Since I began writing this column, I've resisted the urge to sound like Carrie Bradshaw. But I can no longer resist talking about the peculiarity of sex in the city.
Life in the city moves either very quickly or very slowly, and London is no exception. Whether you meet someone at a club and have sex just an hour later, or wait days for a double-decker bus, there seems to be no constant to the amount of time it takes to get from A to sex.
Having grown up in the suburbs, I was always fascinated by the big city: the hordes of people, the tall buildings and the variety of sexual opportunities. There seem to be endless places to meet young, attractive, interesting singles like myself. Here are a couple of examples.
I was recently invited to attend a boat party on the Thames. The boat would leave the pier at 8 p.m. and return at midnight, during which time you're trapped on a small boat with one bar, a dance floor and about 50 other people, all looking to meet someone to regain their land legs with. Unless you consider yourself a competent swimmer who is willing to brave the pollution plaguing London's infamous river, you have little other option than to embrace your fate and allow yourself to be contained for a few hours.
Unfortunately, I was interested in the DJ, so I was reluctant to be seen dancing or even intimately talking to anyone else. A quarter bottle of Southern Comfort and a bottle of wine later, I was dancing up a storm, sauntering out to the deck to take in a cigarette and the views of Parliament and then returning back inside to chat with yet another eligible sailor. At the end of the night I staggered off board having met no one who wanted to show me his cabin, DJ included.
In the morning, I realized those four squandered hours could have been an entire relationship. Even when you take time to slow down and take in the sights in the city, it can sometimes not be enough time to find someone to shag.
This brings us to case number two: Let's say, hypothetically, a hangover from a certain boat party demanded I do some necessary resuscitative shopping the following day. While I walked around a London department store, I received some very welcome attention from a cute sales clerk in the Paul Smith section. After my second lap around, I decided to speed the process along and give him my number. He called a couple of hours later and we set up a date for the following week. That date went well, but unfortunately a second date was postponed to the following week.
Time has no bearing in the city. The buses run all night, but the Tube stops at 12. The pubs close at 11, but the clubs are open until dawn. At any moment there is something to do, but that doesn't mean there is always someone to be done. An event designed to expedite the process can be extremely tedious. A hangover can make shopping move slower than ever; yet it can make you jump the gun with flirting, only to have it slow again to a steady drip. There is just no telling how hastily or gradually you will be sharing a black cab home with someone.
