A strange thing happened to my friend Bunny last week (of course that isn’t her real name – who calls a child Bunny?).
Now, Bunny is a very beautiful, very friendly woman, if a little naïve. She loves the world, and sometimes the world tries to love her back when she least expects it, and this was one of those times.
A guest had arrived for a birthday party and, having partied, didn’t seem to have any plan for checking out, ever. Never mind, Bunny is exceedingly gracious, as well as honey-haired, so went off to spend the rest of the weekend at her wee house in the country alongside she-who-stays.
“We can make a threesome of it,” said Bunny.
Later that night, having made up the beds, poured drinks and cooked dinner, Bunny sat down to watch a movie, only to be interrupted by said houseguest leaning seductively up against the doorjamb, dressed in a fetish-style policewoman’s uniform, complete with cap, stockings and knee-high leather boots.
To say Bunny was a little unnerved is the under-statement of the year. Her husband’s reaction can possibly be guessed. Did I mention the dog collar?
Snore in the boudoir?
Anyway – and I promise I’m getting to the point – after her visible shock at this kinky turn of events, Bunny was accused of being ‘vanilla’. Which, while coincidentally her favourite type of scented candle, rather hurt her feelings, implying as it does a lack of adventurousness, dullness and being a snore in the boudoir.
Telling me this story the next day, over camomile tea and a squirt of Rescue Remedy, despite the super-awkward and perplexing question of etiquette involved (is there a guide stocked with handy phrases for when you need to say, “That’s an arresting outfit, but I think you might have the wrong idea”?), it was the label ‘vanilla’ (not even with sprinkles) that really bothered her.
All of which got me thinking that, given I don’t often take the economist [my partner] down the shops on a lead, in some people’s books I might be a tad vanilla, too.
And, so what?
Once, showing a little ankle made you the strumpet from hell. Now, thanks to Rihanna and the internet, it’s all sideboob and underboob and enormous arses covered in cooking oil. And everyone’s got a sex tape, it seems, except me (fingers crossed).
Although kink isn’t really a new thing, so let’s not attribute this phenomenon to E L James’ I’m-so-misunderstood-I-need-to-spank-you Christian Grey. Jilly Cooper? Hello? 1985? Plus, no one’s been missionary every day, except real missionaries, since The Joy of Sex came out in 1972.
Yet fans of BDSM (or is it BLT? I can never remember) like to go around implying anyone who doesn’t spend their weekends in a latex pony suit is a prudish bore. Doesn’t it just smack of snobbery?
I hate snobs. Wine snobs, literary snobs, music snobs. And I don’t know about you, but I’m loath to take accusations of sexual pedestrianism from someone with a lemon juicer stuck in a place the sun doesn’t shine.
In a world saturated with faux-lesbian action and pressure to compete for the title of ‘hottest and wildest perv’, all sex that is consensual and enjoyable for the parties involved is thumbs-up in my book.
The Urban Dictionary defines ‘vanilla sex’ as “Sex that involves no twists or kinkiness, and no S&M. Basically plain, regular sex. Typically sweet and happy and very lovey-dovey.”
And hey, apart from the days you might feel like hot fudge with hundreds and thousands, that sounds like a pretty good flavour to me. Why?
You don’t have to change into sexy-time clothes. You can start in your trackies and it will still be awesome.
No one will be disappointed, or vaguely sickened. No need to put your glasses on to read instruction manuals; no risk of electrocution.
You’ll never pull a muscle or need invasive medical attention that will no doubt be talked about at perioperative nurses’ conferences for years to come.
No sticky food all over your body (so unhygienic).
No need to remember a safe word.
Candles and rose petals might be overrated, but they make your bedroom look wonderful.
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