My show is called The Year of Magical Fucking but I thought it might be nice to write about something that happened outside that year, in a simpler time, 2010: the last ever time I had sex with a woman. I was also the last man that she had sex with (because she is also gay… she didn’t die or anything). It was a truly magical moment that I will never forget, despite the fact that I had drunk enough I should have forgotten it right away.
It was all the result of a popular New Zealand drinking game called “Scrumpy Hands”. It’s a recipe for disaster: the ingredients are duck tape and high-alcohol cider and you should be properly cooked in about fifteen minutes. It’s harder to know what was the bigger obstacle for our love-making: the 1.5L plastic bottles taped to our hands or our concealed but mutually exclusive sexual orientations.
We were set-up by our university friends who had been wondering all year why neither of us had hooked up with anyone in the class. “You’d be perfect for each other”, said about six friends who’s gaydars were clearly non-functional in the lead-up to a costume party. With terrifying synchronicity, they all left that party at the exact same time, leaving us together and alone. It was a Midsummer Night’s Dream romantic set-up except instead of love potion it was Scrumpy.
We sat drunk in front of the fire talking about the few things we had in common – we both loved Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Definitely for different reasons. And we just kept talking until we started kissing. We didn’t want to but we felt we had to. So if anything this story proves one thing: peer pressure works.
As for the event itself, it went every bit as terribly as your imagining it going. It’s hard to describe it as intercourse because the actual moments of genital contact were so fleeting, but I also wouldn’t describe it as ‘outer-course because that’s just a word Brock Turner’s lawyer made up. It really was just two people awkwardly moving their bodies against each other like some kind of amateur contemporary dance class. As sweaty mess of human bodies, avoiding eye contact and with the lights down as low as possible.
And to be honest, if I could change one thing: I just wish more people were there to see it. In particular homophobes, I wish they could see just how hard we were trying to make it work. Because I hear god loves a trier, and we sure did give this a go. But no amount of conversion therapy would ever have made this work. In that moment, we were living proof that you cannot choose your sexuality.
We came out to each other the next week, making this experience magical in its own way: sex so bad, it confirmed both participants were gay. For more magical sex stories – come see the show!
Eli Matthewson: The Year of Magical F*cking – COMEDY
Underbelly George Square – The Wee Coo
1st – 27th August (not 13th)
For further information https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/eli-matthewson-the-year-of-magical-f-cking