This is an updated version of something that appeared on the WOE blog back in the halcyon days of 2007-2008. Anyway last night as we were throwing down food and wine, me and Suze were having a rare discussion about sex. (Now we discuss work more, a situation inversely proportionate to our conversations five years ago). Since it was me and her, we didn’t take long to warm to one of our favourite subjects – variety – or as some people coyly put it, “Other kinds of sex.” I don’t really travel with the view that there are different kinds of sex. Suze, needless to say, doesn’t either. It’s all sex and it’s all about the moment you’re in. Some things just suit the moment. So you do them. If a Japanese rope is handy and you’re in the mood, you do it. If you want tender skin to skin and lots of slow, that’s just how it is. Great sex is pure abandon. Not screwed up, fucked up abandon that ends up with someone stalking you. But a certain kind of exquisite, intelligent and slightly dangerous attitude that is guaranteed to turn humans into trembling grains of sand.
You have to be a slightly crazy to be a half-decent lay . Why else would you abandon yourself to some of the filthy stuff men want you to do?
Some men know this: how many times have you heard a man say “She was a bit mad but a great fuck.I knew she would be.” The two go together. The slightly unstable woman is the frog you put in boiling water. No matter how high the temperature gets, it all seems fine to her. Because she’s fucked up in a good way (and not in a needy, stalkerish, high-pitched nerve ending kind of way), she’s the one who will go happily with all your suggestions. Break into the office at night and have me crawl the length of the hallway with my skirt up around my neck, while the cleaner’s at the other end?” Sure no problem. She won’t just happily oblige, she’ll think, “How can I raise the heat on this thing even more?” This has everything to do with the fact that the sensibly screwed up woman (as she shall henceforth be known) is not just full of courage and daring, she knows herself, a key marker which distances her from the simply very screwed up woman. The smarter she is, the greater her self-awareness, the more deeply she thinks, the greater her need to be removed from herself. She will therefore be amenable to having her £30 stockings ripped to shreds and think nothing of it, while most women would be worrying about practicalities. She does not. Sure, next morning in the cold light of day she will ask herself, “Was I really half-naked in the freezing cold in a laneway with my lover going down on me?” And she’ll smile as she relives the moment and turns to warm, runny honey again.