy's Boy

Relaxation can involve a variety of activities: scoffing chocolate like the world will end in a few short moments while flipping through Vogue magazine and convincing myself that I own a wardrobe full of Chanel, that I'm a size 0 and will continue to be so despite having just consumed a sumo wrestler's body weight in chocolate; eating; manicure/pedicure - while eating; cooking (or more correctly, eating what I have spent hours cooking).

A key ritual of the cooking process for me is the donning of an apron. Should I ever find myself lacking sustenance, I could basically eat my apron given how much food has been spilt on it and how rarely it sees a scoop of Omo. My moment of relaxation - at its height when I tie my messy apron - is without fail (and albeit briefly) ruined when the tying of the apron strings reminds me of my crazily drawn-out involvement with an extreme version of what is commonly described as "The Mummy's Boy"*. Unfortuantely Mummy's Boys are a permanent fixture on the Australian dating scene if you believe a word social demographer Bernard Salt has to say.

**

Any dipping of toes into the icy waters of the Great Dating Ocean requires the same level of painstaking care and attention as that paid to selecting a good waxer. One false move and your vagina will hate you forever.

**

It is with great trepidation that you date a Mummy's Boy.** The attention with which your Mummy's Boy lavishes you - primarily because he is looking for a replacement mummy (i.e. wife - the notions are interchangeable in the mind of a Mummy's Boy) - can be terribly blinding in the early days of your acquaintance. It is hence imperative that should you remotely suspect his attachment to the apron strings aren't entirely severed, that you arrange a time to observe his interactions with mummy without haste .

It is of course entirely possible that his constant references to his mum are absent any kind of Oedipus syndrome: Brad Pitt and Curtis Stone are testament to guys being a great catch if they have a respectful, wonderful, non-sexual/healthy relationship with their mums.

Sometimes you just need to be sure though. Oberving boys in their growing-up environment can be all the fun of a David Attenborough quirky animal-shagging-behaviours documentary.

Below I list some standard, totally innocuous pleasantries you would typically engage in when visiting the parentals of your current shag for the first time. You'll realise you have a Mummy's Boy on your hands when his mummy interprets such activities in a manner that even the writers of an Emmy-award winning episode of Bold and the Beautiful would struggle with conceptually.

• Your pretty, floral teadress. She will at first think "oh, how nice she's just like me". The instant the thought reaches her eyeballs however, she will instantly morph into Queen Insecure as she suspects your dastardly plan to replace her in her darling boy's life. With that you will witness the birth of a rampant, passive-aggressive monster. Nice mummys will just think you're nice. Try not to get your boobs out this first meeting - you will forever be a tart in mummy-to-avoid's eyes and that can be a hard one to refute when you're busily on nipple alert.
  
• The gift you bring along - be it wine, flowers, home-made chutney - will be seen not as a thoughtful gesture, but as a Trojan-esque gift to be regarded with extreme suspicion. Wait for the question re the recipe/where you bought it. You can then expect some type of - "Oh goodness. I just never buy flowers from there because they're usually riddled with worms! But.... These look very nice. Maybe they found better quality since I was in there yesterday". Or "The recipe has chillis in it? What a frightfully funny recipe! I can't stand hot food. You should keep it". Do not under any circumstances argue: you're just opening whole new avenues of criticism. Smile! Act like an imbecile who didn't understand a word of what she just said!


• When you do the dishes to help out. Regarded by sane human beings as a nice, grateful thing to do. Expect mummy to behave as if on extreme terrorist alert, following you around like a lost, blind puppy and muttering things like "not the way I do it" and uncontrollably rubbing surfaces you have already cleaned. Persevere with this one, folks. Mummy's Boys will usually grab mummy by the apron strings and attempt to waltz with her in the lounge room. Don't be surprised if one or both of them grind their hips a little.

While you may be a little tied up managing the shock induced you may feel after witnessing the behaviour of a grown, apparently mentally-stable woman, ensure you also observe Boy. Classic Mummy's Boy behaviour includes: (a) always taking Mummy's side; and (b) behaving like a pre-schooler, becoming useless, whiny and needy as soon as Mummy appears (Mummy will generally respond by not-so-subtly commenting she would never leave her darling in the lurch the way you, the nasty - and most likely slutty - girlfriend has).

For those of you who would prefer to have your eyebrows waxed by a drunk masochist than hang out with parents in the early days, keep your eyes open for any of these clues:

• He refers to his mother as "mummy" a la Trey on Sex and the City. We all know how that one ended. The "mummy" endearment is generally answer enough - more so if she has a nickname for him that references baby animals or that requires her to adjust her normal speaking voice to baby-voice. Goo-goo ga-ga - Get outta there!


• He comments that she looks really "fit" for a 64 year old. What?


• If, when you are ironing/making a bed/folding clothes/any other domestic chore, he comments that "mum doesn't do it like that" with extreme disapproval - and he doesn't think to offer to do it himself.

Any of these vital signs? You have yourself a living, breathing mummy's boy.

What to do next, when you realise you are dating a Mummy's Boy?^ Run like hell.

**

* Mummy's Boy used to love when I wore an apron - apparently I tied my apron "just like mum". The last straw was when he wanted sex with the apron on - tied "just like mum". Fuck off, Oedipus. The only issues I have time for are Midas'.

**Note: You're more likely to find yourself in the arms of a Mummy's Boy if you are still in your very own Age of Innocence.

^I have clearly not pointed out the other, more obvious early signs of a Mummy's Boy, such as still living with Mummy, wearing underpants that have been ironed for him by Mummy, and relying on his Sunday delivery of food for the week from Mummy (unless Mummy is his WeightWatchers meal delivery lady - totally different story, however beware dating a boy who can fit into your shorts).

Quote of the Day

Followed by a terribly deep sigh.

"Were you even close to coming right then?"

The danger of sleeping with

1. amoral, yet devastatingly good-looking men; and
2. football players who rely on one-night stands for emotional and sexual sustenance

is that they are not terribly skilled in bed.

I said "no". I tried to raise my eyebrow, but disappointment is energy-sucking. Having been brought up on a diet of good behaviour, politeness and not saying anything unless it's nice, I weakly muttered something about it being the journey, not the destination.

The C-Word

I have an astrologer who provides me with guidance.* Ordinarily, I am blithely in love with every piece of advice she provides because it's what I want to hear. I hear Adolf Hitler like his briefings filtered like that too.

So I was horrified when I flipped open her monthly scope, and found myself in dreadful disarray:
A relationship renaissance is soon upon you. This may be the deepening of an existing love affair, a this-is-it style new romance or celebrating a joyous commitment. There is no such thing as a casual liaison under the astro-scape now building. It’s intense & meaningful.

I felt like she'd made some kind of terrible mistake. The word "joyous" and "commitment" could not possibly be in the same sentence, and worse, I just could not understand this side-by-side adjective/noun coupling. "Joyous" has always been one of those words you use only a few times in your life on the occasion a close friend or family member miraculously survives childbirth.

Feeling under siege I consulted her book and read the more in-depth October scope. It was worse. Astro-ravings about a romantic encounter that happens only once-in-a-28-yr-cycle, don't fuck it up, this is serious and so on. Poor Hitler. Now I knew what those final moments in the bunker must have been like (minus the shots of arsenic).

When I contemplated who I am dating right now - Rugby - I felt faint. He could not be The One. Or could he? We already have all the ingredients for a marriage - terrible sex. It made sense from that perspective. It couldn't be! I wracked my brains for any other guy I've met or could potentially be involved with. This did not relax me. Sitting in Borders with my head between my knees, sweating uncontrollably and breathing like a suffocating hyena I realised something. There is a new C-word in my life. It doesn't rhyme with "hunt" anymore (I really wore out the shock of saying it on my ex anyway).

Commitment.

Paper bag. Breathe.

Which lead me to the next disturbing conclusion. This reaction could not be normal. My mother would be tearing her hair out in never-to-be-a-grandmother agony if she could see this once only in-Borders performance. Am I a man?

*Guidance really as opposed to raving, hanging off and repeating every word obsession.

Tequila Really Works

Proof in the pudding courtesy of the marvellous Ally K.

Once you've blown off the shackles of insecurity, tequila is your best friend when it comes to taking you that extra step towards full-blown self-confidence (not to be confused with obnoxious arrogance which is not only a turn-off to the opposite sex, it has a come-down of such manic proportions that alcoholism can only ensue).

Amateur Hour

Rugby has a lot of things going for him. Chief among these is an incredibly hot body and a big penis.

Dear Boys: don't let anyone tell you the size of a penis doesn't matter. It does. They can at times be far too big and quite often they can be too small or too skinny (the worst kind), so when you come across a perfectly dimensioned penis, we girls are entitled to expect a good time. In fact, we demand it.



I held out on Rugby for quite a while before sexing, for no apparent reason other than the fact I have a perfectly functioning vibrator and I wondered how long I could tease him before he got aggressive. I was a little disappointed that he hadn't gone down on me, nor even hinted at it, however I figured with a perfect penis maybe he didn't need to. I soon discovered he hadn't gone down on me because he had no. fucking. idea. what he was doing with the vagina and little boat (aka clitoris for the scientists out there).

After a few lacklustre performances of the sex act, I decided to scare him into improving. I casually announced over dinner one evening that I was a regular sex and relationships contributor for an online magazine, with an emphasis on the sex. I raised my eyebrow at him. He visibly whitened. He knew what that meant. Nicknames, secrets spilled and confidences breached. He had to pull his socks up.

The following evening, it was as though he had read every single Penthouse forum column he could get his mitts on. He went down on me in a raging dervish, and he pumped vigorously away at me as though I was a busted basketball and there was only 30 seconds left on the clock for the neighbourhood competition. He has two-speeds: fast and faster. One speed less and he'd be a BMX. It is not an understatement to point out that I was underwhelmed. He could tell.

"You know, whatever you want me to do. I'll do it."

Code for: "Help! I have no idea what I'm doing! Please teach me!".

There are some people who believe that such a helpless little wannabe sex maniac with a perfect toolbox is the greatest opportunity in their sexual lives. I agree - to a point. This situation, however, is not a matter of refining a few of his magic tricks, this is teaching him how to shuffle cards. Frankly, I'm not sure I have the energy (although his chest is a powerful incentive).

Key phrases for dealing with a lacklustre performer:

• "Do not have sex with me as though you are masturbating - my vagina is not your hand"
• "It's not a sprint, it's a marathon"
• "Not so good"
• "Good"
• "You better be able to back that one up again, buster"

For God's sake, don't destroy their self-confidence. They are very vulnerable. They are naked.

Key tools:

• Anaesthetised condoms
• Lubricant (it could take a while - a bruised box is not much fun in the morning)
• No pornos. Pornos have a lot to answer for this whole banging away at a woman business.
• Rope. Discipline is essential.

Tequila Texting

No Friday afternoon is complete without at least 2 shots of tequila. Remember Puff, The Magic Dragon? I still think that song should be Quaff, The Magic Flagon.

Tequila is the ideal segue way not only to the weekend, but to better looking men, instant self-confidence and of course sex. If you plan on having a one-night stand, factor in some time for you, a slice of lemon, a dash of salt and some magic orgasm juice - preferably 10 minutes before flagging a cab with your adoring 8-hour boyfriend. (It's an unlucky girl who gets an asshole for her 8-hour boyfriend, and not even tequila can fix those guys up. Best to reject them as firmly and brutally as possible).

The other important thing you need to keep in mind when dabbling in tequila-juice is to not do it when you're feeling:

1. Nauseous; and/or
2. Emotionally unstable.

It will always lead to an embarrassing outcome, and worse, you may blame the tequila and swear to never drink tequila again. Don't be ridiculous! The vomiting and crying hysteria was all you. I once combined emotionally instability with a one-night stand with an ex - I think I came out a winner as the sex seemed so great (love tequila!) however I did cry hysterically before the fantastic sex (hate something other than the tequila!). Tequila still made it to the next round - unlike the ex. My next session with a shot glass and a dodgy barman made me realise how unworthy my ex was, and how reliable tequila is.

The danger inherent with tequila shots is the tequila text. Often incoherent, likely to be riddled with spelling errors, and always sent to the wrong person. You can rely on tequila to loosen your text-finger sufficiently to text old boyfriends (generally never really boyfriends in the first place) to tell them you have "unfinished business" and to tell anyone within shouting distance that one day you will be huge and they should stand in line to be your friend right now. Throw in a little bit of "I'm a really nice person", some spitting and we have ourselves a Kodak moment.

Our Little Girl Is All Grown Up

In the past, I was regularly accused of being akin almost to a paedophile, given my predilection for boyish-looking "boys".

Broom-stick legs, a chest bereft of hair and definable muscle tone for me were all signs of dating gold. If the only moustache I had to contend with was a milk moustache from their last long glass of dairy goodness, I was a happy girl. During the Age of Innocence, I thought that being a grown up involved messily drinking tequila out of a tea cup at a high tea where every other boring sod was drinking Earl Gray and commenting on the weather. Not so.

I have now progressed in life, to find myself standing amongst men. I call this the Age of the Real Man. With it comes, I can only hope, the end of my borderline criminal behaviour which as I get older becomes far more pronounced. While I may be shocked that the cute guy behind the bar only just earned the right to legally serve alcohol 2 weeks ago, no one else is.

In order to break free of the siren song that is boyish charm, I have forced myself to become involved in grown-up activities. No more attendance at drunken balls - it's all charity cocktails and art gallery openings for me now. Cricket pitches have been superseded by the fragrant mix of sweat, blood and grass found only at your local rugby union field. (I am still struggling to identify where my beloved soccer fits in all of this: I attended a match on the weekend, only to be informed I had set my sights on the only person who had to get his parents' permission to play).

Real men have chests - a la The Terminator

My entree to the Age of the Real Man has been through Rugby, a man as masculine, tall and swarthy as his nickname suggests. Not only is he a Real Man, he is a sensitive Real Man* (see Infatuation). After several weeks of dating, I still marvel at his appetite, height and jaw bone. I am thus appalled to learn he is younger than me. (Although to put things in perspective, he's been eligible to vote for 9 years).

I have since decided that future forays into the Age of the Real Man should be run with the same precision target adopted by my mother,** which involves dating men who are beyond doubt, and absolutely without question older. She married a man 15 years her senior. There was no mistaking that one.

* Note: My experience indicates the sentiment expressed by a sensitive Real Man is also the more authentic. For example:

• Rugby: "I have never been more infatuated with a woman in my life". [Uttered after long periods of silence, typical of the strong, silent type or so popular literature would have me believe].
• Boyish Boy: "You are hot". [As stares at himself in mirror for an extended period and considers consulting thesaurus at school next week to extend vocabulary]
• The Terminator (aka pin-up for Real Men everywhere): "I came across time for you". [After saving the world - also quite typical behaviour for strong, silent types]
• Boyish Boy: "What time is it? I can't read clocks yet". [Just kidding! They were never that young, I swear].

**Note: I am still a little unsure of this strategy. I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to stop staring at foetuses, but 15 years my senior seems outlandish.

Infatuation

"I've never been more infatuated with a woman in my life."

As a 28 year old single woman who has just survived a sex drought of 8 months, this should have been music to my ears. The tune should have been all the more melodic given it came out of the mouth of a big strapping lad with an incredible washboard stomach, an enormous penis and an ability to put sentences together that consisted of words that were poly-syllabic. He was also very nice. I could already feel the accusatory eyes of my mother - who wanted her grandchildren 3 weeks ago - burning into the back of my head. While she isn't so desperate for grandchildren that I procreate with a (short) deadshit like my ex-boyfriend, I could tell this guy ticked all her boxes for me. He had "fertility" and "good genetic match" written all over him.

I decided a subject change was in order, since I knew that anything that came out of my mouth in response would be weak and easily interpreted any way this guy wanted (i.e. "I'm in love with you but I'm too scared to say it"). Seeking to keep everyone happy, I grabbed his penis.