MY SO CALLED... Thot year
PHOEBE ROBINSON, CREATOR OF 2 DOPE QUEENS, IS PUBLISHING HER THIRD BOOK THIS MONTH. HERE, IN AN EXCLUSIVE ESSAY, SHE CONSIDERS THE BENEFITS OF A YEAR OF SINGLEDOM
Long story short: I didn’t have sex until I was 24. Then, eight years later,
I met the love of my life, whom I affectionately call British Bake Off. Because he’s a Brit and likes to bake, duh! Anyway, sometimes I wonder if the Universe was like, ‘Good grief, boo, you’re not taking that pusspuss out for enough spins, so let’s put it on AutoTrader, so a grown-ass man can take you off the market.’ #IsThisHowJoanDidionStartedHerEssays?
Jokes aside, the moment I knew my boyfriend was my soulmate, any shot I had at discovering and releasing my inner thot [‘That Ho Over There’] on to the world was gone. Not that I’m complaining: I’m very happy in my relationship. Still, there are moments where I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had a little more fun when I was younger. Much like when those lucky 18-year-olds take a year off to explore the world, I wonder if I – nay, everyone – should have a thot year. Hear me out.
A thot year isn’t about getting as many notches on your belt as you can, or sleeping around with emotional disregard.
Rather, I imagine a thot year to be about embracing and exploring sexuality without fear of judgement. And hopefully, the spirit of this time will remain long after the thot year is over, and ultimately prevent the fallout from a sexually and sensually unfulfilled/unexplored life and/or midlife crisis and/or regret. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to imagine what I would do if I had a year of singledom and thottery.
WINTER How am I supposed to feel sexy when I can barely keep my feet moisturised? The second the temperature dips below 4°C, my feet – and only my feet – dry up to the point where one could host Burning Man on them with the proper permits.
Clearly, it’s impossible for me to effectively thot if I have to a) turn foreplay into a PowerPoint presentaysh about my raggedy feet; b) pretend my dry heels aren’t exfoliating his calves during penetraysh; or c) worst-case scenario: submerge my feet in lotion, put on socks so big and thick they could double as mascot footwear, and try to have sex anyway.
But even if I didn’t have dry-feet issues, I wouldn’t be out thottin’ because winter is awful. The sun sets at 3.17pm, and whenever I walk down an icy pavement, I feel like a contestant on a game show called So You Tryna Die Today?
SPRING My allergies are a nightmare. I had hay fever as a child. In my teen and college years, the severity of my allergies lessened; however, they could still knock me out of commission for a day or two. As an adult, if the pollen is swirling, then what’s going on in my nostrils and respiratory system is akin to the Red Wedding. Just. Straight. Freaking. Carnage. Every sneeze sounds like Viola Davis being startled right before she cries. That, my friends, is a boner killer.
SUMMER Full disclosure: I sweat. Everywhere. Namely my armpits and crotch. So to stave off my lady bits smelling like a rainforest floor all summer long, I wear minimal clothing. And if all that exposed skin means I’m attracting loads of hot dudes, then so be it. This season is when all my work during the winter and spring months pays off. And by ‘work’, I mean sourcing sex the millennial and Gen Z way. Obviously, I will sleep with locals I meet via Tinder and Instagram but, most importantly, I will also score a celeb conquest.
OK, that’s too general. If I’ve learned anything from
The Secret, it’s that you have to speak your intentions in specific detail. If I spent my thot year gazing up to Orion and wishing to snag any ol’ available celeb peen, I might end up with Leonardo DiCaprio. Sure, homeboy is cute, accomplished, believes in climate change and, when he’s not on camera, dresses like every day is laundry day.
So, sure, he seems like a quality candidate for a smash and dash, until you remember the rumour that he allegedly wears noisecancelling headphones during sex. What are you listening to that’s more important than the sounds of ecstasy coming from the person you’re hooking up with, boo? Brené Brown’s Unlocking Us? If so, put that on your Sonos surround sound so we can both learn something. See? This is why it pays to be precise.
I want to bag a celebrity who makes me feel like a The Price Is Right contestant, in that I will be rewarded simply for participating. This intention is based on the delightful rumour that former New York Yankees’ shortstop Derek Jeter used to hand out gift baskets after sex. He has denied this, but LOL, Der-Der, people don’t lie about receiving gift baskets. He was roasted online for it, but I think it’s innovative. I would love to be sent on my way with a lavender soap bar, a bag of coffee beans and a travel-size Diptyque candle.
“I imagine a THOT YEAR to be about exploring sexuality without fear of judgement”
AUTUMN Because I’m a romantic, I am throwing caution to the wind. If I catch feels, I catch ’em and will deal with the fallout later. And yes, I will definitely catch feels from someone I smashed during the summer, those feelings will not be reciprocated, and I will mend my broken heart by eating cake. Over time, I’ll have a crush on someone I follow on social media. I will check out his photos and imagine what he would look like in long johns. Like a baseball scout, I will track his every development (AKA I will see if he posts any pictures of himself with women he’s not related to and plot out my plan of attack for next summer). In the meantime, I’ll half-heartedly sext a dude I’m kind of friends with while watching Bridgerton, and that will be that.
Turns out, now that I’ve laid it all out here, it seems that if I had a thot year, I’d only be active about six out of 52 weeks. So basically, I’m just asking to be a college student who studies abroad with her art history class and sleeps with foreign dudes after sipping one and a half Aperol spritzes. Honestly, that does not even sound that great, nor is it worth paying overage fees for my checked luggage full of flowy and shapeless clothes. Still, what matters most is that I attempted to thot at all and, all kidding aside, that’s what I want for every woman.
Phoebe Robinson’s latest essay collection, Please Don’t Sit on
My Bed in Your Outside Clothes, is out 28 September