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  • Writer's pictureEric Rushton

The Sexy And Decadent Future That Awaits Us All

This summer is gonna be wicked, init?

I mean you’ll still have all your problems. You’ll still be bogged down by a fear of failure and a lack of purpose. You’ll still have financial worries. You’ll still look in the mirror every day and hate your own face.

But guess where that mirror’s gonna be? In the bathroom of a pub, mate. A pub that’s fully open. Or better yet, a club. A club with people in it. Lovely, sweaty, sexy people, dancing next to each other with no fear of the consequences. You’ll make your way out to the dancefloor after your mini-breakdown in the bathroom, and you’ll remember that, actually, there’s nothing to be sad about ever again.

Dua Lipa will be playing, probably. You could pull Dua Lipa now, I reckon. If you can get through lockdown, you can do anything. She might be out of your league, but the thing about leagues is, they’re changing all the time. There’s no European Super League of dating, with an elite group of people fixed there forever. We have relegation and promotion. In the pyramid of dating, anyone can reach the top. And with the discipline and resolve you’ve shown over the last 18 months, you’re in for some Premier League shagging, my friend.

You'll even have a way in, now. Anyone who catches your eye on that dance floor, you'll just sidle up to them and say, “Thank you.”

“For what,” they’ll reply.

“Thank you,” you’ll repeat. “You have played a massive part in making tonight possible. All of us have. Our collective effort and sacrifice over the last 18 months have meant that this virus has finally been brought under control. Also, I am interested in you romantically.”

She’ll smile at you. A full, beaming, uncovered smile. No facemasks to get in the way anymore. To be honest, her teeth have yellowed a bit. She’s been drinking a lot of coffee over lockdown. Something to do, init. You’re in all day, you’re bored, and you think, Ah, may as well have another coffee. Unfortunately, though, coffee wears away at the enamel on your teeth, and that appears to be what’s happened to the lovely lady in front of you. The same has happened to your teeth, too. That’s part of why you hate your face – your yellow, crooked teeth, your dry skin, and the permanent bags under your eyes.

None of it matters anymore, though. Besides, dentists are open again, and in this new, sexy future you can go get your teeth whitened together.

She’ll lean in and whisper:

“Thank you, too.”

You’ll kiss. Saliva that is now incredibly unlikely to contain any trace of the virus will pass between you. She’ll turnaround and begin to twerk with wild abandon.

After a completing a series of dance moves that imitate the manoeuvres, if not the penetration, of real sex, you’ll take things to the next stage.

“Hey,” you’ll say. “Do you fancy mixing households tonight?”

“Yes,” she’ll say. “Because that’s legal now. And also, I like you.”

You call an Uber or an Ola or whichever ride-hailing service is most prevalent in your area. The Uber/Ola driver will arrive and he will also be unmasked. You’ll still feel unsafe, but this time for good, old fashioned reasons rather than medical ones. He might be a murderer, but the chances you’ll experience a loss or change to your sense of smell or taste after this ride are now minimal.

You’ll both jump in and all three of you will congratulate each other again on bringing the R number under control.

When you get back to hers, you’ll rip each other’s clothes off and get down to business immediately. You’ve both been starved of sexual contact for 18 months and you can’t go another second. You’ll have sex for 30-45 minutes and invent several positions while doing so.

“I guess I should get going,” you’ll say afterwards.

She’ll ask you to stay over. It’s been so long since she’s been able to just hang with someone, especially someone new. You’ll be delighted. That’s exactly how you’ll feel. A night of reminiscing with a stranger about how the various social-distancing measures brought in helped control the virus is exactly what you’ll need.

You’ll feel a bit parched.

“Can I get a drink of water?” you’ll say.

“Sure, if you get me one,” she’ll say playfully. “Actually, I’ll have a Ribena. Why not? It’s the future.” You’ll walk from her bedroom, past the hallway and into the kitchen. You’ll make two Ribenas because, now that she’s said it, that’s exactly what you want too.

On your way back through the hallway suddenly you’ll trip; you’ll have lost your footing and you’ll be on the floor and Ribena will be everywhere. All over her cream carpets.

You’ll get up, head to the front door and leave without saying a word.

The future is sexy, wild and decadent.

But deep down, you’re still you.

A clumsy, stupid prick.

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