Monday

Can you write a sex diary that doesn’t actually involve sex? Do I really want a record of my ineffectual endeavours to at least reach orgasm? Won’t it remind me of being surrounded by sophisticated Europeans swilling glasses of red wine while spilling my Gin and Tonic, snogging a startled bearded man, then drunkenly assuring him, in English, “I’m not normally like this”? My lack of luck in the easiest country to get lucky is, I suppose, laughable at best.

 

Tuesday

The normally lecherous barista next to my house did not compliment me this morning. It is February, so obviously standards have slipped; it’s just that, previously, I was unaware of how low. My friend, radiant from a night of passion with her new Italian boyfriend, convinces me that my problem is the inability to communicate, and tells me I am going to have to make do with either the perverts or the language students. That night, after a long dinner at her house, I make do with the language students, and end up snogging her housemate, commonly known as “The Pooch”, whom I realise is very much learning English, when he pins me down on his bed, places my hand on his erection, and softly tells me he wants to “make the sex”.

 

Wednesday

Thankfully I refrained from “making the sex” with The Pooch because I woke up to a series of emails from him from the night before, which, frankly, left me entirely baffled. The first was an invitation to go over to his house to “make the jam pai” with him, which is simply bizarre in itself, but for some unexplained reason, he went on to send a series of both culinary and sexual messages, which ended with the words “I want to come in a jug and pour it all over you”.

 

Thursday

I have blocked The Pooch from my Facebook. He unloaded an album titled “gnammi gnammi” (yummy yummy) and it was full of pictures of jam pies. He has the least-sexy food fetish and I touched his erection. I never want to see him ever again.

 

Friday

My friends arrived from home, so we went out for dinner, and one of them, midway through the meal, somehow managed to hit it off with the waiter who was faintly attractive in a 70s pornstar-channelling-a-Cuban-activist sort of way. Full of holiday spirit, she decided to take him home early. Early is perhaps the fundamental word here, for as soon as she got him back, he told her he was “going to explode”, and confessed not only to his virginity but also his age. 18.

 

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