Sex and the Country

Forget the impossible love escapades on 'Sex And The City' - those Manhattan girls have nothing to complain about considering they find themselves a date every second episode. The real challenge for any single thirty-something is finding some Sex In The Country! I would readily give up my magically restored hymen for any one of those girls' Rejects. Ah, well, maybe not the 70-year-old saggy butt, but the fig-eater would be high on my list of come-hithers.

My sexual draught all started when, seduced by the prospect of owning a backyard and a complementary pet, I moved from Sydney to country Western Australia some eighteen months ago. That, and the dream that I would find my Diver Dan - the sizzling sexpot from the ABC drama series 'Sea Change'. Oops, did I say, "drama" series? Oh, I meant to say, "complete fantasy and beyond the realms of reality" series.

Why? Because I've looked everywhere for him from the fishing docks to the local bait store, and there aint even a hint of a Diver Dan here in my own version of Sea Change.

After six months of loitering at the foreshore and in fishing stores, it occurred to me that perhaps I had just been totally sucked in by the romance of Sea Change. But naive couldn't be my middle name seeing as I did some solid research before moving away from the epicentre of decent coffee and Sunday shopping.

It only took twenty minutes of net surfing before I'd found the Bureau of Statistics report that I would be one of the 28 percent of single professionals aged between 28 - 35 on the move this year if I decided to go. Good odds, I'd thought at the time. Good enough to spur me into packing my Prada bags and point my car west, anyway.

It was during yet another eye-lash batting session at the seafood co-operative that it dawned on me there was one question I should have asked before moving. That was, "where are the Diver Dans moving to?"

I thought I was going to be swimming with the current. Not drowning downstream having people wave back to my frantic gestures for help. I pictured myself leading the charge with sword held high prepared for a maelstrom of singles converging on affordable property and clean beaches. But when I got here, I found myself in passive couple city safely tucked away behind their white picket fences.

I subsequently numbed my mind (and libido) with an experiment whereby I spent two months playing by The Rules - I laughed demurely, I acted popular, I wore make-up and I attended calf auctions where I'd heard a rumour the farmers all had 5.2 sons.

Tossing my ponytail flirtatiously got me nowhere at these auctions. Except once when a badly timed flick won me a brown-eyed calf called Missy Moo. But other than that, the men only had eyes for their cows.

So it wasn't long before I hung up my pearls and twin-set in defeat. What good are Rules if men have forgotten how to hunt? Determined to find a single man who would be more interested in parties and snuggles than calves and protein feed, I tried a different tack to the Rules. I decided to go direct.

I asked three friends to trawl their six degrees of separation to find me a man. He only had to meet a short list of criteria: He had to be an Adonis, emotionally available, life passionate, humorous and rich. And single (!) I added as a reluctant afterthought but essential nonetheless.

After months ensconced in my castle tower looking wistfully to the horizon, my prince still did not appear. Not even a hint of a date materialised. So I revisited my list and offered to settle for a man who met at least one of the criteria.

Big mistake. I got a series of men all meeting one of the criteria, but woefully lacking in others. I got my Adonis but his idea of honesty was giving me his real name. I got the man who was emotionally available but he was more "avail" than "able". I got a man so passionate about life he would risk it in order to appreciate it more. The comedian thought a candle-lit dinner meant I'd had a power failure, and the rich man, whoa. The rich man got rich in the first place by not spending a cent. If his treatment of the restaurant bill is anything to go by, he's going to be rich for the rest of his life.

In frustration, I screwed up the list altogether and screamed "Forget the list! ANY man will do!"

Uh-oh, the first sign of country-induced singleton-madness: lowering standards. I have already lowered my standards in so many other aspects of my life - it's the trade-off for having an internal laundry and room to swing a cat.

It was enough that I'd already made supreme compromises in coffee, withdrawing altogether when it took me a year to convince the local café that instant coffee is so called because there is only one instant where it reminds one of coffee.

But I wasn't about to compromise in my love life as well. Lowering standards in order to experience some loving, that was going too far.

Throwing out the Rules, my list and my penchant for good coffee, I clenched my fist and reclaimed my Empowered Woman. I made a conscious decision to embrace my single life and the backyard that comes with it.

In doing so, I have said good-bye to city life, my tiny Sydney dog-box I called home, and all the saggy butts and fig-eaters I can handle. But, each day when I swing my cat around my laundry or take Missy Moo on her daily walk to the beach, these simple pleasures remind me it's all worth it.