I like sex

Thursday afternoon and I am in the pub with Richard, my friend who slumped through my NYE party with a bottle of Jack Daniels and self-torturing memories of his deceased wife. A girl I haven't seen for many years is wandering about. She's good-looking, late thirties, and trouble, but quite interesting trouble. She is going up to people, apparently at random, and striking up conversation. It's our turn to receive a visit.

"Hello," he says. "Y'right?"

"Yes I am," I say. "How are you?" She has a practice of avoiding certain questions in a way that perhaps she thinks makes her seem mysterious, and she says nothing.

"You won't remember this," I continue, "but do you remember that little night club underneath the Kings Arms? Called The Crypt. You and me've been on a dancefloor together there several times. About fifteen years ago." She doesn't remember me of course, one long-forgotten bee amongst many who have circled her. And then, all of a sudden...

"I like sex."

I lean in towards her and tilt my head towards her. She said it again, more slowly. "Yes, so do I!" I reply. "Write down your email address," she says.

I give her a foreign address I use when some social distance might be judicious. "You Polish bastard!" "Ah! Not many people get that it's Polish. Anyway, drop us a line."

She folded the piece of paper up, looking at me. Of course, I have heard nothing.

---

Saturday night at the house music do in Lytham, with Trina. I've been going for more than three years now, and it feels like walking into a friend's great party. Very sociable and Trina was flattered that a few people came up to her and had a little word, remembering her name. The hotel gave us this huge room, overlooking the gardens. Really good sex in the morning.

The following afternoon, back home, we started on a beautiful South African dessert wine we got from the tasting at the High Commission. I made a quiche and Trina did the salad. Tess arrived, tired but adrenalined from work. Tess said the salad looked like something out of those books from the 80s called All-Colour Cookery, and suggested we go out for a drink.

Trina was getting drunk, banging her glass of beer down at a noise level which was starting to worry me slightly. I let it slip who had won The Voice (a singing contest on the TV). I remembered a second too late that she had asked me not to tell her who won. She went on and on about how thoughtless I am. Tess said "You are pissed off, but you want the argument as well, don't you?" She's got a perceptive head on her young shoulders.

To my relief, Trina asked for the key, and went back to mine. Tess and I ended up in this indentikit provincial gay club, with a trannie DJ playing shite pop music. I left her at about 2am and heard her come in at 7.

I got home; Trina had taken all her stuff and driven home. There were a couple of emails and texts, telling me that there is only one person in my life, and how she feels battered and bruised, how she's learned a lesson, and so on. After a bottle of wine and five pints, I judged it prudent to respond in a sensitive and reconciliatory way.

It's been great, our times together, but you're too moody and tempermental for me. I want a simple, straigthforward, easy, unthinking girl, and you are not her. I can't be doing with all this fucking drama. I love the things we do, but the aftermath is too much. I can't be arsed with it all.

Last night, at 10pm she sent an email saying that she was in "floods of tears." I replied "I'm going to remember some of the best times of my life with a kind, generous, sexy, funny woman, who was a great dancing partner too. I'm not the one for you but I'll always be fond of you and want nothing more than your happiness. All the very best X"

I'm relieved this has finally happened. It wasn't right, morally. It was exploitative. I rang Kim and told her all about it. She was urging us to try to keep something going.

This morning, we had a careful conversation, and we've decided to continue with the plan to go to France next month, but as friends, and to see if that works. One night a few years ago, Seriouscrush said to me, "There are three little words I can never say." I'm now in the same position.