My Little Pony and I chat about the music and how we both nearly didn’t come tonight. He garbles a sentence I don't quite get which contains the word ‘girlfriend.’ I pull away from him, acknowledging my disappointment and my heart purses its lips and folds its arms across its chest. I renege on the leg deal and look around the crowd to see if I can spot her. There is a chunky girl chatting nearby but she hardly looks his type.
I decide not let His attachment spoil My evening and we continue conversing. The fact that I’m an antique dealer and he’s a plasterer doesn’t bother me one iota. I'm hardly going to take him home to meet my mother - unless her ceiling falls down. When he gives me his card ‘just in case’ I think to myself: You can get me plastered any time! which I’m sure he’s heard a million times before.
At 11.30 p.m. people start drifting home. The 'girlfriend' is deeply ensconced with some other guys and I ask him outright if she's the one. No! he shakes his head. She's just a mate. He and his girlfriend split up four weeks ago. I’d misunderstood and relief spreads through me like warm butter. My leg returns to its cruise setting and we get deeper into each other.
The pub is closing and as we get up to leave, he asks if we can meet up for a drink sometime. I tell him my daughter is about to get married (true) and I am busy for the next 3 weeks (false). I then write my number on the back of his card and give it back to him. (Doh! Now I don’t have his number…!) He walks me to my car and kisses me three times on the mouth. As he moves in for the fourth, he lingers awhile, parts his lips and snakes his tongue lightly against mine. A sharp intake of lust curdles my stomach. I feel like dragging him headfirst into the back seat and ravishing him, but instead I giggle girlishly, place my palms flat on his firm pecs, give him a gentle push and say: ‘Go!’
I drive home la-la-ing a love song, a huge grin creasing my face.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Thursday, 28 June 2007
THE DAILY MALE
Sunday night. I finish the ironing at 10.15 p.m. and instead of packing up and going to bed which would have been normal, I put on my tightest jeans and some extra slap and shoot down Maida Vale to The Good Ship pub in Kilburn to see my friend’s son playing in his first gig.
My FBA (Fit Bloke Alert) goes off as soon as I walk in. Amongst the assembled fan base is a fine-looking, young specimen with a ponytail (yeah, I know) looking daggers at three blondes chatting loudly at the bar. Their giggling is both dissing and drowning out the singer. I squeeze into a seat nearby and eye-candy him on and off whilst listening to the music. Ponytail has an almost perfect profile. Large eyes, long lashes, straight nose, good jaw, flawless skin. My fawning admiration catches his attention. I don’t look away, but, in order to bond, I cock my head towards the noisy girls and pull a face. He nods in agreement and chemistry along with contact is established.
When the singer finishes his set, My Little Ponytail (MLP) gets up to go to the bar, and almost as an afterthought turns and offers me a drink.
‘Why don’t I buy you one?’ I suggest, trying to lead as usual.
‘I’m offering you a drink!’ he replies assertively which I like, so I smile sweetly and say:
‘V & T please’ relinquishing control for once.
By the time he returns, another young buck has moved in. It’s the singer’s flat mate who’s also on the right side of gorgeous and I notice MLP’s face drop as he hovers nearby holding the drinks. I beckon him closer and pat the empty chair on the other side of me. Looking somewhat relieved, he sits down and his leg lolls languidly against mine. I don’t move away.
My FBA (Fit Bloke Alert) goes off as soon as I walk in. Amongst the assembled fan base is a fine-looking, young specimen with a ponytail (yeah, I know) looking daggers at three blondes chatting loudly at the bar. Their giggling is both dissing and drowning out the singer. I squeeze into a seat nearby and eye-candy him on and off whilst listening to the music. Ponytail has an almost perfect profile. Large eyes, long lashes, straight nose, good jaw, flawless skin. My fawning admiration catches his attention. I don’t look away, but, in order to bond, I cock my head towards the noisy girls and pull a face. He nods in agreement and chemistry along with contact is established.
When the singer finishes his set, My Little Ponytail (MLP) gets up to go to the bar, and almost as an afterthought turns and offers me a drink.
‘Why don’t I buy you one?’ I suggest, trying to lead as usual.
‘I’m offering you a drink!’ he replies assertively which I like, so I smile sweetly and say:
‘V & T please’ relinquishing control for once.
By the time he returns, another young buck has moved in. It’s the singer’s flat mate who’s also on the right side of gorgeous and I notice MLP’s face drop as he hovers nearby holding the drinks. I beckon him closer and pat the empty chair on the other side of me. Looking somewhat relieved, he sits down and his leg lolls languidly against mine. I don’t move away.
Daily Mail Feature
Well my nefarious exploits are out there in the public domain now so there’s no going back! My picture in the double page spread in the Daily Mail.
It woke me with a start this morning. Having done a 2 ½ hour photo shoot yesterday with a hip young photographer with Bon Jovi blaring on the stereo and the two of us really ‘avin’ a larf, the slightly sniffy Daily Mail went and printed the most mumsy picture of me they could possibly select!
I’m also convinced they’ve airbrushed extra lines into my face and neck to make me look older. I’ve been contorting myself in the mirror all morning and no matter which way I twist it, I cannot get those lines to appear. What’s that all about?
I now understand how those hapless BB contestants who come out of the house and get right royally trashed in the tabloids on a daily basis end up in The Priory…
The piece is pretty much as per the interview but did they put words in my mouth (as well as wrinkles around it!)? I'm sure I have never called any of my dear older male friends ‘fossils’. Why would I? They are the rocks I cling to when dating toyboys gets a little crazy.
It is funny reading that I should be meeting someone now to keep me company in my old age? It makes me wonder, has the Daily Mail been talking to my mother? And anyway what are the guarantees that even if I did set up shop with a ‘fossil’ that
a) he’s not going to leave me for some twinky
b) he’s not going to snuff it in 6 months time
c) I’m not going to end up being his nursemaid?
Although I know the old Mrs. Robinson tag is a globally recognized metaphor, she is dead and buried, yet they keep trawling her out…
Older women today are not sad lushes seducing 19 year olds – in my first chapter you will read that a 19 year old seduced me!!
Here’s the picture they should have printed – not suburban Mrs. Jones!
It woke me with a start this morning. Having done a 2 ½ hour photo shoot yesterday with a hip young photographer with Bon Jovi blaring on the stereo and the two of us really ‘avin’ a larf, the slightly sniffy Daily Mail went and printed the most mumsy picture of me they could possibly select!
I’m also convinced they’ve airbrushed extra lines into my face and neck to make me look older. I’ve been contorting myself in the mirror all morning and no matter which way I twist it, I cannot get those lines to appear. What’s that all about?
I now understand how those hapless BB contestants who come out of the house and get right royally trashed in the tabloids on a daily basis end up in The Priory…
The piece is pretty much as per the interview but did they put words in my mouth (as well as wrinkles around it!)? I'm sure I have never called any of my dear older male friends ‘fossils’. Why would I? They are the rocks I cling to when dating toyboys gets a little crazy.
It is funny reading that I should be meeting someone now to keep me company in my old age? It makes me wonder, has the Daily Mail been talking to my mother? And anyway what are the guarantees that even if I did set up shop with a ‘fossil’ that
a) he’s not going to leave me for some twinky
b) he’s not going to snuff it in 6 months time
c) I’m not going to end up being his nursemaid?
Although I know the old Mrs. Robinson tag is a globally recognized metaphor, she is dead and buried, yet they keep trawling her out…
Older women today are not sad lushes seducing 19 year olds – in my first chapter you will read that a 19 year old seduced me!!
Here’s the picture they should have printed – not suburban Mrs. Jones!
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
BREAKING NEWS
The launch of The Toyboy Diaries in the UK is very close. The book, being published by Old Street Publishing, is already trickling into the shops and launches to the great unwashed on the 2nd of July 2007... along with this blog
The book can be found on Amazon HERE!
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