When I was in my twenties, I hurled myself into hook-up culture. Samantha from Sex and the City was my north star as I adopted a more-is-more attitude. The low-point came in the disabled loo of a sticky-floored bar somewhere in West London. Having managed to lure a handsome blond chap, some connection of my friend’s, into said loo for what I took to be a fumble with a fittie, opportunism on both our parts seemed to open the way for, well, more. But suddenly, just as we were getting into it, ouch! I leaned back, and a big metal hand-dryer jabbed painfully into my back, before switching on and issuing a noisy blast of hot air. He lost his mojo and I lost mine. It was funny, but the vibe between us was so meh that he didn’t even crack a smile.
The sheer seediness of the environment might have been a wake-up call. But it took a few more years of seeking bedpost notches until I finally felt I’d had my fill. I swore off hook-up culture and wrote a book about how “junk food love” was no good for women or their self-esteem. My remedy wasn’t to hold out for Mr Right, but to have done with men full stop. Only in the single, sexless state might women retrieve a healthy sense of value and worth.
