There is one essential difference between men and women.
Men have time for daytime phone sex.
Women do not.
Men sit in their huge air-conditioned offices, lock the door, loosen their ties and laze back on their big black leather chairs.
They phone women. Maybe their girlfriend, their wife or their friend with virtual benefits.
Unless they’re phoning a hooker, chances of the woman being home alone in her underwear are pretty much zero. She’s either at work in her own non air-conditioned office, running around with the kids, buying groceries, filling the fridge, doing homework, walking dogs, hanging pictures, loading the dishwasher or plucking granadillas.
Or doing all of the above at the same time.
Right now I’m in a queue waiting to buy text books. School starts tomorrow and I have no idea why I didn’t do this earlier.
There are at least 200 other last minute mothers in the queue with me.
My phone keeps ringing. It’s him, my friend with the pink couch.
‘Hey Violet, I miss you. Let’s play around…’
He doesn’t mean on the couch. He means on the phone.
I’ve whispered to him, more than once, that ‘I cannot talk right now.’
The whispers have clearly turned him on. We’ve had a few texts back and forth, but THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME FOR ME.
‘Call me the minute you get home,’ he says.
I don’t phone immediately as I have to unpack the groceries, hang up washing, fold laundry, keep replying to his texts, water the garden, write a story, do a bit more work, vacuum, feed the homeless, bake a cake, make dinner and change the sheets.
But then I do phone him.
Late at night. When finally it’s quiet and I want to and I’m ready and I’ve kinda been waiting for this all day.
Apparently so has he.
And I am so sorry.
So so sorry, guy with the pink couch, that I fell asleep on you.
I didn’t mean to.
I just had to.
I’m a woman.
A real one.