I want to like morning sex. Really, I do. I just *don’t*.
I’m an evening girl. I do my best work after work, my energy levels peak around 9pm and I prefer a nice glass of wine to a hot cup of coffee. I’m late *all the time,* but latest of all in the morning.
But it’s not the morning of part of morning sex that puts me off. I can appreciate the good things about being awake early: wandering into town when there’s no one else around, when the only thing happening is the supermarkets restocking for the day; finding time to sit and linger over a coffee and gather your thoughts; that bizarre sensation when it feels like you’ve been awake for hours and it’s not yet noon. It’s just that all those things? I like to do them by myself.
When I was at uni, I wrote my essays through the night. In the first few weeks, I challenged the belief that an allnighter meant going to bed at 3 or 4 a.m. – it was only an allnighter, I argued, if you didn’t go to bed at all. And so, once a week, you’d find me roaming the corridor at 7, hyped up and spaced out on a combination of coffee and Proplus, *desperate* for someone to talk to. I loved those mornings though, just for the adrenaline rush.
So no, it’s not the morning – it’s the night before. If you want to have morning sex, you have to let the guy stay the night, and, well, that makes me feel vulnerable. You get selfish when you’ve been single as long as I have, which makes me a nightmare to sleep with – I roll in the sheets, and I like my feet to be in the corner diagonally opposite my head. But it’s more than that: I like to feel pretty when I’m fucking a guy, and believe me, first thing in the morning, I am not pretty.
Plus, there’s an intimacy that comes with having a guy stay the night that, for me at least, is perhaps best avoided unless he’s actually a boyfriend. The boy refused to stay the third or fourth time we slept together, and a precedent was set: we have fun, we go home. And just like that, I learnt to love the drive of shame – putting my foot down, singing my little heart out and stopping for a cardboardy-tasting cup of tea and a four-finger KitKat halfway home. I no longer do that drive, but we’ve never revisited the question of staying the night, and mostly, I think that’s for the best.