Sex and the Certainty

Six hundred and forty days ago, I sat down on front of my 2001 Dell desktop. I would write about my relationship. I would write with absolute honesty, regardless of the consequences.

My Dell desktop no longer exists, at least not in my study, but my relationship, which has faltered without doubt more often than the computer, continues to be something that I proudly possess. Within three days I had written the same amount of articles: about choices, intimacy and monogamy, all of which would go on to define my relationship in the future.

As a single person living in the dating jungle that is Dublin, I had imagined myself being a practicing monogamist upon my arrival at relationship central. It seemed right, and even if I’d fancied the idea of multi-dating, wouldn’t it be too complicated? I tried to understand how I’d manage to schedule numerous dates on the weekend without eventually double-booking, and landing myself in a sticky situation. I hadn’t had many offers of interest pre-relationship anyway, so it was a non-issue.

It turns out, you’re more desirable when you’re in a relationship. Enter, Potential Future Lover Number One. It was December 15, 2007. The streets were cold and the night was young. The building was old, a section of the 1774 Powerscourt Townhouse, and the people were new. PFL Number One was fresh out of the Irish countryside and a one-off piece, like couture Marc Jacobs, you’re comforted by the knowledge that you won’t be seeing a 20-something piece of work walking along the opposite side of Grafton Street with a replicate of what, or rather whom, you’re wearing.

Simon, my best friend, a singleton at this stage having split from the Dark Lord, reconciling briefly and being hijacked on a plane, was at my side on the inside of the Powercourt Townhouse. “If walls could talk…I would be in a lot of trouble”, I recently whispered over lunch at a new eatery on the opposite side of South William Street.

PFL Number One was ordering a drink. Suddenly I was parched. I needed vodka, straight up. The next week, I felt like I was coming down off a bad drug, and a fix was necessary. Dublin made that possible: sometimes, the city had turned against me, sending ex-bosses into Butlers coffee shop at 8am, and kindly distributing past one-night-stands to the next table at the flavour of the month restaurant.

Today, the city was on my team, and shortly after my departure from the job from hell at 42 Grafton Street, at approximately 7pm, I arrived in Paris. Or at least the next best thing, Leon café on Exchequer Street, where I want to marry, in no particular order: the food, the décor, and just about anyone who takes me there. “Hi”, I said, sounding a little too surprised. PFL Number One was like the dish on their place setting: unpretentious, classic, and a winner. I took two sips of my Château Lastours Perlé, and one deep breath, and told the CliffsNotes version of my life story.

“This is the first time I’ve felt like I mightn’t be able to keep up with a guy”, said the stockbroker. It occurred to me in retrospect, the economy might have been about to plummet, but my stock was up. Maybe those PR classes had taught me more than client relations, maybe they had shown me how to sell myself in shorthand. “Listen, as much as I’d love to stay in France, there’s something I have to get to at home”. We stood up, walked past the pastries and out the door, returning approximately 30 seconds later for the Ralph Lauren carrier bag which held a considerable amount of my recent earnings.

Christmas came and went, and on St. Patrick’s Day, as Simon and I slouched in the leather chairs at Ba Mizu, I lifted what must have been my second glass of wine that afternoon and gushed: “I want to have my cake and eat it. I want a Woody and Mia situation: to be together when I want to be and apart when I want to be”. Simon, who I’d decided was either too scarred from his former serious relationship to enter another, or had become despaired in the desert, probably thought. “You, my friend, are a greedy pig”, but because Simon was Simon, he said “The stockbroker is gorgeous”, and I loved him for it.

That spring, PFLs Two, Three and Four arrived and departed with little more than surface scratches caused to my relationship. A well-heeled diarist with a briefcase full of grand gestures, a socialite with a penchant for acting and boys in Abercrombie, and a broadcaster with dirty blond hair and talk that was even dirtier, couldn’t take my attentions away, at least not for more than a few hours here and there, from my chosen person.

Each time I encountered another singleton hoping to alter my intentions, I came to realise that my romantic relationship with Significant Other was more than just a passing trend. In our time together, skinny ties and Old Glory T-shirts had come in and out of fashion, along with the endless other fads I couldn’t care to mention. I had lost mobile phones, jackets and friends, not to mention hopes and bets.

There was one certain in my life, and that was my relationship. Short of being struck down by a bus, and it’s been close, it felt like I could count on Significant Other to always be there for authentic love and support. It was certain too, that my most intimate moments of the emotional variety had been spent with my romantic partner.

On the other hand, there was the certainty of the countless Flirtinis that would be consumed in just seven days on September 13, 2008, before the doors of the venue where it had all started would close for the final time, at least in it’s current life form. There was the certainty of the courage that came from the rush of alcohol to the head. There was the certainty that I loved. There was the certainty that love would be enough. There was, only one uncertainty.

This was the final Sex and the Liffey column. The author, Robert O’Connor, would like to thank the people of Dublin for the inspiration they have provided, especially those he’s been on dates with.