The Joy of not being a Slut

Save for a few fancy-free months, I’ve spent my entire adult life in a relationship. 

My first real boyfriend was an introverted goth I’d had a crush on since he was an introverted nerd in primary school.  We were friends and one confused night we made out.  I grabbed my opportunity and claimed girlfriend status, and he was such a pushover he didn’t fight it.  A year later he changed his phone number and hooked up with the guy he’d been copping blowies from all along.  I was 17.

Adrian followed immediately afterward.  So immediately that when I tracked down Mr Gothy and stormed his house to express my dissatisfaction at his method of exit, Adrian was the one that dropped me at the door.  Unlike the first guy, he actually pursued me.  His romancing was good enough to secure a solid 6 year incumbency in my bed. 

When he got sick of me I tried super hard to stay single.  I was actually really enjoying it, once I got the hang of not measuring my worth by how many pick up attempts came my way at the pub.  (Way less then when I was attached!)  But Tom came along and was quite persuasive. 

Do I have an attachment problem?  Obviously.  I always think how effortlessly cool and independent it sounds when people declare, ‘I had to let another guy go because I’m scared of commitment’, as if it’s some sort of candid admission.  Scared of commitment?  I’m fucking petrified of being alone!  Now, that actually sounds uncool.    

When I was with Adrian I was convinced I would eventually fall victim to the dreaded ‘trapped woman’ syndrome, whereby a previously sane person realises at 45 that they’ve missed out on the whole gallivanting about being a scallywag part of life, and is hitherto possessed by their neglected sex drive to go forth and be a raging middle aged slut, ending their marriage and forever fucking up their life.  But I’ve since re-thought that.  Seeing as none of my partners have been prison wardens, the only part of the scallywaging I’ve missed out on is the being a huge slut part.  Which if I’m honest I got in nice and early at high school.  As you would know, I’ve partaken in more partying and drug consumption than your average swinging singolite, so if you see me, fat, pasty and 50, gyrating like a desperate hooker in some ‘over 30’s’ venue in Moonee Ponds, it’s more likely to be a result of a disgusting attempt at reclaiming that part of my life than any allusions at having missed out on it in the first place.  I reckon I’m clear on the trapped woman front.           

What do you think, what have I missed out on?

I’ve never known the single life.  I am most likely missing whatever finely tuned set of social skills arise from that existence.  But, hey, I’m really good at whatever it is you get good at form being in a couple for freakin’ forever.  Compromise.  I'm swell at that. 

When I was with Adrian I used to do that thing where every time you get drunk you fantasize about what you’re missing out on.  In the morning you’re back to normal and you can’t work out which part of you you should listen to.  But it doesn’t happen anymore.  I feel truly fulfilled in the relationship I’m in now.  I’m at peace with being a serial monogamist.  It’s been officially removed from the incredibly long list of things about which I fret every day.  Hoorah.