They say your selection is less the older you get, and I agree in part – Christmas chocolate boxes are definitely smaller than when we were kids and Easter eggs shrink, fitting smaller hands than the hands they did fit.
But my selection’s not small now. At least, the offer’s are more than my uni first year, high school career, than propositions I got when I worked in the cinema.
You’d think the number of asks wouldn’t matter exactly, that quality would be the concern. But I count up the shall-we-fucks, the should-we, the stay-over-if-you-likes, the go-ons and why-nots and half-lipped kisses doing the convincing.
I like the collection, savour the things I could do if I chose them, not that I’ll choose them, but I enjoy knowing life could change simply with a misplaced finger, locating somebody’s back pocket, licking a neck in a supermarket queue or dropping my hand on a bus lap or a metro leg or reaching for a waiter’s crotch as he jots my order in his notebook. Any of these would make a killer story to tell my husband.