Whilst roaming Africa years ago, I found myself tucked into a cosy corner deep in conversation with a fellow traveller, a witty Dutch woman. After an exchange of stories on my favourite topic- sex – and at that point in time, my lack of it, she questions: How many Panda Points are you on?
Female pandas ovulate just once a year. When that precious window opens, you would think they’d be rearing to romp, but no. Pandas don’t get down with any ol’ lover, she is picky and turned off by the idea of fucking in captivity… go figure. This lousy libido has been analysed in dismay, as pandas literally unfuck their way towards extinction.
The Dutch woman explained that Panda Points are an award system for us humans, inspired by panda sex life, to calculate each month of celibacy — intended or not. The points accrue until they are either ‘banged-off’ or you hit the magic twelve: a full year without getting down to funky town. And then, it’s time for a Panda Party!
At a Panda Party, guests arrive in all manner of jungle-themed costumes, and at the centre of this hoopla, peacocks one virginal panda. Unsurprisingly, these parties often end with a panda costume laying flaccid and forgotten on the ground – Panda Points dissolved.
At the time, a Panda Party sounded like a fabulous affair but I, Chloe the well fucked womxn, would never be its panda.
To me, even a month without sex felt like a farmer in the midst of a drought; filled with sickening fear for the livelihood of their wilting crop. To summons the rain god, the farmer would strip down naked, run out into the thirsty pastures, and dance — Rain down upon me!
Not unlike farmers, when I feared my sex-crop was wilting, I’d doll myself up, head to the smuttiest nightclub in town, and lure a cum god to rain upon my dry pastures.
Yet as we entered Melbourne’s second round of enforced human distancing and social isolation, no matter what these cum gods grumbled, we singles couldn’t do a damn thing about our panda-point scoreboards. Pandas in captivity, and we humans suddenly had a lot more in common.
In the beginning, the inability to connect, touch, cuddle, play, or fuck genuinely plummeted me into a grieving process.
First, denial: Whatever! Having sex is probably GOOD for a virus — sex makes people happy, and happy people have better immune systems!
Then came anger: FUCK YOU COVID19! Can’t you see I’m in the PRIME OF MY YOUTH and deserve to be fucking according to my free will!
Depression came knocking: This is the end. I am going to die alone, never to be touched or loved again, and buried with years worth of uncelebrated panda parties.
Then bargaining: Well maybe… I can get onto FetLife and meet someone with a mask and goggles on?
And finally… acceptance.
I accepted that for reasons beyond my understanding I was to surrender to the company of, not a ‘cum god’, but my own inner Goddess.
I chose to see isolation and my accruing panda points as a demand from the Self-Love-Goddess to ‘Get to know YOURSELF better than anyone has or ever could’.
From that moment I have journeyed through EVERY dark nook, and velvety cranny of my utterly unique being — mind, body and soul.
I have fed my mind with book after book so that I can learn all I can about sex, love and relationships. I have learnt to communicate with my pussy and ask her what she would like to do, wear, eat, listen to. I have learnt to penetrate her more lovingly than anyone EVER has before. I wept while she told me how often I had crossed her boundaries with past penetrations.
I have given myself cosmic orgasms with tools of breath, sound and movement.
I have met my inner-child, heard her pains, her longings and I have tended to them by empowering my inner-mother and inner-father. I have poured out my heart and filled it up with the sweet nectar of my learning that pleasure is a choice to be made every single day.
I have danced to pop for the first time in years. I have danced wildly to my beloved techno. I have screamed bloody murder dancing naked to Rage Against the Machine.
I manifested my dream home so that I could spend lockdown with a soul sister. I have coached incredible womxn over zoom and held space for their own transformations. I started my own freakin’ business. All this growth on the fuel of my sexual energy.
I have reached TWELVE MOTHER FUCKING Panda Points and I could not be more radiant.
At my Panda Party, guests arrived in all manner of jungle-themed costumes, and at the centre of the hoopla, peacocked one proud virginal panda…me.
A HUGE THANK YOU to my amazing friends for making my Panda Party more wholesome than ever imaginable – particularly Mumma Africa and Mr. Mt Kilimanjaro for all the time spent cutting out pussy’s, leaves and cocks!
Thank you to the EPIC Robyn Strathearn (Giraffe) for her stunning, always joyous photography.
Thank you to Caroline for helping me write this piece throughout the year before I even knew the article would be about me.
Thank you to Caity’s Cookies for providing the iconic vegan and gluten free cookies.