I try by just caressing my body. I lie in my bed at night and gently touch myself. It feels nice. Over time, I work up to using the vibrator, but not the big part because I’m scared it’ll hurt me. Sometimes I try to watch porn, but after about five minutes it grosses me out. No matter how hard I try, I can’t climax. I get turned on, but before I can enjoy myself too much a huge sign that says “damaged goods” flashes before my eyes. Still, I want sex and I want love. It’s all I think about – wild, explosive, passionate sex.

But I don’t know where to find this. So I look for it in everyone.

I down a glass of red wine to build my courage. I am going for drinks with a French boy. Matthieu. Which sounds like Matt with a sneeze at the end.

I arrive before he does at Van Hunks. It is awkward to sit and wait for him, like I’m already failing the date. I’m the one who is supposed to stride in, piccolo playing in the background, the wind ruffling my hair just so, while he sits and gazes adoringly at the vision who is me, right?

I order a beer and scratch at the label. There are two other couples in the bar. My bench is surrounded on both sides with empty spaces.

When he arrives, I am relieved that he is cute – I couldn’t really remember. I’d met him during a drunken night at a bar in Long Street. He wears glasses and has blonde stubble on his chin.

“Hi,” I say.

“Bonjour,” he says and hugs me.

The conversation is stilted. I do not understand the way he talks or the things he is talking about. It makes me feel dumb. I ask about things like the cigarettes he smokes.

“I like when girls speak Afrikaans, I find it verrry attractive,” he tells me.

Am I supposed to speak Afrikaans now? I have no idea.

I slug my beer. It is warm outside but I am wearing a jacket. For every sentence I say, he says, “What?” and then he speaks and I say, “What?” It’s exhausting. I remember a story Natalie told me about the date she went on with a French guy and when she tried to leave early he said, “but I want to make pleasure with you”.

I ask him what he does and he explains it thoroughly. I have to ask him five times, but I don’t get anything except “office” and “exchange student”.

“9gag, so funny, I look at ze site all day. Ze same picture for all the different things. A guy with a moustache every time. And everything ‘like a sir.’” He laughs. “My friend, she’s always asking me about girls, and I say ‘maybe, but not at the moment.’” He looks at me meaningfully. I don’t understand the meaning.

After about a million false starts, I call it a night because I have to “work”. Like copying and pasting is a very taxing job and they are very dependent on my unique flair for it. And, he was all like, “Ze nice nite for a walk, no?”

Um, NO. Have you seen the homeless people that live in the streets of Cape Town? I have a hard enough time taking care of myself without going all kung-fu for a French libertarian who wants to “look at ze stars”.

He walks me to my car. I am unsure about whether he will want to kiss me or not. At the curb where my car is, I lean in for a hug and his face moves towards mine. Kiss it is then. It is the kind of kiss that makes me want to wipe my mouth immediately afterwards.

This experience leaves me demoralised. If my life was starring Katherine Heigl I would be knee-deep in Channing Tatum right now. My insanity would be “cute” and my damaged past would be “an interesting character flaw” to overcome.

I push open the sliding door to our flat. Ashley also went on a date that night. She’s sitting on the couch in the lounge, an after-date glow about her.

“He was so cute and we just talked and kissed and talked for like hours,” she says.

I make supportive “awwww” noises.

Bitch.

“How was your night?” she asks me as I make my escape to my room.

I look at my face in the mirror. It looks so normal.

“Great,” I say.