FOR EACH person, there are some things which one can reasonably expect to have experienced in one's life, and there are many other things which seem sadly destined to linger forever hovering beyond one's grasp. I am delighted to announce that I have attended a social function which, I believed, belonged firmly to the latter group.

I speak, of course, of my presence at the inaugural night in a champagne bar in the West End of London of the Jewish Singles Club, "Jingles", billed on the flier as "Where Life Mingles".

It is with some alarm that I realise that I have not attended a function for single heterosexuals since the teenage clamminess of Meat Loaf headbanging sessions at my school discos. Lemonade bottles full of vodka, Consulate cigarettes, cheesecloth shirts, Clearasil and patchouli are the totems of my confused early adolescence; bringing back memories of snogging on the dim and smoky dance floor to "A Whiter Shade of Pale" with a tiny girl called Sandra with prominent teeth, bad skin and heavy make-up, who at the tender age of fifteen already had the reputation of going with anyone who asked.

I liked her because she was good fun; I snogged with her because I hoped, with her aura of sexual experience, she would enlighten me as to what it was all about, leading me out of my ignorance with confidence. It was not unpleasant, but I just didn't see the point of carrying on. The next time we met, I was very embarrassed, and dimly aware that I was an impostor. I couldn't talk to her. She was to become pregnant not too long afterwards. I wonder how she is doing. Her kid must be going on fifteen, now.

So I find myself renewing my acquaintance with the heterosexual mating game after all this time, in a place about as far removed form a Dublin school assembly hall as one could imagine, having been brought there by my newfound cherubic lover, who had free tickets, and his flatmate.

sexual purposes

There were, of course, more men than women. In fact, at one stage, early on in the evening, the seats were all taken by men, in groups or singly, and one attractive woman walked in on her own. She put on a really brave performance, for she made her immediate retreat look so natural. "Oh, did I leave the lights on in my car? How silly of me," was the bright and cheerful thought that she broadcast across her face, as she turned on her heel and got the hell out of the roomful of men who, as one, turned to devour her with their eyes.

Later on, the plight of a woman sitting not far from us caught our attention, and our sympathy. She was sitting gamely at the table, chatting politely to someone whose lust was written, nay, daubed, all over his face.

The champers had gone to his head, and when his friend disappeared for a while, he began to slow tilt towards her, inching his way slowly on a direct course for burial in her bosom. She was sticking to the rules of party chit-chat, as rigid as a beanpole, staring straight ahead of her. He never touched her, she never moved. When his friend returned, he returned to vertical, his opportunity lost. Propriety won the day.

We didn't stay long at Jingles. We shouldn't really have been there, but it was an opportunity for me to remind myself how difficult it is for men and women to meet each other, for romantic or sexual purposes.

In a lot of ways, we have it easy. If I want to go out and have sex, I can do so, at most hours of the day or night. (Seven in the morning has never been the easiest of times - but perseverance pays . . .) If I want to meet someone new to talk with, I can walk into a crowded gay bar and, if I am in good form, I can strike up a conversation with someone else on his own.

There is no-one around thinking any the worse of me that I am the initiator of such contacts. I could have sex with many men in the same night, together or consecutively, or I could enjoy an evening having chatted with a stranger over a pint and not feel obliged to go home with him later. I am free to do what I want, without fear of labelling.

removal van

Women have no such freedom. Woman are either whores or virgins, in most men's eyes. They can't win. They represent to men both the object of desire and, afterwards, the threat of entrapment, of commitment, the symbolic death of the hunter.

There is a camaraderie among gay men out on the town, a mutual recognition of that closeness/freedom dilemma, which is painfully absent in a heterosexual singles environment between men and women. Men seem to apply different standards to women than they do to each other, and women in return greet men's attentions with a not unjustified suspicion.

There appears to be a strong polarisation between gay men's attitudes to sex and relationships and, at the other end of the spectrum, those of lesbians. Gay men tend to one extreme, the casual mutual objectification without judgement or censure. Lesbians tend to form long-lasting relationships. (There is a joke which reflects this: What does a lesbian bring on a second date? A removal van.)

Heterosexual men and women fall in the middle of that polarity, with men and women speaking a different language. If two men fall in love, the question of commitment and fidelity has to be negotiated, bearing in mind the fact that the norm for both, in most cases, is one of recreational, commitment - free sex with strangers. Some choose to give it all up for their lover, some choose open relationships, and some, of course, cheat on each other.

I am not saying we have perfected the art of relating. But we are a little more honest, I suspect, than most. Finding ourselves beyond the pale of traditional societal roles frees us to redefine what is important for each individual, especially in the area of relationships.

At my first heterosexual singles night since adolescence, neither heterosexual, nor single, I realised how lucky I am.