‘Look, I wouldn’t say it’s like being with a whole other woman, but if I’m being honest with you, there is something exciting about them—about their newness.’

Poor Jem. He should’ve known honesty isn’t what these sorts of situations call for.

‘Are you trying to say you were bored with my old breasts?’

The sigh he huffed out sounded a little like the word fuck. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then said calmly and deliberately: ‘No. Not at all. You’re twisting my words. I loved your old breasts. You know that. But, well, it’s only natural, isn’t it?’ he reasoned. ‘I’m in this win–win situation where I’m still monogamous—I still have you, and all I want is you; you know that—but I get this, I don’t know, sexual variety? You can’t blame me for enjoying it.’

‘Oh, it’s natural, is it?’ I scoffed, jumping at the bait. ‘You mean natural for men, right? “Sexual variety.” And tell me, Jem, what’s natural for women?’

You see, we’d had this conversation—or this disagreement—many times before. The first time we’d had it, a few months into the relationship, I was left thinking maybe Jem was that kind of dudebro and maybe he really wasn’t worth my time. But I stayed and, over the course of the years, I came to realise that, even though it’s such a tedious conversation to have, there was a reason we kept having it. In many ways we’re similar but in others we’re so different in our attitudes, beliefs and thought processes, and for whatever reason, this conversation was a way for us to bring those differences together, albeit in a strange, roundabout and at times incredibly frustrating way. Or at least, before the cancer it was.

Before the cancer, I was meant to ask him something along the lines of: Are you saying men have this all-encompassing sex drive but women don’t? Then, before he had a chance to respond, ask him how many women he—Jem, the small-town abalone diver—had slept with, then scoff when he answered, or didn’t, depending on his mood. You see, I’d been to university in Melbourne, and I had a pretty good time; nothing ridiculous, but still, we both knew the statistics. He’d wave it aside, saying that the reason women did this was biological in a different way, that they were hardwired to bear children and so any such actions on their part were geared towards reproduction and thus had an eye to the future, whereas for men, it was all about the present: just get the sperm out. I’d say: Well that’s bullshit; you’re completely denying the power of the pleasure of female orgasm, or orgasms, should I say? (Which was really a nod to him, because my body is hardwired like that and Jem is very thorough.) Then, he’d spread his hands and declare: The purpose of the female orgasm—of female pleasure—is to convince females to go through with sex and hurry the sperm ‘up there’. And I’d say: And the purpose of the male orgasm or male pleasure is? Surely not to convince males to go through with sex and hurry the sperm ‘up there’ also? So how is it any different?