Anna Isaac

I think I may never have sex again.

My ‘never’ regions might become a Miss Havisham-esque crypt, where, even if I paid someone, they would have to take a pair of scissors to get through the sad cobwebs and stale cake lying dormant above my thigh.

For certain people reading, that’s where the lady bits are. For even more people reading, also the clitoris.

You may ask, what does it matter? What’s another lonely lady in Cambridge?

Well the truth is it probably does matter, because I whinge about it. Think of all the poor people I know, who have to interact daily with this miserable wanker. A person who frequently points out to them that she is, in fact, a miserable wanker.

A friend told me how on a walk back from the station someone pulled over in a Land Rover and shouted ‘Oi mate you dropped something! YOUR BRAIN!’

Many of you might initially think, ‘Really? Yobs in a Land Rover? How awful!’

My first reaction when he said someone pulled over was: ‘There are curb crawlers around the station? Maybe I could get laid AND pay off my overdraft?!’

So there we have it. Due to lack of sexual stimulation, I have dropped my brain.

I currently sit, overweight and overdrawn (insert over-opinionated, under-read, or as discussed above insert ANYTHING) in the library supposedly ‘doing’ my degree. John Donne never had to worry about not getting enough. Which is great for him, yeah, I’m really happy for him. I’m not so undersexed that I find it hard to concentrate at all. Oh… hard….

Perhaps my biggest problem is that, and call me old-fashioned here, for me sex should mean something. I am not like those tree frogs on the telly that can just jump on each other (but I do love Sex in the City and I dream of writing a special in which David Attenborough does a voice over).

I am not so bold as the drunk Under 21s in Cindies who will shag anyone after training. I am not even under 21.

I want someone to fancy me, shag me and even possibly make me a cup of tea and do the crossword together afterward. Yeah I know, GOOD LUCK.

Two down and one across – a poem from my brain
A bitter taste,
a sweet taste, or
a hollow one?
yet again, not got a clue.