Let’s talk about getting the ick. It’s gotta be one of the leading causes of impotence, or at least some hand on hand combat. Bit of context- recently I was in a less than serious relationship with a woman who seemed fairly relaxed and carefree. Which, allegedly, I am the master of. So here’s me thinking I’ve cracked onto a winner – basically home stretch.

 

But times change, and rather quickly.

 

We’d been having sex, standard, and without tooting my own horn – it’d been going fairly well. We both seemed to be getting satisfied and we were enjoying the company of each other without any sort of commitment. Now I’m admittedly not the most kinky person, only because I don’t ACTUALLY want to hurt someone and I make that well known with any new sexual partner. This time was much the same. We’d had the conversation of soft limits and hard limits, and I’d discussed not loving the idea of pain. That was until she’d hit me in bed. Shock-fucking-horror right? This wasn’t just a gentle slap, but a close-fisted smack. Imagine my surprise to find that my below-gent had gone cooked-spag-soft, but also to see an equally confused look on my dear counterparts, almost crying, face. Now I’m trying to figure out what called for a knock about, but also why the fuck you’re upset. Needless to say, I helped her get her stuff together and got the absolute fuck out of there before I ended up as the next case on “women who murder”.

 

Days went by, texts from her came through a plenty but a response was yet to be seen. I’ll be frank with you all, my communication style is like an absent father. It’s not there. I’m shit at texting back, and I’m worse with social media. I understand that in any relationship, some sort of comms link needs to be made and my deepest apologies to partners of the past. Though there comes a point where you’d hope they get the hint that you don’t want to talk about the situation or, to a more extreme extent, you don’t even want to speak with them. So I’ll come clean. I ghosted her. The worst part is I know she’s going to read this and I wish I could apologise, but that punch ain’t going away anytime soon. Also, in my defence, blowing up my phone and claiming that I’m “prolly fucking other bitches” isn’t going to get a response out of me. Retaliation out of anger hasn’t been my style for years my friend. 

 

I can’t tell if I got the ick from the assault or from the complete bombsite that was my phone. I know some of you reading this will be thinking I’m just weak for not liking to be punched during sex or that I’m hella vanilla. And you know what? You’re right, I don’t like drawing blood in a moment that is supposed to be pleasure filled. Or putting ice on something that wasn’t caused by me throwing around strength. Sue me.

 

Usually I have a moral of the story, though this one is probably that consent in the bedroom is some of the most important, and concrete, conversations that need to be had in existing or new relationships. And if you’re going to take anything away, make sure you’re not going to ghost anyone or at least end the relationship in a civilised manner. Getting the ick is a perfectly fine excuse, but perhaps don’t tell your partner that. Happy fucking team.