Meg does the dirty on her own sex.
I FEEL A TWINGE OF APPREHENSION OVER WHAT I’M ABOUT OF THE SISTERHOOD. It’s likely I’ll never be invited to
the only beverage available is pre-mixed Skinnygirl margaritas, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take if the prize is helping male GQ readers do better in the arena of marital arts. That is to say, sex-having. Specifcally, the long-term monogamous kind. Like tripping the fat boy in the playground, making fun of married-person-sex is easy and a guaranteed laugh. In real life, monogamy is a high calling – something for which humans may not even be biologically built, but attempt out of intense, insanely ambitious love for another person. Still, for all the blissful security, companionship and sweatpant-based activity marriage offers, the carnal side of things can slide once the tin anniversary’s been and gone. And you didn’t get her anything. Which, in a nutshell, is where the chaps are going wrong for their part – accidentally not doing anything even vaguely romantic after the frst 12 months. It’s an easy mistake to make, forgetting to buy flowers for 15 years, but even so, it’s not advancing the nocturnal cause. Ladies, on the other hand – and thus begins the exposé for which I will almost certainly be thrown out of my book group and barred from all branches of Curves women’s ftness – are guilty of deploying a raft of techniques designed to ensure no sex gets done, ever. Especially not on weeknights. That was the table-wide admission at a recent girls’ night out – also now my last. The evening soon took a confessional turn, and it was broadly agreed that any woman punching towards a decade of marriage has her ways of getting rostered off bedroom duties. It’s not that we don’t like it. It’s that, before things have started, we’re unable to believe we wouldn’t experience as much physical pleasure from staying on this sofa, in leggings, with those fun-size Toblerones. Also, as you will have heard, we’re all quite tired. ‘Not tonight, darling, I have a headache’ is widely held up as the standard bearer when it comes to sexavoidance. But it’s never used in real life because it’s actually true. Every woman in the world has a headache right now. Miranda Kerr’s got a splitter, Angela Merkel’s just taken two Aspros at her desk and Tina Fey can’t see out of her left eye because of the pounder she’s had since her SNL days. Everything we achieve is done with a throbbing pain in our temple, sex included. When needs must, the actual strategies are far more inventive. Fake tan, for example. We know you hate the smell. So do we. ‘Why can’t they make one that doesn’t reek of bleach and off yoghurt’ you’ll have asked, as we climb, stickily, into bed and proceed to make a streaky orange crime scene of the ftted sheet. They can. Of course they can. But when we need a solid eight hours and no funny business, there’s nothing so effective as a liberal spritzing of boy repellent. It’s like Aerogard for men. Fake tan is often used in combination with an excessively early bedtime (anything before 8pm you must know is a straight-up sexual shut down) and/ or the imitation of intense REM when you come to bed six hours later. If we’ve failed to plan ahead and fnd ourselves turning in at the same time, we’ll be forced to start an argument. Preferably about money, though anything from the ‘Your Family and Their Ways’ category works. As does targeted media consumption. A gruesome true crime procedural right before lights out, or anything with a dog that dies, guarantees cuddling-only until further notice. More widely, experimental fashion and aggressive geometric haircuts go a long way to making sure you’re fne not to put out. As innovative as the fashion industry is, men continue to favour ‘skirts’ and ‘longish hair’ so we know that styling out a dropped crotch, confusing conceptual sleeve or, hair-wise, Skrillexed section and statement fringe will see us safely stood down for up to a month. There’s so many more – work issues, bloating, having three children – and we’ll use any or all of them to make sure absolutely no one’s hot for it. If, having done so, your sexpectations remain undiminished, we still have our trump card: Feeling a bit sad. You’ve no answer for that one, because we don’t even have to have a reason for being the tiniest bit weepy – though assume it’s in some way your doing, as you reach for the only source of warmth and entertainment that evening, the ipad. Should it so happen that you outwit us and get something up and going – easier now that I’ve handed you the entire playbook – remember this. Afterwards, when we’re downstairs frying bacon in knickers and your sweatshirt, looking as ravishing as we ever will, when that moment comes and we look at you lovingly and say, ‘That was incredible. We should do that more often,’ fght your frst reaction, to sulk and say, ‘I told you that! You say that every time!’ Any man with an eye on the long game will swallow hard and say, ‘Babe, I’m sure you’ve lost weight.’ n