Tell me: yes or no? What’s this about anyway? Sex, of course.
Recently, while enjoying a cappuccino with my friend in front of Sphères, we played a game we call “potatoes or vodka”. Actually everyone knows it: If a member of the other sex walks by you have to say yes or no, depending on whether you would sleep with him or her or not. In our case it works with tubers and spirits. In other words, if Quasimodo came limping by, we would say for example: “Tonight I’m making mashed potatoes.” In the works of Jude Law, on the contrary, we would order a double shot of vodka at the bar. The outcome of this game was the same depressing one as always: There were only potatoes rolling my way. Sometimes I wonder how I ever get laid, being as choosy as I am. My friend selected five potential banging buddies that afternoon and texted me later on when she was on her way home that there was a break-out of absolute vodka-mania in the tram.
As not to feel like a complete asexual creature I persuaded myself that I would do the guy who was smoking by the tram stop – given he was French. Every time I tell someone my number (of how many guys I have slept with) they are always shocked – not by how high it is but by how low! But considering my picky selection process it is amazing I have made it up to this many! In comparison to Gertrud’s three-figure number of sex partners, of course, mine seems teeny tiny.
I really should have known better than playing “potatoes or vodka” with her the following day. We can’t help ourselves though; our minds automatically drift to sexual topics after a while. “Vodka!” she basically screamed with almost every guy passing by and also with some nice-looking girls with big knockers or endless legs. When she stubbornly shook her head to my almost begged outburst of “Potato!” while ogling a beer-bellied, half-bald guy in his late forties, I had to have a word with her.
In Zurich women are at high risk of having a certain reputation after having hopped into bed with more than just a few. In principal I find that everybody should do as they please. My dear Gertrud, however, I fear, is suffering from sex addiction. That she is enjoying her bad reputation to the fullest is only fair – if you’ve got a screw loose, at least be proud! And proud she is – sometimes she shags up to three times a night. Where she gets the energy from remains a riddle. It can’t be her unhealthy, greasy diet and she only hits the gym to hit on guys. Although she prefers to wait in front of the muscle factory, instead of actually setting foot in it. A lazy Sunday stroll with her resembles an exclusive tour through Gertrud’s past. “I have fucked someone in this flat”, she’ll be glad to share whilst pointing at a building. “And the following day I fucked the guy next door.”
But actually she should be admired, good old Gertrud, because she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about society’s expectations and conventions which should have been crammed into a “Züri Sack” long ago. Where’s the logic behind men who get around a lot being regarded as Superman and Batman all in one whereas fun-loving women get labeled as sluts? Who are these so-called superheroes doing it with then, huh? And doesn’t every guy prefer a woman who knows how to get him going instead of a fair virgin who thinks her part is done by lying there stiffly and slightly spreading her legs? If it weren’t for my pride and dignity – and if I weren’t so damn hard to please – I would act exactly like Gertrude!
Again I am sitting at Sphères, alone, while writing this column. I can feel the eyes of the guy at the next table on me and when I look up, he smiles. He’s quite good-looking; brown hair, blue eyes, average height, average face. “Potato”, I think – wishing to be a little bit more like Gertrud sometimes. But only sometimes. And only a little bit.
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