Sex & The Single Girl - The Sex That Got Away

I was 18 the first time I realised I'd let great sex slip through my fingers. The night before, I'd been sitting on a Goan beach, watching the sun go down. And, apart from the unfeasibly beautiful man sitting next to me, I had the place to myself. He was 25, Dutch and, despite being called Eric, about as perfect as they come.

My best friend Rachel and I had spotted Eric in a bar a few nights into our trip. Six feet of rippling bronzed muscle, messy blond hair and cheekbones you could cut your lip on. What's not to like? Rachel in particular went into lust overdrive.

Then, one evening, I went for a stroll along the beach and found Eric sitting by himself. The night was balmy, the sky was red and the waves were lapping at our feet. It was everything my cliché-loving 18-year-old heart could desire. Eric put his arm around me, looked into my eyes and kissed me, before saying, 'I've been wanting to get you alone for ages. I've never made love on a beach; have you?'

I stared at him, my mind still reeling from a kiss that had gone straight from my lips to my knickers. Then Rachel's face popped into my head. She'd kill me. I just couldn't do it to her. So I made my excuses, leaving alone probably the sexiest man I've ever met. I went back to our hotel feeling gutted and frustrated, but at least I knew I'd Done The Right Thing.

Rachel turned up the next morning, bright-eyed after going at it all night like a frog in a sock with an Israeli named Ofar. I admitted what had happened with Eric. Her response? 'Are you crazy? You so should have shagged him!'

She had, of course, got it right. She'd seized the day with Ofar and had a fantastic time, whereas I simply had a massive metaphorical bruise from where I'd been mentally kicking myself – and I carry it around to this day.

The thing with 'the sex that got away' is that the reason you let it go seems so ridiculous the following morning. By which time, of course, it's too late to go back and do some retrospective ripping off of clothes.

The second time it happened I was at university. Cassie and Steve were in their late twenties and ran the local club. I thought they were the sexiest, coolest couple I'd ever met, so I was flattered when they befriended me and invited me out partying with them. One night the three of us ended up back at their (achingly hip) flat.

'You can stay if you like,' said Steve. I wondered why Cassie was stroking my leg.
'With us, he means. In our bed,' she said. Huh?
'We think you've very cute,' said Steve. Cassie leant over and kissed me. Steve stroked my hair. What the…? Call me naïve but I hadn't seen that one coming at all. I was also tempted and very curious. But a little voice in my ear kept saying, 'What if it's a disaster? What if your mates find out?' So I legged it. I've regretted it ever since.

It's not just me either. In a survey, British pensioners were asked what their biggest regret in life is – and what did they say? That they wished they'd kicked more ass during the war? Put more money into their pension? Nope. They wished they'd had more sex. With more people. While they still could. Similarly, I've lost count of the number of friends who, about to get hitched to their long-term love, confess to feeling a little miffed that their younger selves hadn't put it about a bit more first.

While we all hope we'll eventually find The One, there are advantages to living life to the full before that happens. Experience is what makes us, after all, and as long as it's safe and doesn't hurt anyone, single girls should grab every opportunity they fancy.

Because who really wants to be old and incontinent, thinking, 'If only I'd jumped that gorgeous guy while I had the chance... Now what time's Egoli on and where the hell did I leave my teeth?' Not me. I learnt long ago that the only sex you should regret is the sex you didn't have.

Author: Camilla Way