Diary of a Reluctant Virgin: Week 3

My friends and I went away for the weekend to an abandoned farm house. There were six of us; two innocent, blushing, virginal girls, and four guys.

The house was pretty damn creepy. We all huddled together in one room, sleeping on just a couple of mattresses. It was intimate. Sexual tension was released on the first night in a game of gay chicken. My female friend and I were bemused, but not surprised, by the fact that we were being completely overlooked in favour of some man-on-man action.

The second night was getting underway with a merry game of twister, when a friend and I, equally drunk, decided to swap phones.

Big mistake. In less than a minute I had found a Whatsapp group containing all of our male friends. That very evening they had been rating all of our female friends for ‘attractiveness’ and ‘how good they would be in bed’ out of ten.

Now, that’s pretty bad in itself. What makes it really awkward is the fact that across the board, I was last. My scores ranged from a generous five (thanks for that), to a minus-seven (no, really, thanks).

I calmly told my friend that I was going for some fresh air, to which he cheerfully nodded, blissfully oblivious. I stumbled off drunkenly into the night, climbing over fences, across fields, trying to avoid sheep, until I fell over and just lay there on the grass looking up at the stars.

There’s nothing more comforting than the infinite abyss of an uncaring universe

I’ve always known that I’m not ‘hot’. I’ve always known that the other girls were prettier. It still hurt to have it put so bluntly.

But more than that, these men were supposed to be my friends. They knew that my looks are something I feel insecure about.

They knew this because they know almost every aspect of my personality. I trusted them so much that I didn’t care if they knew about my various rejections, or saw unflattering photos of me, or saw me without make-up and in pyjamas all of the time. I never saw them as men that I was trying to impress. I didn’t even think about whether they were attractive to me, because I thought that that was what being friends was about – being able to trust each other completely.

Seeing what they said about me behind my back made me feel like a naive idiot.

As I lay there, amongst the mud and sheep shit, I didn’t think I would ever be able to face them again.

When I got home, I thought I hid it from my parents well, acting casual. After a few days my mother asked me is something was wrong.

‘Wrong?’ I replied, innocently ‘Why would something be wrong?’

‘Because you haven’t said anything for several days, keep on crying, and are only eating chocolate.’

My only consolation

My mother is clearly a highly observant woman. To rekindle my faith in men, she suggested that I spend some quality time with my brother.

‘You can’t blame men Ellie, women do bad things too. Like the time I asked my girlfriend what she wanted for her birthday, and she said she didn’t want anything. Then when I didn’t get her anything, she ran off with my best friend and he took her to Paris for Christmas.’

The talk was reassuring; I could now see that it wasn’t men who were shit, but all of humanity.

Mother encouraged me not to give up hope. ‘Let’s watch The Undateables’, she suggested, ‘it could give you some dating tips.’

Channel 4’s answer to Sherlock

As we watched the supposedly ‘undateable’ contestants, my mother continued to dish out some top advice.

‘That guy fancies anyone. You could get in there, Ellie! Mind you, I think he’s out of your league. I might fill in an application for you to go on the show. Their description of you would say ‘This is Ellie, a student. Despite many attempts, she has never had a boyfriend. Her friends recently rated her as the most unattractive person they know.’

Despite my mother’s best efforts to crush what was remaining of my soul, I found the programme somewhat heart-warming.

One morbidly obese man said, ‘All I want is for somebody to love who loves me back.’ You’re preaching to the choir, mate.