Enter the Bad Men, Part 1.

When it comes to relationships, my friends tell me that I’m a cautionary tale. While I may not necessarily agree with that assessment, I can kind of see where they’re coming from. You’ve already been introduced to Forrest, to Lloyd and to Antonio the bad Jehovah’s Witness. Allow me to introduce the first of the three of my other memorable exes, whose presence in my life helped to shape that kind of thinking.

Enter Ed the Nudist. I started seeing him during my first year at uni after meeting him on a website. That year, along with discovering that a number of males in my immediate vicinity found me attractive (which went to my head a bit) I also discovered dating websites – both the ones where you claim to look for ‘friends’ when you actually mean ‘sex with no strings attached’ and the ones where not only is sex on the menu, but you get to specify what kind of sex you’re after – dirty phone calls, an illicit affair, sado-masochism, threesomes…

I can’t remember which type of website Ed was from, but I can tell you that he was a petulant, stroppy 30-something year computer specialist who lived with his mother, whom he took on honeymoon with him when he got married, and who insisted on being nude as much as possible. Now, I’m no prude and have nothing against nudity: at uni I was a life model for the Warwick Art Society, which was the only time in my life I’ve ever been referred to as ‘the model’ and which was a very cold and uncomfortable way of earning £7.50/hour. Furthermore, one of the artists used me for her project, which was the most unflattering nude portrait imaginable. I had no idea that I had so many folds and wrinkles.

Also, when I was eighteen, I discovered naturist beaches. When I went to my first one – Wreck Beach in Vancouver – I was terribly self-conscious at first, convinced that everyone was staring at me, but then I realised that they weren’t (nude beach etiquette dictates that you shouldn’t look below the neck if you’re talking to a woman), and that it was the best way of enjoying the sun and the sea without getting half the sand on the beach inside one’s bikini, so whenever possible, I do seek out beaches where clothing is optional. The only unfortunate bit was when I got propositioned by a dodgy guy as I was leaving. To entice me, he told me that he hadn’t had sex for ages (angling for the sympathy vote) and said: “I don’t stick my dick in just anyone, you know” (that was to make me feel extra-special). To get away, I told him that my name was Zelda Pinwheel and gave him a wrong phone number.

Furthermore, I’m all about equal opportunities, and believe that women should be allowed to go topless in public in the summer, should they so desire, just as men are allowed to. However, I also believe that there’s a time and place for nudity, and I can’t quite forgive Ed for traumatising my then sixteen-year old sister, who caught him sunning himself in our parents’ garden in all his (modest) glory. Having never seen a naked man before (to the best of my knowledge) she later asked me: “Is he supposed to be well-endowed?” and I had to give her the facts: that no, given that the world average erection length is allegedly five inches, barely scraping the average is nothing to be proud of, especially if you’re a black man. She absorbed that information, wide-eyed.

(Actually, I’m not too sure that the statistics are accurate. Not too long ago, I did an erection survey out of scientific curiosity (i.e. my own personal amusement): I questioned my male friends regarding erection length and the degree of shrinkage/extension between the dormant and non-dormant state (my theory: if your ancestors come from warmer climes, there’d be less shrinkage/extension. My results: inconclusive) and from the erection length results I’ve concluded that either my friends are liars, or the accepted statistics are bogus. I mean, unless there’s actually been a mass worldwide erection study, how on earth can they say that five inches is the average? It reminds me of someone saying that no two snowflakes are the same – something I repeated as a kid, parrot-fashion, thinking it was really profound, until it occurred to me that there’s no way anyone could look at all the snow flakes in the world at the same time.)

In any case, Ed had hang-ups about his size and because of that, he enjoyed getting attention from random women. He introduced me to that den of iniquity and sin that is ‘Rios’, a so-called ‘clothing-optional health spa’ at Kentish Town in London. For the most part, it was alright; since it was very quiet on weekdays and women got free entry due to the gender imbalance, I’d stop off in London on my way to and from uni to have a peaceful soak in the Jacuzzis. However, when it was busy, it was a meat market, and you had to watch out for people who’d try and grope you underwater. Usually a swift kick and a glare did the trick, though. ‘Rios’ has several little rooms upstairs where people could retire for a ‘massage’ and you quickly learned to differentiate between people who were offering a straightforward back rub and those after a ‘massage’ massage. I had no objections to having the perpetual knots kneaded out of my shoulders, and on one occasion accepted an invitation from a young man who I thought was offering me a bona fide back rub.

The exchange went like this:

(We come into the little massage room)
Him: “On your knees!”
Me: “I beg your pardon?!” (He must’ve been watching a lot of porn in order to reach the erroneous conclusion that women like to be ordered around and enjoy giving head to random people they’ve just met).
Him: (less certainly) “Erm…on your knees?”
Me: (indignantly) “You haven’t offered to give me head first!”
Him: (looking down at his feet) “I’ve never given a woman head.”
Me: (sternly) “How old are you? Twenty-four?! Well, go away and learn!”

That incident kept me amused for a long time.

On Saturday nights, a large room would open up upstairs and Ed brought me along one time because it was ‘couples night’ only, which translated as ‘swingers’ night’. I wasn’t a participant; merely a spectator and it was certainly an eye opener. I couldn’t figure out how people could have unprotected sex with others they’ve just met; weren’t they afraid of catching STDs? Apparently not.

Now, Ed wanted some attention from a middle-aged woman who came along with her partner, a fat, hairy, balding guy, and it just wasn’t my thing. I didn’t have an issue with the woman touching Ed, but I wasn’t going to get anywhere near her remarkably unattractive partner, and said as much. We left with Ed in a huff, but not before the guy said: “Hope to see you again some time…when you’re more open to new experiences”, and laughed nastily. The whole thing made my skin crawl and I wanted to get out of ‘Rios’ as quickly as possible. It was 3am, and Ed said that he’d put me up at his place if it were a matter of life and death, but the thing is, he was renovating his bedroom and he had nowhere to put the giant teddy bear that his ex-wife had left him but on the other side of his bed, meaning there was no room. To be honest, I didn’t particularly want to be near him either at that point, so I told him to drop me off at Kings Cross, not realising that the train station wouldn’t open for another three hours. In the end, I curled up on the ground near some homeless people who were playing cards, and fell asleep. No one bothered me, but the incident really bothered Xerxes* who gave me a lecture on how dangerous it was and how foolish I’d been and that I should’ve called him.

That was in April, and yet it wasn’t until December of the same year that I cut Ed out off my life completely. The question is, why did it take me so long?