At 29, my boyfriend of two and a half years turned round one day and told me he didn’t want a long-term relationship. He was living in my house and everything seemed perfect, but he was three years younger and had had an epiphany that he still wanted to travel the world. It was predictable. It was painfully unoriginal. I was crushed.
He moved out to start his new life – drinking the same pints in a hotter climate – and though I wasn’t ready for another boyfriend, after a few weeks, I craved some fun and excitement. I needed sex. I needed skin-to-skin contact and the rush of flirting.
I work a 9-5 office job for a marketing company in Brighton, which did little to get my mind off my loneliness, so I downloaded all the dating apps. But it felt hopeless. Casual dating in your mid-twenties is exhausting enough, but on the cusp of your thirties? Excruciating.
There were the men I was stuck in perpetual pen pal status with, who ghosted me as soon as I applied the pressure to actually meet up. (Really, why is this a thing?) There were the men who turned up to dates looking nothing like their profile.
There were others I knew I had zero sexual chemistry with from the moment we locked eyes. I felt defeated. These apps only caused me distress and one-night stands were hardly worth the next morning awkwardness on the pleasure front.
Was it too much to ask to have a period of time focused on myself, having fun with friends, but also getting laid with a man I fancied, who didn’t want commitment, yet popped over to satisfy me at my every whim? It seemed so.