There is definitely a correlation between how attractive you find your girlfriend or boyfriend and how much crap you’re willing to accept from them. Genetically we’re only a few chromosomes away from Simians, and their primary consideration is sex, they think later, if at all. Let’s not kid ourselves that we’re much more emotionally advanced than them. I’ve been to a few zoos and I get the feeling that other than bank accounts and toilet rolls, there's slim difference between chimps and us. What I’m trying to express here is that attraction is little more than lust, as it is with our unshaven tyre swinging cousins, but we insist on dressing it up. We are fooling only ourselves when we say it’s all about personality and companionship.
We’re in a confused evolutionary no-mans land between our instinct, telling us that courtship is solely for procreation, and our supposed intellect telling us we need to make emotional connections progress into monogamy (something which very few other mammalian species do).
This conundrum between animal instinct and human conditioning is highlighted when we find ourselves in relationships with an absolute head-banger who we then stay with solely due to finding them incredibly sexy. The Simian in us (our ‘Inner Monkey’) is bouncing on the spot screaming at us (The Human), not to bail out after hooking up with someone so physically appealing. The Inner Monkey considerers only the libido. The Human is just as concerned with pride and self-preservation. It’s tough. The "if he/ she wasn’t this gorgeous would I be putting up with this crap?" internal-inter-species debate will inevitably resolve in The Human having the last word, otherwise Planet of the Apes would not be fiction. The day comes when the amount of aggravation you're absorbing in order to appease your demanding but unbelievably hot squeeze outweighs the pleasure you are receiving in return. You cut your losses.
This conundrum between animal instinct and human conditioning is highlighted when we find ourselves in relationships with an absolute head-banger who we then stay with solely due to finding them incredibly sexy.
The day you reclaim your self-esteem by ending it can be of great relief. You can also have fun with it, or a ride in an ambulance….
I once spent a few summer months with a girl called Trish. Appearance-wise she was mighty fine, of mixed heritage, Lisa Bonet's double, but with killer hips and lips and tits. She was San Franciscan and spoke in a deep sexy drawl. She lived near me and I would see her watering her Cacti on her balcony some mornings in her bed-shorts and vest. We got chatting and soon I was helping to moisten her succulents. Result! Or so I thought.
If something seems too good to be true then it normally is. She had a deeply unpleasant nature. By her own description she had spent her whole life getting waited on by doting boyfriends consumed by her beauty, and would happily boast about exploiting such situations. She, and her tantrums, were hard work. My time with her was a constant sparring match in which, I soon learned, it was quicker and easier to take a pasting than offer perpetual defence. It had to end. There were three main factors that formed the impasse that led to us splitting…
The first was tricky; she would cry for around 20 minutes every time I went down on her. She was quite happy for me to be a Jolly Cunnilingerer and would often suggest a mid-afternoon or evening refresher of Lady Clam, and in the morning she would serve me up a breakfast in the form of her Vertical Bacon Sandwich. So I knew her tears were not due to the misery of my performance. Several times I gently asked her what was going on. She would stay silent, but smirk, happy to leave me guessing. Sensitively, I didn’t push it. Eventually I found her lack of communication during this intimate but acutely uncomfortable moment quite unacceptable and her apparent amusement when denying me an explanation for this regular occurrence became increasingly frustrating. It started to feel like her tears were part of a cruel tease.
The second problem was that she was ’Dairy Intolerant’. Fucksake. Eating and drinking would resemble a comedy sketch based loosely on ‘Krypton Factor’ but with Mariah Carey as the impossible quizmaster. Waiters in the decent restaurants would be close to resigning as they went back and forth to the kitchen to ask the chef the details of dishes so lovingly created. Then she’d order a concoction of different items from the offering, sometimes asking for things to be remade using oil instead of butter, or soya milk instead of regular. When she insisted that a lasagne be specially made for her without the cheese and tempura without the batter (?) I had an inner argument; the Monkey was saying- "don’t bin her you prick, she’s a goddess, forget the gastro-bullshit". The Human was arguing- "Yeah but she’s not very nice, the weird come-crying is beyond bizarre, and let’s not forget the third and equally weighty issue...her horrendous taste in music."
The day I decided that I could not take any more of the tedium Monkey and Human shook hands and decided to compromise, and have a laugh with it along the way. Looking back the scheme we planned was quite stupid, but it confirmed that I was doing the right thing.
The Human was arguing- "Yeah but she’s not very nice, the weird come-crying is beyond bizarre, and let’s not forget the third and equally weighty issue...her horrendous taste in music."
I was determined to make absolutely sure I would not regret throwing the towel in. I would ascertain during a day with her. We met for a difficultly ordered breakfast. Then we went back to mine where I provided her with a ‘sob-gasm’ for brunch and then we went into town. Shopping and galleries, between plenty of helpings of her favourite drink (‘Soya’ latte). Today I would gladly fulfill her unspoken expectations by ordering and fetching all of the coffees, while simultaneously testing out her allegedly professionally diagnosed dietary problem involving anything that originates from the udder of our bovine friends. As I ordered the first round of lattes I asked the barista to make it using half full cream milk and half soya milk, as a mask. He gave me an Italian frown and I returned a Yorkshire wink. As Trish drank her beverage I had 999 keyed into my phone, my thumb hovered over the green button, just in case she started going a bit ‘Elephant Man’ on me.
Thirty minutes later we were in Agent Provocateur. Despite her holding half-cup bras to her fine chesticles and the monkey inside providing me with a bit of a semi-on, I remained steadfast, I was totally unwilling to spend any money on anything other than more surreptitious dairy. It got on her tits that we left empty handed, I tried to calm her with more bespoke coffee. She drank, but the distraction failed. Not having new undies to mop her cheeks with after the next sample of my deft oral artistry (little did she know she wasn’t going to receive that treat again) served to spin her off like a spoiled kid who’s had her ice-cream, sorry sorbet, shat on by a cackling seagull hence she offered a few disrespectful remarks.
We carried on to the cinema, more coffee, then an art exhibition, yet more coffee. By now she’d had at least a pint of full cream milk at my rather irresponsible behest. For someone who’d spent the last four months of my life refusing to kiss me after eating a yogurt unless I’d mouthwashed, she was looking surprisingly un-flushed.
I was pissed off. The tantrums in restaurants were entirely without base! By now, mainly due to the ‘tight-arse’ insults after my refusal to fork out on filthy lingerie, I wanted to be giggling away as I rolled my own version Violet Beauregarde down the street like an Oompa –Loompa on the way to Wonka’s bloated Blueberry department. I put one last anaphylactic-shock-inducing-cow-poison-enriched Latte in front of her. Trish, The Inner Monkey and I had a conversation that went something like this…
Me “Are you feeling Ok”
Trish “Yes, but I’d feel better if I was carrying a bag containing underwear… why do you ask?”
Me “How much dairy produce would you need to ingest before going allergic?”
Trish “A trace”
Me (shaking my head) “Why do you cry after you come?”
Trish (smirking) “I’m not telling you”
Me (annoyed but resigned) “What do you think of Snow Patrol?”
Trish (cockily) “Brilliant sensitive rock music”
The Inner Monkey “OK smartarse, you’re right, ditch her”
Me (absolutely resolute) “You’re dumped”
Trish “What? You can’t dump me, I’ve never been dumped, I’m the one that does the dumping”
Me and The Inner Monkey “Goodbye”
We left her there and went off for a Bananas and Bellinis.