THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Thursday. A friend links me to a new website called www.toyboywarehouse.com. I register and within minutes I’ve got a whole bunch of waggy-tailed young puppies sniffing around my inbox. Quel entertainment! Or Ben-tertaiment, actually, as my favourite one is called Benjamin. And guess who’s going to be Mrs. Robinson?? Again…

Friday. I text MLP a chatty one to keep his interest alive lest he get lost between the moon and New York City and fail to turn up on Saturday. He texts me back that he’s thinking about the menu. As someone’s turned the outside temperature down by about 20°, I suggest he thinks about a roaring log fire, a bottle of vintage champagne and a red hot woman instead. He replies something I cannot repeat but is definitely up for it, UP being the operative word. Later in the day he phones me twice to go through the shopping list. I tell him not to worry about dessert which I will take care of. It will undoubtedly involve a lot of chocolate and a terrible mess.

The toyboy website is proving a rich source of fresh meat. Do I feel guilty vis à vis MLP? Not really. I’m realistic enough to know it won’t last and I’ll need back-up. Less than 24 hours after registering, I have a date set up with a Brad Pitt lookalike who’s already regaling me with details of his morning glory. He’s keen to meet me before any other toyboys get a look-in. Apparently an older woman is his ultimate fantasy.

He texts me ‘I dreamt about you last night. I came into your room, crept beneath the duvet and went down on you for hours. You tore at my hair begging me not to stop as your body wriggled uncontrollably and your legs wrapped themselves tighter and tighter around my head. You were so wet you couldn’t take it any more so you pulled me up alongside you and ran your hands over my strong shoulders and pecs before licking the smooth skin on my neck. I moved to start touching myself but you wouldn’t let me. Even though I was rock hard and desperate for you to stroke me, you made me wait…’

I can only presume he was texting with one hand while beating himself off furiously with the other and all on the strength of a single headshot and a couple of feisty one-liners!! Isn't the imagination a most powerful and wondrous tool!

Another more mature-sounding applicant has sent me reams of articulate emails extolling the virtues of the older woman (especially those dressed in black PVC thigh boots). Not really my thing but I shall put him behind my ear for later.

I actually do feel quite guilty meeting Brad Pitt in the light of my current dalliance with MLP but a bloke in each hand must be worth at least one in the bush, surely?