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Lauren Tabbron writes about the difficulties of spending Christmas away from a loved one.
A combination of my desire to think outside the box, and the fact that the box - i.e. The University of York - is notoriously short of eligible bachelors, encouraged me to come outside of my comfort zone and begin dating a young man fresh out of school.
Hereafter named ‘The Boychild’, my young man was 18, tall, handsome, working at one of my favourite watering holes and, quite literally, full of the joys of spring. And why shouldn’t he be? Just out of school, on his a gap year, he had no deadlines, no bills, no rent, and no need to spend ridiculous amounts a week on fresh fruit and veg or, alternatively, survive on a diet of pasta and dry cereal. No - the world was his oyster, and believe me, that was incredibly attractive.
Just out of school, he had no deadlines, no bills, no rent. The world was his oyster, and that was incredibly attractive.
However, although his positive outlook was refreshing to begin with, after a week or so it became apparent that it was not quite enough to disguise some of the more obvious drawbacks of dating a younger man. Now, I don’t consider myself one of those women who expect Mr. Darcy-style chivalry from everyone with an XY chromosome, but there are certain guidelines that I expect my dates to abide by.
Essentially, if the guy offers to ‘get’ the drinks, I expect this to mean they will ‘buy’ the drinks. However, it transpired that The Boychild had other, very different, ideas. Picture the scene: Gallery, basement dance floor, work-out style dancing to the Fratellis, my four inch heels were killing my feet and I needed a sit down, not to mention a drink. The Boychild gallantly offers to ‘get them’, and so I gratefully collapse onto the nearest chair to await my refreshment.
When the drinks arrived they appeared to be only half full, but I decided that perhaps he had spilled some on his way, or had a rather large sip from both after temporarily confusing which one was his. I began gratefully pouring the VK down my throat and it was only as I neared the bottom of the bottle that he decided to drop the bombshell.
“I did well there didn’t I?” he asked, genuine pride etched into every feature. Somewhat confused, and valiantly resisting the urge to patronise, I replied: “Sure, it can be tricky to order drinks on a busy night.” Shaking his head and practically wetting himself with glee he grasped my hands and pulled me closer. “No! I didn’t BUY them! They were on the side at the top of the stairs, so I walked past a couple of times to make sure no one was drinking them and then swiped them and ran back down here! Brilliant, eh?” Extricating myself from his grasp as quickly as possible, I headed to the toilet as fast as my four inch heels would carry me.
In addition to the heightened risk of contracting hepatitis on a night out, there were also various other drawbacks to the younger male: having my night at Gallery cut short, because his mum was waiting outside to pick him up, certainly lost me my erection! Which smoothly and seamlessly (if I may say so myself) brings me to my final, but by far most important, point of discovery: sex. Or in this case, the lack of it.
At the beginning, the lack of sex was almost as refreshing as the boyish carefree attitude had been. How nice to return to a time where kissing was appreciated in itself, rather than as a warm up to the main act. One almost forgets that there was a time, prior to university, that people actually waited weeks, even months before sleeping together! Now we consider it restraint if we chose the bedroom over the nearest toilet or side street.
It is a fact universally acknowledged that sex complicates, well, everything, and so The Boychild’s relaxed, and almost detached attitude to it was, at first, a breath of fresh air. As time went on, however, I decided that although he might be content with remaining on first base for the foreseeable future, I was not. Therefore, on hearing that he had a ‘free house’ that weekend, I decided it was time to act.
One of the positive sides of dating someone still living at home, is their parents alcohol cabinet. Copious amounts of Bombay Sapphire and Dissaronno later, we decided to retire to the bedroom. Despite the single bed, Bart Simpson’s ‘Guide to Life’ on the bedside table, and the various school photographs smiling down on us, I was determined to think positively. He was tall, gorgeous, and boy could he kiss! : there was nothing wrong with a younger man. If Demi Moore could do it, then so could I!
Then, disaster struck. I realised that we had been kissing for a very, very, very long time - far longer than one should ever just kiss while lying completely naked in bed with one's absolutely gorgeous boyfriend. Eager to correct this I began encouraging things to go in the right direction, only to realise that something was not at all right. “What’s wrong?” I asked, worried by the grimaces that seemed to spasm across his face. “Oh, um, nothing. Well, um... oh, nothing,” he replied. He was obviously highly uncomfortable.
“No come on,” I said, "tell me". And then it clicked. He’s a virgin! He hasn’t done this before and now he is going to be absolutely awful and then probably profess his undying love to me afterwards... Summoning up all my courage, I asked (in what I felt was a tone erring on the side of the considerate, rather than condescending): “Have you never done this before?”
Apparently this is not the best thing to say to a guy, especially a younger guy, at any time, let alone whilst in bed with him. It would appear that the problem was, well, less hard than that. “Ohhhhh,” I exclaimed, and then proceeded to be a good and reassuring girlfriend, with the lie that all girls know to tell: "It happens to every man."
It might happen to everyone, it might not, but what I know for sure is that once it happened to The Boychild it happened again, and again - and again. Apparently, although our alcohol intake had not assisted the first attempt, it had been his paranoia of seeming inexperienced to an ‘older woman’ that had caused the problem. And it seemed that this paranoia only increased with every failed attempt. I wanted to be supportive, but it seemed that while my response was to talk about the problem in the hope of finding a solution, his was to retreat even further inside his shell of embarrassment.
Eventually, lying there side by side two weeks later, with the covers pulled up to our chins, I realised that whereas I might be at a stage in my life where such problems were merely stumbling blocks, to him, we had reached a wall. The embarrassment was too much, and so we agreed that although it had been fun, we probably wanted different things. I wanted to get laid, and he wanted to know that he could! (Although, of course, this was left unsaid.)
And so, after thinking outside the box, I am resigned to conclude that maybe tradition does have a point after all. Even if we women are prepared to give it a go with a younger man, that man may be so intimidated by this age role reversal that he is unable to function successfully within the relationship. As with anything there are pros and cons, but in this particular case, I am inclined to choose adult conversation, my own drinks and an active sex life, over the parent taxi, hepatitis and embarrassed silences.
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