living (breathing, showering, peeing, vomming) with the other half

Last year I was lucky enough to go travelling with my (then) other half which was honestly one of the best opportunities and experiences you can ever have. Nothing says true love like waking up with bed bug bites all over and an armpit fresh from a night without air con in your face. When people ask, we tell the romantic “how we met” story that was a deserted island in Vietnam; he was the island bear, I was the innocent half Asian who he tried to seduce with moonlight skinny dipping, a bowl of Pho and eventually a Zac Efron movie... yeah, yeah you get the picture. 

And yes of course it’s ridiculously romantic to run away around the other side of the world with a hunky American. And yes, look at all the great places we went to... HOWEVER, (and I do not let this dilute how magical it all was) there’s something those romantic novels don’t tell you about. And anyone who has lived with their other half can vouch for it. Living with the other half, especially twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, it’s enough to drive anyone a little barmy. (well mainly if you’ve been stuck with me) You’ve got to find your FLOW. It’s not like those romantic weekends away to the countryside in your little convertible MG, no... SHIT GETS REAL.

So here are the brilliant, and not so brilliant things I enjoyed about being with my other half TWENTY FOUR HOURS A DAY....

Sexual tension.

Ahhh sexual tension. One of my favourite friends. Making food shopping, friendship and late night meetings with your dissertation supervisor all the more exciting (oh no, that’s just me?)

The best thing about sexual tension is the excruciating build up and wait. Nearly as exciting as the four months run up to Christmas. However, to the guy walking down the street asking me “what was I on”... (a bench) I’m afraid that’s no way to get this chicken roosting. Use some charm, flutter those eyelashes at me and for heaven’s sake please try address me by my name or something other than “girl”.

In a club... When that guy is rubbing his junk all up on your groin let me assure you that it is not sexual tension flowing through your body that you’re feeling. In my experience it’s probably rohypnol. Now the feelings are similar but the results may vary so please try and watch your drinks, ladies.

But on a serious and more politically correct note (I always find rohypnol jokes are often hard to swallow... get it... hmmm) anyway, half of the excitement about attraction and crushes and sexual tension is that build up and anything less than a good couple of weeks just won’t do it for me! I want their touch to bring shivers and their mere thought to force me to bite my lip to stop a smile from spreading across my face!

Take that friend you wait five years of “will they won’t they” and denying that there is any “spark” between you. Five years of girlfriends, boyfriends and setting each other up. Of accidently brushing each others’ hands or “accidently” leaning over the table with your top button wide open and your bust fit to burst. (it wasn’t accidental and it wasn’t successful unfortunately!) That is a case of ultimate sexual tension and the results will be just as good as the wait...

Until you start sleeping with each other more regularly and then you suddenly find yourself in some sort of relationship... And so... you stop taking each other’s calls and build up that sexual tension again for another 5 years.

You see when you have sex it can kind of kill that tension and I end up thinking about whether I have enough ‘Surf’ powder to do my next wash or whether I put the cat out. Well I think it gets killed if after you have your wicked way there are no residual feelings left to keep that sexual tension going. I’m Columbus and I’ve conquered the new world but now I’m a bit bored and kind of miss my lasagne.

So next time you’re leaning over the fruit shelves in Sainsbury’s you could be the next victim of the man across the aisle leering at your melons. But for your sake, I hope not.