Thursday, 30 June 2011

Sex rules

You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.
Albert Einstein  

The Champion and I have been talking sex.  This, alas, is not based on the fact that we are both exhausted from hours of rampant shaggage, but due to the fact that neither of use has a fucking clue.  Literally.

Hollywood might have invaded the shores of France with every bad sitcom the French could swallow (a surprisingly large amount FYI), but the rules to American dating? Negative.  

Now you would think a couple of off-shore Parisiens might just about be up to the challenge?  Think again.  Because in order to do so, we’d have to know how to play by the rules, but we don’t, because we never do.  Take, for example, Saturday night’s Drive-In Debacle, from whom I had heard nothing until today, when he texted me.  Now in my world, that’s just rude, but in the universe we lovingly refer to as Hell-A, he has adeptly played by the rules, waiting the minimum three-days before contacting me.  If this rule is not adhered too, the girls don’t call back.  I know this because that’s exactly what happened to The Champion when he deigned to call a girl 24 hours after getting her number.  Apparently calling because he liked her wasn’t enough, he didn’t play by the rules, so he was out.

Talking of out, can we discuss why the Americans refer to varying degrees of fornication as bases, just like in baseball.  It’s not reassuring.  Especially when what base you can go to is determined by what number date you are on.  Fine for accountants; not fine for red-blooded Europeans who may or may not be partial to a spot of nakedness coming before 10 dates have been suffered through.  I say suffered because, here’s the other thing,  in LA, people like talking about themselves ALL the time.  I once mentioned a great art exhibition at a dinner party and asked if the person opposite had seen it; they flicked their hair and turned away.  Clearly, they would have only been to see it if their face was in one of the paintings, which it would not have been, because they had a face for radio.  That’s the other thing about LA-people, delusional.  Who else could come up with one day my prince will come? 

I’m just saying, sometimes you may not be all that interested in their family farm in Iowa, or the amazing improv work they did while volunteering at a children’s hospital (because that’s why the children were there…).  And when people come out with things like: ‘Oh look at that cute t-shirt, I think I might buy it for my dog’, ten dates would require a phenomenally good arse.  On the flip side, if you actually meet someone whose clothes you would like to see decorating the floor of your kitchen, why wait that long?  And then I realised:  effort.  In the town voted most likely to fake an orgasm, why think for yourself when someone else has already told you the rules?  

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