of boys and women

if you can't beat them, join them

I am typing this at the airport on my way to see my parents, who I haven’t seen since Christmas, after a week well spent in the Cyclades. I can hear two boys next to me daring each other to come to ask for my number, unbothered that they are audible. I get accustomed to British men being gigantic pussies and forget throughout the rest of the free world, men’s T levels are still within a healthy range. I am emerging from a week where I thought of little else and did little apart from romantic courtship.

The week found me on a Greek island where the girl gang was reunited. We belong to the demographic that planted their flag on the Cyclades at 18 and never abandoned territory. I haven’t been on holiday since last summer, and to Greece since Christmas. UK Elections and all gave me weight gain (straight to my boobs) and my fix of ugly, intelligent men. I was ready for hot, plain ones.

Point of view: you just made a blanket statement about immigration

My ethereal girlfriends and I are chatting about dating apps with an unattractive man in his late 30s. He says his age limit is 32 because women ‘grow weary’ after that age. I chuckle, thinking of all the depressed degenerate 40-something-year-olds I have come across, looking for an Alpha bitch to anchor them.

Women everywhere, but particularly in Greece, are haunted by the spectre of being 30-something and unmarried. Men get to be Peter Pans because they are ‘building themselves’ (I can only assume they are getting building advice from the British government). Women, on the other hand, are reminded at every corner that it is very weird if they are not pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen before their sexuality even reaches its peak. My mom has been lecturing me on how men stop finding women attractive past 30 since I was 20. When I turned 27, she started referring to me as a single 30-year-old woman who only hangs out with gay men (if the mood strikes, I also fuck them, mom).

It is not the first time I hear a 30-something-year-old man say he doesn’t like dating women his age. A lot of women are angry about this phenomenon. It feels unfair and cruel. I don’t fret. I agree with the old, ugly men who express a preference for young, beautiful women. I, too, prefer younger, more gorgeous men. The difference is I can get them.

I think that one may be too young.

Being 30 is the perfect age to be a single woman. Especially if Father Time has been gentle with your figure. You have access to men in all of their primes. Their 20s and 30s. I love being patronised by an Oxbridge Westminster metrosexual as much as the next career-obsessed childless heathen, but sometimes, I want to go hunting within my breed. I have made the silver-tongued uggos my tribe in London, but with them safely tucked away with mommy and daddy in some all-inclusive on one of the un-cool Greek islands, my assortative mates become 20-something-year-old ripped, 6’3” olive-skinned Italian studs with Alain Delon jaw line and Justin Bieber in his prime hair. Or so I found out.

Every day, we would go to this one bar with an outdoor space to hang out and sip our cocktails while perusing the crowd until we catalogued our targets. Then, we would move inside the crowded bar to dance. We stayed until the closing at 4:00 a.m. every night and then looked for after-parties.

On our first day, my eyes met those of a boy who, in my mind, couldn’t have been more than 20. He was Greek and looked like he worked on the island. He wore a white t-shirt and sneakers amidst a sea of linen and boat shoes. The type of Greek boy who, for holidays, goes camping and, for a night out, brings tinnies and a joint on a bench. He doesn’t ask you out on a date; he hangs out. His face had a sweetness and a cheekyness to it. I did a double-take. He noticed. I wondered out loud if any of the girls ever found teenagers hot. They said, to their shame, all the time.

The island, which I frequent, is one of the more sophisticated ones. The tourists are mostly Italians and French who know how to have a classy, authentic holiday. Where the Americans in Mykonos give me second-hand embarrassment at their complete ignorance of appropriate island aesthetics (cowboy boots in August? Girl, do you walk on God’s blessed land with those stinky feet), the Italians who frequent the less well-known Greek isles make me feel like Greeks are the poor, fat sibling of the Mediterranean family, who inherited the tanning capacity but not the bone structure and taste.

My crew chats with a lovely duo of young Italians, one boy and one girl. I am busy chatting with a handsome 40-something-year-old man, quizzing him about why he is unmarried for my amusement and personal research. With the corner of my eye, I evaluate the Italian boy. He looks like an Abercrombie model from before they went woke: tall, slim, strong, with a boyish face and tousled hair. Every pigment on him is a shade of honey. The type of man I would fail my uni exams over back in my early twenties. I would swipe left on him in London now out of fear that his accent would be stronger than mine, and he wouldn’t be able to name the prime minister, let alone explain to me why the OBR is being blamed for the housing crisis.

The suspected Greek teenager interrupts my schoolgirl fantasy and Spanish inquisition of the unwedded man. Can I ask you a question? How old do you think I am?

My eyes lit up at the opportunity to find out the lad’s age. He must have picked up on my curiosity from my stares earlier. I thank him for his courage to chat me up, and without losing a beat, I bring him back down to earth. You are 17; your presence in this bar is illegal.

He smirks and proves me wrong. He produces a Greek student pass that says he was born in 1998; he is 26.

At the afterparty, the galpals parked me on a chair next to the handsome, unwed 40-year-old who, upon viewing my social media, overestimated my importance in public affairs and started referring to me as a star. I was in poor form and could not give him the attention he deserved, so I begged my hens to deposit me in the arms of the only man I could satisfy at those energy levels: Morpheus.

On my way out, the Greek 26-year-old crashed our group photo and whispered in my ear that I was hot, young, and full of energy. I gave him a little peck on the cheek for being such a sweet boy and let the goodnight hug linger a moment longer than if I still thought he was underage.

The Italian boy, who I later learned is also 26, was chatting up one of the most good-looking members of the gang (not a small feat; I hang out with models). I never got to talk to him that night. I passed out from 5:30 a.m. in exhaustion in the back seat of our car but could hear him being teased by the girls and joking about me being dead.

The next night, the gang was diminished; it was just me and an old friend. We went back to our spot and danced the night away. The Italian Stalion showed up and, being abandoned by his female friend who was sampling the local delicacies (Greek Coq au vin), joined us in the sweat fest that was the inside dancing space of the bar. I entered mommy mode and asked him if he liked any girls there. He fluttered his eyelashes and avoided answering. I referred to my British social education and changed the subject. We chatted and danced till the bar played the last song. He asked if I’d like to go for a walk. Ah, yes, good idea; I barely exercise here; walking helps with digestion, too. Right? My friend looked at me like a slur was at the tip of her tongue.

He took me to a windmill at the top of the village to watch the stars visible in the clean atmosphere of the Aegean. He studied Physics and astronomy and, in broken English, pointed out the constellations in the clear sky. Big bear, little bear. The cart. We saw a falling star, then another one. He explained that stars are several light years away from us. The falling star is a mirage. Dead long before we were born, he said most falling stars are not falling stars at all; they are comets, and only luck prevents them from crushing on our home planet and killing us all. He loves talking, but his English needs to be better, and he feels restrained. I know what he means, but listening to his coquettish vocal fry, I finally believe all the English boys who’ve eulogised my own unbearably Mediterranean accent.

The sun, explained my learned Latin sculpture, will eventually burn out like a candle, and we will freeze to death. But don’t worry; this will likely happen billions of years from now. We have plenty of time, he reassured me.

I was not reassured.

It was 5:30 am, and the sun rises at 6:30 am. He had been caressing my legs for the last thirty minutes. I knew men don’t know where the clit is, but I didn’t expect him to look for it on my knee. I am reluctant to take control in these moments because I don’t want my energy to overpower or emasculate men who like to take their time and sing the full song, not jump straight to the chorus. Straight sex can feel very gay with the wrong woman.

I took my cardigan out of my bag because it was getting chilly, and an unidentifiable item I was pretty confident was a row of condoms I carried with me flew off the ledge. He offered to retrieve it. I stopped him. I am unsure how he’d feel if he knew I was carrying that around. I was uncertain of his own intentions because the day before, during my slumber, I heard him express interest in a girl that’s more attractive than me, and also skinnier and of a much quieter, demure disposition, so I did not think that I’d be his type. My sexuality demands I am worshipped, not settled for.

Eventually, my defences were worn out, and I gave him a helping hand (not that kind yet, you impatient sluts). He pointed to his nose to say ‘can you smell this’, referring to the morning baking dew from the bakery. I said are you asking me for a penguin kiss? He asked what that was, and I gave him one by rubbing the tip of my nose on his. He giggled and asked to sample a Greek kiss instead.

His reaction to skin contact was God’s will for mankind. His energy was reassuring, and when he grabbed me by the hips, my accent grew almost incomprehensible, and I lowered my voice to make space for his moans. We made our way to the house he was staying at, and he took me to the rooftop for one last moment of innocence. It was one of these low island houses whose roofs connected with the roofs of all the nearby houses to create a valley of white concrete and stone. We jumped from roof to roof over the bedrooms of people’s sleeping children and grandparents and marvelled at the peaceful island glistering on our plate.

Lit by the moon’s final hour, he confessed he doesn’t like casual sex; He needs a connection because he likes talking to people. I nodded sympatheticly. Me too; I wrote a heartfelt essay about female desire for relationships that went viral, so you can rest assured fucking me tonight is totally kosher.

His body looked like a gay man designed him. The kind Republican candidates ruin their careers to glimpse in private. Like many magnanimous lady lovers, my physical preferences for men bend to embrace whoever I am in love with, but I never needed men to be particular fit to fancy them. I don’t find bodies that bear evidence of a neurotic lifestyle attractive. I want men to look like they work too hard to have time to obsess over their appearance. In the knowledge economy, the highest-value mates are laptop warriors, not gym bros.

But there is a body type that makes even the most cerebral among us nerds sick with envy. They are effortlessly slender and firm. The body type where the explosion of testosterone and estrogen made its presence known before the appetite had time to stretch and fill our flesh shacks. This man looked like a boy who grew tall rapidly, who ate two or three helpings when his mom cooked his favourite meal, but occasionally skipped dinner because he was too busy doing other things (or other people).

Back inside his childhood friend’s holiday home and out of respect for the Catholic faith of the host, I assumed a worshipping position, which meant the first part of his body I got to know intimately was his thighs. They looked like a horse’s forelegs. He had tanning lines from what looked like very short, tight swimsuit trunks. It was the first time I was having sex with a man with a deeper tan than mine and I had to mentally take back all the times I told my English lovers I love pale men- it all felt like a cope now. Tanning is a multi-billion dollar industry and a goal people are willing to get cancer in pursuit of. People are vain and weak, yes, but not stupid.

It was my first time with someone who was just as expressive and reactive to every touch and sight as I was. After the first ‘dio mio’, I felt selfish for never speaking Greek during sex and depriving my Anglo lovers of the experience. I made a mental note to think of Greek phrases that would feel natural to say out loud.

On the bed, I found his arms wrapped around my head like a boa. Feeling through the Braille messages of his bicep veins made me want to go on a starvation diet till my dehydrated arms proved I like men inside me more than I like breakfast.

He placed his right foot in my eyeline- size 46 EU at least, not that I’ll be buying him Christmas socks-  and on cue, I folded myself into an egg- yogic child’s pose but with my legs and arms tucked in. 

I stretched my neck against his hands to glimpse the outside world through the window above his friend’s bed. The sky was brighter by the minute. In the morning light, everything started looking less pornographic and more retro, as if beneath this Italian Adonis was Monica Belluci and not some random Greek girl who gets paid in pounds.

Post-finale, I took care of the transition. It surely falls on the older party to wrap everything up in an elegant way. I read somewhere that men’s voices become more feminine post-sex because of the release of testosterone, and his was now a whimper.  Straight sex can be so gay with the right woman. He walked me to our Airbnb, where my friend stayed awake because she knew I stop functioning when I get tired and get lost easily. How was it? Molto Bene.

I collapsed in a peaceful slumber, the kind I can only submit to after a hard day’s work.

The following night, we returned to our spot. It was full of French people. We were told one of the most decorated French Olympic gold medalists was in the bar, hence the excitement and crowd. I played my favourite game during holidays away from my adopted motherland. I call it Spot the British Guy. I go up to random blondies and ask them where they are from. If they say the UK, I scream with delight and make them describe their background in detail. The British references hit ten times harder when I am away from London. Max is from Battersea, and Thomas is from Stockwell: one is 21, the other 26. I am Stella from Waterloo. I turned 30 two weeks ago, is that hot or creepy? Where’s your mommy, darling? Outside? Wrong answer.

My friend left me at the bar unaccompanied to find an acquaintance in another bar. The dancing intensified, and the Italian boy came in and ignored me. The DJ had her finger firmly on the crowd's pulse and, in a moment of pure genius, segwayed from 50 cent to ‘All I Want for Christmas’. People started grabbing each other and pointing at them at the ‘Yooooouuuu’ part; the Italian Calvin Klein poster grabbed his male friend. I was left pairless, signing into the void, counting the light bulbs on the ceiling till a hand grabbed me through the crowd and pulled me to the Greek side of the bar. The Greek boy, wise beyond his years and suave beyond his budget, swirled me around and pointed at me. Unbeknownst to him, he saved my moment, face, and night.

The lights came on, the night was over, and I needed to pay what I owed, so on my way out, I settled the bill and gave the Greek boy what he more than earned— a kiss. He wanted more, of course. I couldn’t do it. It would be too much, for whom I am not sure. I was scared the rawness of a casual encounter with a boy who has such a different aesthetic and lifestyle from my own would ruin the romantic part I was casting him for in my head back at the bar where he made me feel like a million bucks in comparison to the pennies on the pound I was worth to the Italian. I would have to see where he lives, what he looks like naked, what phrases he uses during the small hours of the morning, the tone of his moan, the smell of his deodorant, if he wears any/enough. What if I couldn’t be exhilarated, or at least amused, at what I found? I couldn’t forgive myself for such cruelty. Not after I made the other man feel like a God. Not after this one made me feel like a Goddess. The anti-immigration campaigners might have a point. The imported hands ruin the market. We underpay our local labour.

My friend, who had since returned, made a quick escape because the 70-something-year-old owner of the bar was in love with her, a 30-year-old stunner, and after days of playful but harmless flirting, lashed out because she didn’t want to ‘go on a walk with him’. I run after her, leaving the Greek boy behind. We drove home with the bar playlist on full blast. I never saw him again.