Romantically Challenged

by Sami Lukis

  I guess that’s how they do it in Hollywood.

  I was actually more excited about the fact that someone had noticed how fabulous I looked in my frock than I was about Ridge Forrester hitting on me. The dress had been custom-made by the team at SABA and it fit me like a glove. They were literally sewing me into it twenty minutes before I hit the red carpet. But the thought of Ridge Forrester ripping that divine dress off me in the throes of passion later that night did not excite me. Not one little bit. So I told my producer to tell Ridge’s publicist to tell Ridge, ‘Thank you. And have a good night.’ They got the hint and disappeared.

  When I finished working the red carpet that night, I bolted straight to the airport to catch a flight to Singapore, where I was due to be on location for my Today show weather crosses the next morning. And I never saw Ridge Forrester again.

  One of my closest friends is a guy named Galeb, whom I’ve known for more than twenty years. We are living proof that men and women can have a successful platonic relationship.

  There’s never been anything remotely romantic going on between us – even though some of our friends still think that can’t possibly be true. We often share a room when we travel together and sometimes we even share a bed. But we’ve never been tempted. Not even by one cheeky little drunken party pash. We adore each other, but we just don’t look at each other that way. He’s like my bestie and my brother rolled into one. And we know that our relationship is perfect, just the way it is (even though we sometimes do argue like husband and wife).

  He’s my most trusted confidante and the person I call when I need advice about, well, anything. In fact, he probably knows more about me than anyone else in the world.

  I know some pretty juicy stuff about him too. Like the fact that he once dated a woman who had had a fling with George Clooney. It was back in the early nineties when she was working as a waitress in a karaoke bar in Japan. Galeb didn’t ask for any of the juicy details (sorry, ladies) but he is secretly chuffed to be in a two-degrees-of-separation sex situation with a Hollywood heart-throb.

  *

  Despite working in the entertainment industry for more than two decades, I’ve never had sex with a celebrity (other than Pete from Big Brother).

  Although I have been lucky enough to interview plenty of hotties throughout my career – everyone from sexiest man alive Chris Hemsworth, to sexiest man alive Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. And lots of other sexy men in between.

  The star with the most surprising sex appeal was Russell Brand. I didn’t get the Brand appeal at first. He seemed like one of the most unlikely sex symbols – too much of a Mr Bean vibe for me. What on earth was Katy Perry thinking? But the moment I met him, I got it. He’s much better-looking in person, for a start. And he gives ah-may-zing interview. He’s whip smart and funny and charming and insanely cheeky. He was one of my all-time favourite celebrity encounters.

  I’ve met a few duds in the line of duty, too. Hugh Grant spent the entire interview staring at my boobs. Which is actually kind of funny, because my chest is arguably my least impressive body part. As was so beautifully articulated in the complaint letter from Today show viewer Jo (see ‘The Cashed-Up Prince Charming’).

  The most traumatic disappointment for me (and trust me when I tell you it hurts more for me to say this than it does for you to hear it) was Mark Wahlberg. I’m probably not supposed to mention his name. But I really, really have to. Because he seemed like such a massive tool.

  I had lusted over Marky Mark and his sixpack and his in-your-face Calvin Kleins with all that bulging manhood for many many years. This guy had sparked some pretty intense hormonal stirrings in my developing teenage body. Seeing him in the flesh had been one of my greatest fantasies. But when I finally got the chance to meet him face-to-face, he had all the sex appeal of . . . a stick of celery.

  I’ll concede that my expectations were probably unreasonably high the first time I interviewed him. Yes, my heart was palpitating. And, yes, my excitement level was possibly a touch OTT for a professional journalist who was supposed to be doing her job . . . professionally. Hey, in my defence, it’s not every day you get to meet your craziest teenage celebrity crush, right?

  But I was pretty shocked when the guy gave me . . . nothing. No witty anecdotes. No cheeky comebacks. No smile. No glimpse of personality whatsoever. He was shockingly bland. And he looked more miserable than a Kardashian without a contouring brush. The entire time.

  After my first disappointing Marky Mark experience, I convinced myself that the guy was probably just having a bad day. I mean, we all do, now and then, right? Even movie stars with stunning wives and gorgeous kids and amazing careers who earn more money in one day than most people will see in a lifetime.

  Well, I couldn’t believe it when I got another chance to interview Mark Wahlberg a couple of years later and he gave me the exact same celery vibe. Surely he wasn’t having another bad day? I’d seen him interviewed plenty of times since our last encounter and he seemed kind of normal in all of them. So, I don’t know, maybe I just got the short end of the (celery) stick.

  I guess most people would ordinarily lose their shit at the prospect of meeting their teenage celebrity crush. But I really, really wish I hadn’t met mine. He was much hotter in my fantasies.

  I didn’t have my first one-night stand until my early 30s. And I mean one-night stand in the true sense of the term, in which I slept with a complete stranger only hours after meeting him and then I never saw or spoke to him again.

  I probably should have been shagging myself stupid through my twenties on the express train to chlamydia town, but I was mostly in long-term relationships back then. And even when I wasn’t happily coupled, I couldn’t fathom how anyone could even think about getting naked with someone they’d only just met. That was way too many shades of wrong for me.

  But just after I hit the big three-oh, I had a major shift in my attitude towards sex. It was a personal light-bulb moment: I realised I could disconnect the physical desire from the psychological one. I’m not sure if everyone has the ability to separate the two, or if some people just prefer not to. But I decided that I could most definitely be in lust with someone without being in love with them. And a shag could be enjoyed as a consensual physical interaction between two people who were:

  a) wildly attracted to each other

  b) horny

  c) drunk

  d) all of the above.

  It wouldn’t make me a dirty rotten slutguts if I enjoyed a spontaneous night of passion with someone I didn’t have any intention of ever seeing again.

  It was also around this time that I fell truly, madly and deeply in love with a movie about a one-night stand. Before Sunrise is my favourite flick of all time: it’s that one movie I am always compelled to watch if I ever stumble across it on TV. It holds me there right till the very end, no matter how many times I’ve seen it.

  On one level, it could be a movie about two randy tourists hooking up on a wild night out. But I see it as a profoundly romantic love story about two people from opposite sides of the globe who meet entirely by chance and discover a kickarse connection that proves their rendezvous was absolute destiny. An affirmation that the universe really is unfolding as it should be (thanks, Desiderata). I mean, what could be more romantic than that?

  So it’s not at all surprising that my first ever one-night stand was an unexpected, spontaneous, eerily mystical encounter with a foreigner.

  It was during the 2003 Rugby World Cup, when Sydney was swept up in that fabulous festive atmosphere that happens when people from all over the world are in party-mode in your city every night. I walked into a bar in Darling Harbour and immediately spotted a guy who stood head and shoulders above everyone else in the room. He looked at me just as I noticed him, we locked eyes for a few seconds and I felt a little click in my stomach. That oh-so-subtle feeling you get when your subconscious knows something that you’re not quite ready to acknowledge yet. My girlfriends were determined t
o drag me onto the dancefloor, though, so I gave him a quick smile and secretly hoped I’d run into him later in the night.

  About an hour later, as I was standing on the edge of the dancefloor giving my tootsies a rest, I noticed an ethereal-looking Maori woman walking towards me through the crowd. She had long, dark hair and was dressed head-to-toe in black. And she was leading the tall hottie I’d spotted earlier by the hand. She walked straight up to me, placed his hand in mine, looked me in the eye and announced, ‘I’m bringing him to you.’

  It was all a bit weird and mysterious. But I was feeling a little tipsy so I just laughed nervously and said to her (in a very Bridget Jones kind of way), ‘Well . . . ooookay, then. Thanks for that. Rightio, then.’

  The big fella and I started chatting and the chemistry was undeniable. He was playing in the World Cup for the All Blacks. My dad is a Kiwi, so our shared background gave us plenty to chat about. I was also insanely attracted to him, even though he had a gigantic square head, no neck, very small cauliflower ears and a nose that looked like it had been broken in about forty-three places.

  A couple of drinks later, the Kiwi and I were laughing about how we’d met and how funny it was that the woman had ‘handed him to me’. I said she must have been a great friend, to facilitate such a unique introduction on his behalf.

  ‘She’s not my friend,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life. I thought she was a friend of yours.’

  Nope. I’d never seen her before either.

  We stared at each other for a moment and acknowledged the freakishness of the situation. Then we searched the bar for the mysterious Maori matchmaker. I was desperate to know what had possessed her to initiate a meeting between two complete strangers, but she was nowhere to be found. I started to worry that someone had spiked my drink and I was actually experiencing some kind of weird hallucinogenic episode. The big fella assured me that I wasn’t tripping. The ethereal-looking Maori woman had picked him out of the crowd, led him through a packed nightclub and brought him to me.

  And in that moment, I knew.

  It was a sign. A sign that I must take the big fella home and shag him immediately. I was ready to embark on my first ever one-night stand!

  So he came home with me. And it was spontaneous and sexy and exciting and super empowering to discover that having adult cuddles with someone you don’t know very well could actually be . . . pretty fabulous! No commitment. No promises. No strings attached. No regrets.

  My first ever one-night stand was more satisfying and liberating than I ever imagined it could be. Well done, me!

  The morning after, however, was a complete disaster. I woke up and realised I had absolutely no idea about one-night stand morning-after protocol. I had only ever woken up naked next to a boyfriend. But there I was, lying next to a complete stranger, starkers and (shock-horror!) makeup-free. I raced to the bathroom and put on just enough makeup to look like I hadn’t put any makeup on. Then I called him a cab, went back into the bedroom and casually mentioned that his taxi would be arriving lickity-split.

  He looked a little puzzled.

  In hindsight, it wasn’t the right thing to do. I practically threw him out the door like a cheap plaything I had no use for any more. I would have been mortified if a guy had treated me that way. But I didn’t want him to know that it was my first ever one-night stand. And I certainly didn’t want to be a Stage 5 Clinger begging him to stay for breakfast and asking to swap numbers so I could wait for him to never call. So with my new-found post-one-night shag empowerment, I put my big-girl panties on, leaned in to the moment and took charge, giving him the clear message that I wasn’t expecting anything more from him.

  Despite our mysteriously magical meeting and crazy chemistry, I knew I’d never have a relationship with the guy. He lived in another country, for a start. Plus, he was a professional athlete. And my one and only previous attempt at having a relationship with a professional athlete didn’t turn out so well.

  I dated an NBL basketballer back in my early twenties. Derek would get me the best seats in the house at every game, either on the court or in the VIP area, and I’d swell with pride whenever he scored. I’d comfort him after a big loss and I’d help him rotate the icepacks when he had an injury. I remember his house always smelled of sweaty socks and wet towels and Dencorub. I eventually decided WAG life wasn’t for me when I heard that my b-baller was double dribbling around town with one of the cheerleaders and it became mortifyingly obvious that I wasn’t the only one who’d been rotating his icepacks.

  The cab arrived and my one-night stand left and I felt a bit slack about the way I’d kicked him out, but I told myself to let it go and move on. I’d never see him again anyway.

  Except I did see him again. All the bloody time. I had no idea when I shagged him that my first ever one-night stand was with a famous rugby player. For years after, I’d recognise that enormous square head whenever an All Blacks game was playing on TV. I mean, seriously. What are the chances?

  We weren’t destined to be together, but I do believe our meeting was destiny. Maybe a Maori spirit actually did bring him to me, because she wanted to teach me a valuable life lesson. That I could enjoy grown-up sex without being in a relationship.

  But it takes a whole lot more to fall in love.

  Casual sex has become an accepted part of dating for me. But so has the occasional extended sex drought.

  I once mentioned to a friend that I hadn’t had sex in a while and she suggested I book myself an appointment with ‘The Yoni Whisperer’ in Byron Bay. This Yoni expert would be able to heal any ‘issues’ my vajoir was holding on to, through ‘external and internal vaginal mapping massage therapy’.

  Side note: I prefer the term ‘vaj-oir’ (pronounced like ‘boud-oir’). My girlfriends and I have been using it for years. It’s not as clinical as ‘vagina’ and not as crass as ‘pussy’. Confession: we do use the ‘C’ word on rare occasions, but only when referring to especially repulsive ex-boyfriends.

  Anyhoo, apparently one session with the Yoni lady was all I’d need to release any pesky little vajoir related blockages, leaving me feeling empowered, connected and inspired (no mention of violated). And, most importantly, it might also miraculously break my sex drought.

  Okay, so . . .

  Firstly, I didn’t realise vaginal blockages were preventing me from getting laid. I thought it was simply the fact that I hadn’t met a guy I wanted to sleep with in months.

  Also, I had no clue my poor little vajoir was so messed up emotionally (she actually sounds like a bit of a drama queen, to be perfectly honest).

  But, quite frankly, I’d rather go on one of those ‘Naked & Dating’ TV shows than let some strange woman finger me while whispering sweet nothings to my lady bits. I don’t need sex that badly. Honestly, I don’t.

  I’m no stranger to extended periods of abstinence. I’ve been a first-class passenger on the man-drought train many, many times. That’s why I created the Penguin Club with a bunch of my single girlfriends back in the early nineties. And the Penguin Club is still going strong to this day.

  I’d read somewhere that penguins only have sex once a year. So we decided that whenever any of us reached the twelve-month mark of a dry spell, we would call ourselves ‘honorary penguins’. For a bit of a laugh.

  The Penguin Club is our secret society of sexless ladies (a group of penguins is actually called a ‘waddle’, but that just didn’t seem appropriate, given the circumstances). There have been six of us in and out of the Club over the years. When all six of us were single, there were usually two active penguins at any one time. When you’re in the Club, you can be absolutely sure that all the other girls know the exact date of your penguin anniversary – i.e., your last shag. And if your sex drought does happen to roll over into a new year, you’ll be comforted by messages of support from the other ladies – accompanied, no doubt, by a variety of tasteless vibrator jokes.

  Membership is flexible and always, hope
fully, temporary. As soon as you break the drought, you’re out of the Club. Nothing warrants a bigger toast among my gal pals than when one of us announces to the group (usually over Friday night drinks): ‘Girls, I’m a Penguin no more! I broke the drought!’

  You’re also welcome to return to the Club at any time. We were all flabbergasted when one of the girls announced that she was a Penguin again, despite the fact that she’d been married for nine years (because that’s what having two kids under the age of five can do to your sex life).

  The Penguin Club has given us all a lighthearted laugh about what can be a bit of a depressing situation. It’s also led to some interesting chat about sex and what it means to us. Can we last without it for longer than men? (Mostly, yes.) Do women need emotional attachment before they jump in the sack? (Debatable. Refer to previous chapter.) How long can you go without sex before you have to lower your standards? (Personal choice.)

  I’ve always refused to lower my standards. That’s why I’ve been a penguin a grand total of four times during my thirty-plus sexually active years. Yes. My sex rut has lasted for more than twelve months on four separate occasions. And I’m not embarrassed to admit it.

  It’s actually nowhere near as tragic as it sounds. When I tell some people that I haven’t had sex in a year, I’m pretty sure they just assume I’m stuck in some sad, pathetic existence where no one wants to bonk me. I’ve seen that look of pity in their eyes!

  But what they don’t realise is that I’m the one who’s made the choice to be there.

  With apps like Tinder, I could probably get sex if I really wanted it. I also usually have at least one ex lurking somewhere around the fringes, in case I hang the old ‘open for business’ sign back on my bedroom door. But, while I certainly don’t shy away from the odd one-night stand when the mood takes me, I don’t need to shag for shag’s sake. I can quite comfortably go for extended periods without any sex at all.