Sex Essay
"Sex and the Celibate Woman" by Olivia London
Before I left the workforce to live on oatmeal and pursue a full-time writing career, I had a job in the field of market research. I was the kind of person who calls right around dinner time, asking you to rate, on a scale of one to five, with five being the most intense consumer experience imaginable, a particular brand or product.
We didn’t just pimp for product, though. Sometimes health insurance companies contracted us to keep an eye on well-insured employees. For months we had to track smokers to see if they were following through with a Quit! program. Awkward moments ensued when I caught someone obviously inhaling even as he or she picked up the line. “Oh, great,” she puffed, “I have a cigarette in my hand right now!” These people acted like I was going to knock on their doors with a rubber hose and a fire extinguisher, but really, I didn’t give a fig. Imagine having an employer so obsessed with the counterpoise of your health’s relation to job performance, that you’d be subjected to a barrage of phone calls by an employee from another company. At least I didn’t have to grill anyone regarding fiber intake (Are you sure you went to the bathroom today? You sound a little costive to me.), or lax grooming habits.
The last time a man approached me for a date was at this job. He was attractive and exceedingly well read, but the chemistry just wasn’t there. I tried letting him down gently but he was having none of it. Finally, he convinced me to meet him on a day off just for a cup of coffee. What I assumed would be “just a cup of coffee” he considered our first date.
“I hope this doesn’t freak you out,” Mr. No Chemistry said, nervously tapping his oversized mug, “but I told my mother about you and she really wants to meet you. In fact, my whole family wants to meet you.”
Well, that did freak me out as no sane person would toss such a gambit to a relative stranger. The only salient information Mr. NC had about his date-shy co-worker were two facts: I hated my job and I preferred coffee to tea. You need to at least know a love interest’s zodiac sign before preparing banns.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I once asked out an instructor I assumed was giving me the vibe. For six months this man murmured words of encouragement my way, making me feel like the most sought after woman in the universe. I felt very sexy around him. The way he looked at me, like a bear that had just stumbled upon a beanfeast, was enough to keep my panties twirling all night long. I masturbated to images of us doing marvelous things together but those horny home movies would be the closest I’d get to erotic fruition. When, at the end of the term I thought it was safe to ask him out for “just coffee,” he acted like I had offered him a lap dance in front of his grandmother.
“No,” he said in a telephone voice colder than meltwater, for I was too craven to approach him in person. “Absolutely not. I’m offended you would even ask. I’m a teacher.”
Ouch and double ouch. In our sex saturated culture, I didn’t think it possible to offend a person’s sensibilities just by finding him or her attractive. Sure, I fantasized about giving him blowjobs in the school parking lot, but not until we were going steady! It was going to take a few decades to live down that humiliating phone call. I almost considered leaving town.
A female instructor informed me Grouchy Teacher Man had a serious girlfriend, a woman he’d been living with for a decade.
How was I supposed to intuit GTM had a partner? In the six months I had known him, he never once said anything about a significant other. Not once did he begin a sentence with the words “My girlfriend and I –”
Still, I now have a greater appreciation for what men go through pretty consistently if they want to get laid. Asking someone out, in even the most casual context, is a lesson in putting your ego on the line. As one of the “Four Noble Truths” of Buddhism informs us, "the origin of suffering is attachment" and the longest path to humility is called dating. The fifth and less than noble truth? The cessation of suffering is celibacy.
I wasn’t raised to have a grasping nature; as a result, I don’t have much to show for all the years I’ve been on the planet save for a handsome Folio set of the Brontë sisters’ collected works. I am embarrassed by how attached I’ve become to great swaths of solitude and how I no longer wonder if it’s eccentric to wear ear plugs in public, especially when I’m trying to read and there are people who don’t know the meaning of the word headphones. Since I’ve stopped dating and wondering whether anyone finds me attractive enough to date, and since I’ll never again have the temerity to ask anyone out after GTM, the world is my quahog letting in just enough light to read by.
I find myself sliding, like Alice, further and further down the proverbial rabbit hole. It’s so safe and cozy down here with my goals and affirmations taped to the wall and my cairns of books threatening to topple off the bed. I need a new bookcase. The affirmation gurus tell me if I visualize new bookshelves, they will come. I just hope those wish fulfillment genies aren’t using an IKEA catalog. I’m the type of woman who covets printed material as opposed to the svelte figure men only see naked or in a cocktail dress. I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress and this admission alone could be why I’m still single. That plus the fact I never leave the house unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’m not afraid to leave the house; I’m not that retro. It’s just, I’m afraid of what I’ll become if I don’t keep my neb pressed to the grindstone.
The DIY mentality is the accepted ethos of the American way of life, but as we live day to day with our do-it-yourself work ethics, we lose sight of what we can glean and appreciate from interacting with others. Not owning a car becomes a deal breaker in a DIY culture, a “poor relation” barrier to friendships and romance. A man I dated (for a nanosecond) said, “I’ll give you a ride this once, but don’t expect it again.”
A short woman like me caught in the net of a grocery aisle won’t dare ask for help lest she appear weak. The last time I asked a six foot tall man to reach for a box of cereal I wanted from a top shelf, he vouchsafed me a look so condescending, I thought: Never again. From now on, I’ll do for myself even if it means having to fly.
No wonder sex toys are mass produced to accommodate the American psyche; DIY has naturally transmogrified to the bedroom where we’re free to play…all by ourselves.
I’ll never complain about the paucity of available men my age as there are plenty of men my age who are single. They’re single quahogs reading by their own slivers of light, and unless we get tossed in the same bucket, chances are, our shells will never touch.
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Copyright February 2012, Olivia London
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.