Secret diary of a celibate

Most of you have that friend whose personal life is a disaster. They jump from one destructive fling to another. Unfortunately, I am that person. Every time I talk to my friends there is a new man who stays in my life until things inevitably fall apart after three weeks. Highlights have included a Nando’s employee who slept with me while the girlfriend he lives with was in Israel, and a bow tie wearing American who spoke extensively about being rejected by the Kate Kennedy club.

In September, I took home a 6’2 Nigerian postgraduate. Sure, he was attractive, but I was just going through the motions. I had a routine of going out, hitting on guys, and taking someone home. I hoped it would fix my problems (low self esteem, abandonment issues, blah blah), but it wasn’t working. Instead, I was piling up meaningless experiences.

So I decided to cut out my vices: sex and alcohol. When Ross from Friends goes several months without bumping uglies, he claims he’s “learning to appreciate the small things in life, like the sound of a bird, and the colour of the sky”. If I focused less on genitalia, I could finally learn what the hell is going on in Syria or catch up on Toddlers and Tiaras.

It was surprisingly easy to stay on the wagon, but the celibacy business was a different matter. Suddenly everything was about sex: every TV show I watch ramped up the nookie (thanks Game of Thrones) and my overactive imagination assured me everyone else was having constant sex.

My first slip up came after 2 weeks. After a fight with friends I phoned a gentleman I know for comfort, and within an hour my pledge was broken. I got back on track and my renewed celibacy kick lasted for more than a month, but it didn’t make me happier. Going cold turkey obviously didn’t work for me.

Celibacy wasn’t a breath of fresh air, but it helped me realise my enemy wasn’t sex. Rubbing up against another human is incredibly satisfying and I missed it. My real enemy was my attitude towards sex. I wasn’t hitting on guys because I particularly liked them – in fact most of the time their personality made me cringe – or because I wanted to have sex. It was because going home alone made me a failure.

After that realisation, I gave up celibacy and took on a new pledge: to respect myself. I would stop having sex to fill a hole (no pun intended, don’t be so vulgar) and start giving a damn about who occupied my bed.

Whether you’re in a relationship or you’re sleeping with a different guy every night of the week, sex should be fun. It shouldn’t be about showing off or trying to prove something. In a few decades nature will take its toll and my libido will plummet. While I’m young and not hideously unattractive, I won’t waste my time having sex for the wrong reasons. No more bad choices and no more bad men. Unless they look like Ryan Gosling.