Who did you lose your virginity to ?
People rarely ask me this question. Most times what people ask is when I lost it, at what age I did lose that precious gift of God, so precious that it almost rare to find, much like a Dragon’s fire these days. So when Idris Elba poses the question to me (okay, calm down, he looks like Idris Elba to me, he’s Wale unfortunately), I look at him sternly, without shame and replied, “I lost it to Chanel in Selfridges”.
I kept my straight face.
“Chanel ??” He stares at me incredulously.
“I’ve pretty much been a prostitute after. There has been Gucci, Fendi, Salvatore Ferragomo, Hermes and when the day is good, I run to Louis Vuitton for a sue fire orgasmic feeling”, I chip in.
He’s still thoroughly confused. He doesn’t talk fashion. I’m glad. What else would I bring to the table if he did? Not like I would want to share a table with this one.
I don’t get the question though, now that I think about it.
Why would you want to plague yourself with the knowledge of the name of the person who beat you to the cookie jar, assuming it has even been opened in the first place? It makes no logical sense to me.
I mean, I shake my head when my friends gist me of their experiences in this Question & Answers phase of their relationship. Some partners go as far as wanting a comprehensive list of people that have been there. In a recent chat with someone, he says to me quite matter of factly, that if she doesn’t say, he would believe that she has been with 1,000,000 men. I was flabbergasted.
I don’t want to be burdened with such information. And Mr Idris Elba seems to just be interested in talking about his past sexual escapades and trying his hardest to get me to talk about mine.
It’s not working though. I’ve fallen prey to this before. I’ll fill you in another time, maybe.
Can’t I just meet random, sweet natured, happy go lucky people? I need some chill. I could go on and on about things I don’t want you to tell me about but I would never stop talking.
The list is endless.
All I want right now is good loving from a new season Chanel bag and maybe I would be happy.
Mr Wale continues yapping on, he’s name dropping now. In the back of my head, I imagine he’s sniffing the cookie, we splitting and my name being dropped to the next girl. I cross him off my list mentally.
I want to tell him I’m tired. I want to go home.
Maybe say I need to pick my daughter up from school and wonder how he writes my part in his ‘This is what I’ve been through’ dating book. Everyone has one these days.
“I had this dame”, he’s saying. Really. Who says dame in the real world? This isn’t a page from a vintage detective novel.
“I need to go, have urgent issues to attend to”.
“Oh wow, so soon, would have loved to hit that today”, he gives the I-am-defintely-not-Idris-Elba-smile.
UGH. “I don’t date women beaters”
I step out of the lounge.
Am I the only one who feels life’s greener on the other side of a bad date?
My phone beeps. It’s a text message.
We need to see. Call me. Segun Pedro.