Friday. Brad turns out to be more pitbull than Pitt but is very cute nevertheless. The main problem, apart from his age which is 24 (at least I won’t have to pay his school fees although he is still a student…) is the fact that he’s Jewish. I too am Jewish and I have never had a Jewish toyboy before. It somehow feels wrong. He could be the son of one of my friends or the friend of one of my daughters. Nothing bad about that per se, but instead of wanting to take him home and f*ck him, I want to take him home and make him chicken soup.
There is a huge maternal thing going on which rather detracts from the sex aspect. Of course all men who like older women, and probably those who don’t, subliminally want to have sex with their mothers. We are the breast from whence they suckled, the loins from whence they came and to where, in their subconscious, they long to return. If not, why would they spend mere hours getting out and the rest of their lives trying to get back in? As this is the ultimate No Fly Zone, I guess an older woman must be the next best thing.
(If anyone disagrees with this conjecture, I'd be happy to hear from them.)
After two large, spicy Bloody Marys, Brad and I are nose to nose and toes to toes and nothing would have been easier than for me to tuck him under my arm and schlap him home with me. In an out of character moment, however, I resist, telling him it’s much more fun taking the scenic route than the motorway and let’s enjoy the anticipation. Clearly disappointed, he walks me to my car and crashes his mouth against mine bang in the middle of my road where the whole neighbourhood can see us. I wriggle away. Sometimes my behaviour shocks even me.
I wave him off knowing I probably won’t see him again.
Just as I’m falling asleep, Rugby Player texts asking for my vital statistics. I send him these in glorious detail stressing the fact that I take a size 37½ in a Chanel shoe which is really the only stats he should be interested in. (This is aspirational on my part as my cupboard is stuffed with LK Bennett’s Last Day of Sale 70% Off Reductions, and a couple of pairs of sandals from the dusty shop at the back of Marbella old town. I do have a three pairs of Chanel shoes which are rather dated but have great sentimental value as they were bought for me in Paris by the love of my life in the 1980s - but that’s another story…)
Rugby Player then requests my address as he has allegedly bought me ‘something delicious’ from Selfridges. I presume this is not a takeaway portion of their Chicken Tikka Masala, but my cynical side suggests it’s something he’s previously bought for someone else and it either didn’t fit, or she wore it once and left it behind.
Saturday. Life is a fascinating blend of feasts and famines. Following months of dating girlfriends punctuated by the occasional dinner with Baron Wasteland, I am now being deluged with horny little texts from my stable of boy babes all hot to trot...