by Sami Lukis
I’m sure no one saw us. There were only three other passengers in the first-class cabin on that flight and they were all asleep (or pretending to be). And the staff were all on a break (or pretending to be). However, I would like to apologise to anyone who has been seated in 2E in the first-class cabin of that particular jumbo jet anytime since 2009.
If the mile high club is on your sexual bucket list, outdoor sex is probably there as well. Theoretically, outdoor sex should be the easier of the two to achieve. I guess when most people consider a public tryst, they’re aiming for a private, secluded spot on a deserted beach or someplace nice and warm (preferably without the risk of arrest). I don’t think too many people hope to get their gear off on an open communal rooftop, in one of the most densely populated cities on the planet, in sub-zero temperatures in the middle of winter.
Which is what I did. On a New York rooftop. On New Year’s Eve. Because, New York. Also, New Year’s Eve.
I know the idea of outdoor sex is a turn-on for some. But it never has been for me. I’m not an exhibitionist. In fact, I’m a bit of a prude. The idea of being caught in the throes of passion with my pants down doesn’t turn me on. So I really have absolutely no idea what came over me on that chilly New Year’s Eve in New York City.
Except, New York. Also, New Year’s Eve.
A boyfriend and I were invited to ring in the new year at a friend’s Midtown apartment. We joined the other residents and their guests on the rooftop, where we had a direct line of sight to the famous ball drop in Times Square. We all made the obligatory toast at midnight and slurred along to ‘Auld Lang Syne’, but I’ve clearly been spoiled by too many spectacular firework celebrations on Sydney Harbour over the years, because I thought the whole Times Square ball drop business was a little . . . underwhelming.
Still, I was determined to have a NYC NYE to remember! So, in my overjoyed ‘I’m in friggin’ New York on New Year’s Eve, bitchez!’ state of mind (encouraged, no doubt, by the internal warmth I was feeling from the three vodka shots I’d consumed just before midnight), I suddenly had the urge to be naughty. That sparkling Manhattan skyline was practically screaming at me to have sex in its glow. When all the other ball watchers retreated to the warm confines of their apartments at exactly three minutes past twelve, I convinced my fella to stay on the rooftop and join me for a spot of midnight delight. ’Cause even if the big ball drop doesn’t excite you, maybe you’ve just got to grab life by the balls yourself, right?
One of the things that makes a public tryst feel so damn naughty is the risk of being caught out. But I’m sure the only reason I even considered it was because I was fairly certain we wouldn’t be interrupted. Folks couldn’t get off that ice-cold roof fast enough after the midnight celebration (it was about two below zero). We also managed to find a small ledge to hide everything that was going on below the waist. So, in the city that never sleeps, we were mostly protected from the prying eyes of any nosy neighbours.
It was bitterly cold, terribly awkward and certainly not the ideal spot for an outdoor interlude, but we gave it a bloody good go. And I have to admit, it was an unexpected thrill to throw out the inhibitions and do something entirely spontaneous. It was one of the most memorable New Year’s Eve experiences I’ve ever had.
Major kudos to my fella, by the way, for managing to perform under extreme conditions that night. That’s one auld acquaintance who will certainly never be forgot. And yes, he and his manhood were both able to escape the encounter frostbite-free.
Ideally it would be nice to find a partner whose sexual bucket list is more or less on par with yours. And one who respects your limits.
I accidentally discovered that one of my hard limits is choking.
I say accidentally, because the first time a guy tried the old choke and poke on me in the bedroom, it took me completely by surprise. He certainly hadn’t asked if I’d like some subtle asphyxiation with my shag. I was totally oblivious to what was going on. I only noticed something wasn’t quite right when I started feeling pressure around my neck. And because I didn’t resist immediately (um, I was trying to process what the fuck was going on), Mr Chokeypokey interpreted that as a green light and started to squeeze my neck a little tighter and press down on my windpipe a little harder. That was my cue to physically remove his hand from my throat and tell him I was not comfortable with that particular manoeuvre. Thanks very much.
What shocked me even more about this situation is that it happened while I was having sex with the guy for the very first time.
Sure, I understand that some people enjoy a little erotic asphyxiation. But I imagine that’s something you’d only choose to explore if you’re in a secure, trusting relationship with a partner you feel completely safe with, even at your most vulnerable. It seems wildly inappropriate to try it out on someone you’re getting jiggy with for the first time. Especially without asking their permission. Or discussing it first.
If that wasn’t already the most disturbing thing that had ever happened to me between the sheets, I couldn’t believe it when I found myself in the exact same position on two other separate occasions.
The second time it happened, I assumed the guy was taking a little breather and he just hadn’t realised that his hands (and his full body weight) were pressing down on the base of my neck. But then he started to slowly tighten his grip around my throat and I realised I’d found myself in the sack with another cheeky choker.
On the third occasion, I was able to swat the guy’s hand away from my neck the moment I sensed where it was heading. Third time is definitely not a charm.
After this happened to me three times on three separate occasions with three different men, I had to wonder if I was out of touch with some new bedroom craze and blissfully unaware that choking had somehow crept its way into most people’s sexual repertoire.
I asked my girlfriends if they’d ever experienced it. Most of them said they’d encountered a random bum slap or a surprise hair pull now and then, but none of them had ever been exposed to the old sex strangle.
As ridiculously bizarre as it sounds, I know these guys weren’t trying to assault me. I guess it might be an intense form of domination for some men and I reckon they were probably even hoping it might ‘pleasure’ me. But what it actually did was force me into brief moments of non-consensual submission and vulnerability I’d never felt before. And there was nothing pleasurable about those experiences for me. On any level.
It’s most definitely a hard limit for me, Mr Grey.
Here’s another thing that shocked me about these encounters: each of the stranglers was about ten years my junior, which put them all in their early thirties (despite my occasional cougar tendencies, I generally adhere to the motto ‘if I can make you, I can’t date you’). So I wonder if these guys only attempted the choke and poke because they assumed I was the experienced older woman, who had seen and done it all before? Or has choking just become a commonplace sex act among the younger generation?
It saddens me to think that young women embarking on their first sexual encounters might actually think this is normal behaviour or, worse still, that it’s what’s expected of them. Hey, if choking floats your boat, go for it. But please remember girls, sex is supposed to be enjoyable for both people involved.
And to be perfectly honest, most guys would just be pretty damn thrilled with a good old-fashioned blow job.
My two besties decided to hire me a gigolo for my last birthday.
I am not making this up.
Galeb and Gusband Tim were having great difficulty deciding what to get me. ‘She’s so hard to buy for,’ they agreed. ‘She really doesn’t need anything,’ they said. ‘What’s the one thing she would really, really like?’ they pondered.
And there was only one answer.
A root.
Yep. Delightful.
When my darling friends were able to stop laughing about how hilarious this idea was, it suddenly dawned on them that, actually, a little wham-b
am-thank-you-Sam would be the perfect birthday gift for their single, 47-year-old friend. They even discussed how they’d present it to me. They knew I’d never go for it if they just handed over the fella and said, ‘Hon, meet Giovanni. He’s all yours! Oh, and we paid for the overnight package, so take your time.’ They knew it would have to be a clandestine operation.
So they planned to bring him along to my birthday dinner disguised as a ‘friend’ and seat him at the end of the table, under instructions to make eyes with me all night. Given enough subtle flirting (and champagne), I might just go home with him. And they’d only tell me the truth the next day, well and truly after I’d blown out the candles (so to speak).
My outrageously thoughtful buddies did not go ahead with my birthday surprise in the end. But when they told me later that they had seriously considered paying for sex for me, I nearly died. I was horrified.
Gusband Tim said he even researched some options online, but then realised it was all a terrible mistake as he perused my choices and saw how overly manscaped the male prostitutes all seemed to be. I believe ‘Oh, no, darls, there was way too much vegetable oil in those profile pics’ were his exact words.
So, would I have done it?
No fucking way! I still can’t even bring myself to try online dating!
I only know of one woman who decided to pay for sex, a successful businesswoman in her early fifties, who was devastated to discover that her husband had been cheating on her for many years. After a messy, drawn-out divorce, she was too emotionally exhausted to even think about dating. She just didn’t have the time or energy to deal with the mind games, bullshit or complications of any of the dating apps. But she really, really, really just wanted to be touched. I’m not sure if she ever actually went through with it, but in some cases, I guess a professional who knows exactly which buttons to push is a more time-and cost-effective way of attending to one’s needs.
I’m not mad at Tim and Galeb for wanting to pay for me to get some action. I know they had good intentions. And I hadn’t been on a date in months. God knows, they’ve both heard me whinge enough about how hideous it is out there on the forty-plus singles scene.
If you ever want to truly understand the meaning behind the saying ‘all the good ones are taken’, try dating in your forties. That’ll sort it out for you pretty quickly.
I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer or anything, but I have had very few positive dating experiences so far this decade. In fact, it’s proving to be my least favourite dating decennary. Even dating from the ages of zero to ten was more fun than this.
Technically, it should be less complicated when both parties are over forty. We’ve lived. We’ve learned. We’ve loved. Right? We’re supposed to have our shit together.
We’re more mature. So we shouldn’t have time for silly games. We’re wiser. So we shouldn’t be bothered by any of the insignificant crap. We’re more experienced. So we shouldn’t waste energy on people who aren’t on the same wavelength. And we’re more confident and self-assured. So we should know what we want and we shouldn’t be afraid to ask for it (also, the sex should be better).
But I have sadly discovered that dating in my forties is rife with all the same dilemnas as my previous decades. Plus there’s a whole bonus set of new, complicated, grown-up issues to throw into the mix as well. Yay.
For example:
Kids: Most guys over forty have them. So if things do get serious, you won’t just be bringing him into your life, you’ll also be bringing his kids. And the kids’ mother(s) too. They aren’t all necessarily going to be happy about it – or you.
Baggage: We’re both going to have it, guaranteed. But more often that not, the combined baggage is so inconveniently big and bulky, it just gets in the fucking way.
Bad habits: You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Full stop.
Peter Pan syndrome: A man who’s forty-plus and coming out of a ten-or twenty-year marriage is ripe for a midlife crisis, which will possibly involve the desire to date much younger women. Which means any woman over the age of thirty-five won’t get a look in.
Online dating: Older dudes are mad for it. After years with the same partner, they suddenly realise that the smorgasbord of sex available to them through these dating apps is mind-blowing! It makes them feel like Hugh fucking Hefner (RIP). And they embrace it wholeheartedly. It’s Dating Disneyland for these dicks.
Which brings me to the biggest issue of all: All the good ones really are taken, or gay.
At my age, there are definitely not plenty of fish in the sea. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it a sea. It’s more like one of those inflatable kids’ pools. That’s sprung a leak.
Look, I’m sure there are still some good ones left. But from my experiences and the experiences of all my single forty-something girlfriends who are also out there on the frontline (please refer to any of the following stories), the number of good, decent, honest, mature, available (emotionally and physically) men for us to date is in alarmingly short supply.
I’ve even heard it suggested that my best option now is to find myself a grieving widower. For realz. A man who has suffered the heartbreak of his beloved spouse’s untimely death is my best chance at finding love with a man over forty, because he’s not single by choice. So he might actually still be a decent bloke. Yep. Men with dead wives are now my target demo. Isn’t that a comforting thought?
Actually, come to think of it, maybe I will grab Giovanni’s number. You know, just in case.
I didn’t discover until my early forties that one of the worst guys you can possibly date is a chronic snorer.
Sleeping beside John sounded like there was a lawnmower, on crack, doing laps of the bedroom, all night.
I quite liked the idea of sleepovers and special cuddles and falling asleep in the arms of my lovely new boyfriend, but instead I’d just lie there, wide awake, while he trumpeted along beside me. I tried everything to drown out the noise. Earplugs. Headphones. Meditation. Sleeping tablets. Nothing worked. Smothering him with a pillow seemed like the only viable option.
It didn’t help that I was working in breakfast radio at the time and my alarm was already set at 4 a.m. each day. The ongoing quest to get a decent amount of sleep was the single most important issue in my world, but I realised that would be hopelessly unachievable while I was sleeping beside the lawnmower.
To make matters worse, John was a snorer in denial. He refused to accept that it was an issue, because it didn’t bother him at all. And, look, I totally get how this happens. The offender is sound asleep and blissfully unaware of the incredible kerfuffle they’re making and the angst and chaos they’re causing their partner. So he never made any real attempt to remedy the problem, and the snoring continued. Night after night after night after night. Which basically meant I was always grumpy and tired. And irritable and tired. And frustrated and tired. And
JUST. FUCKING. TIRED. Allthefuckingtime.
It reached a point where I could no longer sleep in the same house as him. So I stopped seeing him altogether during the week and limited the number of weekend sleepovers. Not an ideal situation for a blossoming relationship.
Well, do you know what’s worse than having a boyfriend who’s a chronic snorer? Agreeing to go on holiday with one. Dumbest relationship decision of my life! Because – here’s a tip – a chronic snorer does not miraculously stop snoring just because he’s on holiday. Or in another country.
I must have had a major brain freeze when I invited John to join me on the ski trip I’d booked with Helen a month before I met him. On the first night of our romantic getaway, I didn’t sleep a wink. He snored just as loud and hard and long as he did back home. Of course, the resort was fully booked, so I couldn’t just move to another room. I was trapped in bed with Darth Vadar, on the other side of the world. On what was supposed to be our relaxing, rejuvenating, romantic holiday.
I reached peak frustration on night two, at around 2 a.m., as I lay there and realised I had two we
eks of this nightmare ahead of me. My vacay was well and truly fucked. By 3 a.m., I couldn’t deal with it for another second. I shoved John to wake him up and turn him over and I begged him, for the love of god, to – please – shut up so I could get some damn sleep!
Which is when he told me to shut the fuck up and stop acting like a selfish princess. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep. And pretty soon it sounded like Darth Vadar was on crack, riding a lawnmower, doing laps of my hotel room.
That’s when I snapped. I was livid.
It wasn’t the ‘princess’ accusation that upset me. I’m pretty low maintenance most of the time. But I can teeter into a princess territory occasionally. Sure, I refuse to drink sparkling wine, because, well, if it’s not champagne, why bother? I always put on makeup before I go to yoga. And I never take the train (unless I’m in New York or Paris). You are more than welcome to call me a princess for any of the above.
However. I could not cop being called ‘selfish’. The basic human need for a restful night’s sleep does not make me selfish. Look, if I really cared about the guy, maybe the snoring wouldn’t have bothered me so much. And if he really cared about me, maybe he would have tried a little harder to find a solution. But he didn’t, and I guess I didn’t. So instead, we found ourselves at a snoring impasse somewhere near the Brenner Pass, in the Austrian Alps.
Darling Helen came to the rescue with a generous offer to swap rooms. John could move to her room, which was, thankfully, on a different floor on the other side of the hotel and Helen would move to my room and sleep with me (we’d shared a room countless times before on our travels without any drama). I could still visit my fella before lights out and tuck him in and read him a bedtime story (nudge nudge, wink wink) and then leave him to snore loud and proud, while I went back to my room to sleep in peace, alongside Helen. Then we could all get some sleep.
