Is Life One Long Game of Foreplay?

A bit lower… no, higher… to the left a bit… I said LEFT, not right…

What? Oops – sorry, got a bit carried away there! Trying to find the right directions. You know, like on Navigator, which I hate to admit at times still frustrates me. Is that a sign of low intelligence? Or age? Or both? So should I give up? On love and sex and life? Or just on navigation?

Btw, the title of this blog isn’t a piss-take, or a rhetorical question. It’s a real question. So if you have never indulged in foreplay, then there’s no point in you reading any further. Maybe you’ve made a decision to be celibate – foreplay an’ all. In which case, just go and make yourself a coffee, or go back to your Facebook and Twitter and Instagram needs.

But if, like most of us over a sensible age, you do understand the word “foreplay”, then pray read on.

It’s all about anticipation, isn’t it? Love, sex and life. Bated breath about the wonderful moment about to happen, whether it’s imminent – yes, that’s it, right there, don’t stop! – or down the road a bit, say next week or next month. Christmas, for instance. As children we look so forward to the day itself: the moment we can at last open those longed-for presents. Sometimes they’re spot on (bingo!) sometimes they’re a mixed bag, and sometimes they’re downright disappointing, though from an early age we learn to cover up that awful downward lurch to the heart, and instead smile with feigned pleasure. What a useful skill that will prove to be!

As we grow older, the gifts are fewer in number and less all-consuming, but still the Season of Goodwill holds a special place in our hearts. Well, at least in mine it does. From early November onwards, suckers like me start to get all sentimental and nostalgic, relishing the build-up to this magical time of year, especially if it snows. Ah, what bliss! Sugar icing sprinkled straight from heaven! A magical allure which is far greater than the day itself. So what’s new?

Isn’t it the same with most things in life? Birthdays, holidays, weddings – ah, yes. Weddings in particular.

Take my first marriage. All that waiting, preparing, stressing, imagining … and then the day itself … what can be said about it? Okay, so not everyone has a mother who wears black to their daughter’s wedding and refuses to be in any photographs involving the groom, meaning she refuses to be in all photographs. But still. It was a much anticipated Big Day, nonetheless, despite all the red flags. But, as it turned out, not a day that could stand up to its ridiculous, hyperventilated promise.

And then the morning after, waking up in bed beside my brand new legal spouse. (Hubby No. 1, to be precise.) Staring at my gleaming wedding ring, holding it up to the capricious sunrays that filtered in through the Victorian lace curtains of our pre-booked honeymoon suite. Our. Yes, now we’re two. United in matrimony. Once again, what can be said? Just that I shed tears of infantile frustration.

Was that it? All those fairytale expectations of the Big Day? All that trying on and measuring and adjusting of the exquisite white dress with embroidered pearls at the neck, and the long gossamer veil that flowed behind me when I finally glided down the medieval church aisle, trying not to glance at the Woman in Black to my left, dramatically perched on the front pew? Was that it?

Was it all some kind of mean joke that Life was playing on me? Okay, so that’s it, kiddo, now time to MOVE ON and accept whatever shit is thrown at you. Except that rather a lot of shit had already been thrown at me. But there you are. No point in grumbling. Stiff upper lip, chin up, and all the other crap the Brits are so good at preaching. (It’s not ALL Brexit, you know.)

There was I, poor me, fervently hoping that my wedding day – at least my WEDDING DAY, for f…k’s sake (the three dots are in respect of those celibate readers who have bravely decided to read on) – would reach a true climax. That Life would at last locate the G-spot for me, after all that caressing and teasing and manipulating through the months of anticipation. That I would cry out in pure unadulterated joy when the moment arrived; a joy that would last if not my entire life, then at least a damn sight longer than a handful of hours.

But no. We’re coaxed along by people, relationships, love, hope, dreams, expectations … and all that ends up happening is that we learn to live, somehow or other, with the aftermath of the real thing.

And that’s not so bad. No, really. I’m not being facetious. Just imagine NOT having any of that foreplay. Just WHAM BANG intercourse without any foreplay. WHAM BANG full-on relationships without any flirting and dating. WHAM BANG weddings without all those months of preparation. WHAM BANG  holidays without all those brochures and internet trawling. Just enjoying the event itself, in the moment itself, or the day itself, the week itself, or however long the anticipated event is expected to last – but being totally deprived of the divine, delicious, titillating, tantalising, toe-curling anticipation. (What linguist-pundit was it who said that adjectives are bad for you? Can he or she be shot on the spot? And I don’t mean G.)

But of course it’s impossible to imagine such an existence, because nothing in this life can happen like that, just in the moment itself. Perhaps somewhere else in the universe, but not on our beautiful, verdant, oceanic planet Earth. And perhaps it’s just as well.

Actually, I have a rather highly anticipated event coming up shortly. Something I have sneakily alluded to in several recent posts. Something that was planned weeks and weeks ago. So I guess I’ll just have to wait and see how close it gets to the G-spot, right?

And maybe prove my whole theory wrong?