In response to a very bitter post I spat out recently, quite a few people asked me if I’d heard of ‘kintsugi‘ – the Japanese art of repairing broken things with gold. The idea is that, by gilding the cracks, you can see what something has survived and it becomes more beautiful. It’s a very cool concept, and yes I have heard of it. Stuart even used it in an illustration many years ago about heartbreak, which I’m using for this piece today too. But no matter how gorgeous the idea, I am not in the headspace right now to repair myself with gold. To observe the shattered pile of dust which used to be my self-worth and note with detachment that, some day, it’ll make a lovely pot.

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“I wish I could take it away,” he says. My friend who doesn’t know what to do with my sad feelings. He tells me, with sincerity: “I wish I could take some of this away for you.”

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As I explained only a couple of weeks ago, I try not to make a habit out of eagerly anticipating a message from any given man. I don’t like checking my phone constantly on the off-chance that some guy decides he wants me. Regular readers know I always introduce these posts by saying ‘this… BUT’ though, so here comes the ‘BUT’… recently I’ve found myself itching to hear from somebody in particular. Refreshing my email (yes, I use email, I am forty one years of age and I like to ramble so email is my medium: deal with it, Zoomers) hoping for any kind of contact.

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“I just need you to know,” one guy told me, before we started fucking, “that I very rarely come during penetrative sex. In fact, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that’s happened.” It didn’t matter who he was fucking or where his dick happened to be, he had very rarely ever come inside. You’d hope that someone as body-positive and sex-knowledgeable as Girl on the fucking Net would instinctively have some bon mot at the ready to put him at ease and reassure him that delayed ejaculation (or an inability to ejaculate full-stop) is common, and nothing to be ashamed of. And I did but… Although my rational brain was more than happy to explain that I don’t actually need champagne fountains of jizz in order to be sexually satisfied depressingly – embarrassingly – my heart fluttered with something a little different. When he told me how few people had managed to get him to come inside them, something deep in my soul chimed in with: ‘I bet I can do it, though.’

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Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s had a terrible week and the last thing he wants to think about is dating apps. Maybe he just doesn’t fancy me.

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