I know one of my mates, James, is sleeping with a new guy. But he won’t tell me who, the name, or even entertain the idea of our meeting.
Yet, every time James talks about the sex, he gets this stupid smile, like their physical relationship is mind-blowing. From his grin, I assume it’s the best he’s ever had. Good for him.
Yet when the subject of relationships, romance, emotional connections comes up, James slams the conversation shut. He’s happy to sleep with the man, but not enough to take it to the next level. If I could sum up his attitude towards this booty call, he’s ashamed of who he’s sleeping with.
It reminded me of the times I was sleeping with my friend’s cousin. Anthony was the cousin, Peter was the friend. And I didn’t want anyone to know that we even knew each other, let alone saw each other naked on a regular basis.
Yet, if someone asked me if I felt ashamed of my physical relationship with Anthony, I would say no. But in hindsight, that was a lie I told people and told myself.
At what point do we stop living in denial and realise we’re ashamed of who we’re sleeping with?
You’re repulsed by the thought of introducing them to people you know
There was no chance in hell anyone in my life was going to meet Anthony. No, no, no. I didn’t want my mum, especially, anywhere near this guy.
I didn’t quite tell him where I lived, only a rough suburb, and I never invited him over even when no one was home and we could be alone. I endured his smelly, unhygienic flatmates over letting him into my physical home.
Sometimes his place was like being in a bad motel, and you wonder how you got there. But as I looked at the uncleaned shower, which I begrudgingly used after sex one night, it was clear how ashamed I was.
I was opting for god knows what diseases than risking even the slightest chance of him meeting anyone in my life.