We sit down to eat. MLP seems very quiet. This doesn’t worry me unduly until he suddenly goes: ‘Er.. Wendy…’ and I drop my cutlery with a resounding crash, cover my ears with my hands and say:
‘I don’t wanna hear this’ because I know - I just KNOW - what’s coming.
He never calls me Wendy. Hun, babe, but never Wendy.
‘You have to,’ he says calmly and pain like a thousand poisoned arrows stabs my heart leaching its venom into every crevice of my viscera. What a terrific appetite suppressant that is!
I lower my head unable to look at him and although I always knew this would happen, I did not know appalling it would make me feel. The word ‘revastated’ comes to mind... a bitter combination of resigned and devastated.
Why do I put myself through this? Will I never learn? Are the joyful highs really worth the crushing lows? And despite my cavalier ‘Toyboys? Huh! Love ‘em and leave ‘em!’ advice to others, I’m clearly incapable of doing this myself.
I don’t know if there was any particular moment when MLP began to go off me. It’s not a question you can ask, really, is it? Something I’d said, something I’d done, some over-demand I’d made, the way I’d looked at him as he left the last time, a taking for granted even...but when this conversation I always knew would come finally gets under way, I find myself totally unprepared for it.
We’ve been seeing each other for ten and half weeks. And every time I saw him, I never really expected to see him again. And if it’s any consolation, this time, I am right. A Pyrrhic victory in the event...
‘A girl asked me ou' on a date last week’ he begins.
‘And did you go?’ I counter.
‘Nah! It wouldn’t 've been right’ he replies.
We sit in silence as I wait for him to continue. He’s eating all the while, seemingly enjoying the infamous stuffed peppers, obviously relieved that the end he's been seeking is now in sight.
‘She’s a girl Michelle knows,’ he goes on, chewing appreciatively, cutting into his second one, the red one, with the extra cheese on top. ‘Her name’s Sarah – I’ve seen 'er dan the pub a few times. I quite like 'er. And then ‘chelle tells me she really likes me!’
What am I supposed to say? Mazeltov!
‘I’d...er...' he pauses, swallowing loudly, 'I’d like to go out with ‘er but I wouldn’t do that while I’m still seeing you. I’m not like that.’
What the mind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve over. You could've got away with it, baby...if you'd been clever enough.
Friday, 30 November 2007
Saturday, 24 November 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
Wednesday. I text MLP to confirm the new dinner arrangement for tonight to which he replies in the affirmative, and I drift happily through the day oblivious to the fact that at 8 p.m. my life will hurtle headlong off a cliff.
In the afternoon, I go to the re-opening party of a cigar emporium to whom I have supplied goods for a number of years. In fact, when I first began my antique humidor business in 1972, they were my first customers. Much to my surprise, I bump into the ex-Love Of My Life – a married zillionaire I’d had a wild and passionate affair with all through the 1980s. Our paths haven’t crossed for many a moon and although he’s grown older and lost most of his thick dark hair, the old charisma still oozes out of him like oil from a beached tanker.
I am rather surprised by how flirty he is, given that when I got divorced, he stayed married. The old magic is alive and well and when I leave to go home and get on with the unemployed labourer's dinner, he hugs and kisses me goodbye several times squeezing my arms tightly as he does so. As soon as I am in my car, I call him. We have an intimate conversation during which we re-visit the finer points of our unbridled sex life. I tell him I’d love to meet up with him again ‘even just for coffee’ and he promises to call. I doubt if he will. If his wife finds out again like she did the last time, all shades of shit will hit the fan and he certainly wouldn't want that at his time of life. As for me, I'd welcome him back in a New York minute.
I get home and finish preparing the meal we never ate last night and MLP arrives on time, in his not so usual way. I give him a huge hug on the doorstep, telling him how much I’ve missed him and he mumbles, after a heavily pregnant pause, that he’s missed me too. He helps me prepare the grilled halloumi and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus starter, then I realise we're low on vodka and send him down to the offie with a £20 note.
He takes my keys and when he lets himself back in, I say brightly: ‘I liked that!’ and he says: ‘What?’ and I say: ‘You coming in with my keys.’
He smiles enigmatically knowing all the time he’s about to dump me.
In the afternoon, I go to the re-opening party of a cigar emporium to whom I have supplied goods for a number of years. In fact, when I first began my antique humidor business in 1972, they were my first customers. Much to my surprise, I bump into the ex-Love Of My Life – a married zillionaire I’d had a wild and passionate affair with all through the 1980s. Our paths haven’t crossed for many a moon and although he’s grown older and lost most of his thick dark hair, the old charisma still oozes out of him like oil from a beached tanker.
I am rather surprised by how flirty he is, given that when I got divorced, he stayed married. The old magic is alive and well and when I leave to go home and get on with the unemployed labourer's dinner, he hugs and kisses me goodbye several times squeezing my arms tightly as he does so. As soon as I am in my car, I call him. We have an intimate conversation during which we re-visit the finer points of our unbridled sex life. I tell him I’d love to meet up with him again ‘even just for coffee’ and he promises to call. I doubt if he will. If his wife finds out again like she did the last time, all shades of shit will hit the fan and he certainly wouldn't want that at his time of life. As for me, I'd welcome him back in a New York minute.
I get home and finish preparing the meal we never ate last night and MLP arrives on time, in his not so usual way. I give him a huge hug on the doorstep, telling him how much I’ve missed him and he mumbles, after a heavily pregnant pause, that he’s missed me too. He helps me prepare the grilled halloumi and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus starter, then I realise we're low on vodka and send him down to the offie with a £20 note.
He takes my keys and when he lets himself back in, I say brightly: ‘I liked that!’ and he says: ‘What?’ and I say: ‘You coming in with my keys.’
He smiles enigmatically knowing all the time he’s about to dump me.
Saturday, 17 November 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
Friday. I go to a business meeting which finishes early and I call Flash Gordon to confirm. We meet near Marble Arch. He is a really nice-looking, well-dressed, articulate guy BUT…he is a veritable toy boy – surely no taller than 5’2”. We buy some cappuccinos and go and sit in Hyde Park. I find it hard to meet his very blue, long-lashed eyes which are boring into me the entire time. I ask myself what the hell I’m doing here, and how would I like it if my so-called ‘boyfriend’ was meeting other women for afternoon tea? After 20 minutes, I tell him my meter has run out and he walks me to my car, kisses me goodbye and says he hopes we can meet again soon.
Within seconds, he’s texting me:
‘You took my breath away. I was not prepared for the searingly beautiful, stunningly attractive and disarming lady I met. Wish it was I opening a bottle on the sofa with you tonight! Going to the gym to get you out of my system.’
Blimey! Keep talking…I text him a thank you for the compliment and he hits me again:
‘You were wonderful company and if all that transpires is a friend then I’m all the richer. I’ll think of you at the gym with every press, thrust, sprint and jerk!’
Wow! Er…hmmm…What a shame I don’t feel the same …
I go to my mum’s for dinner and try to stay above the surface despite no message all day from MLP. I’m starting to founder when a welcome text comes through from him.
‘Hi hun I’m at my cousin’s avin a smoke xx’
Now I can rest easy tonight and start worrying again tomorrow.
Saturday. My daughter drops my grandchildren over to me for lunch and in the afternoon I take them out to the park opposite. They’re wearing their Heelys so I take along a pair of ski-poles, tuck one under each arm, while they grab hold of the ends. I then begin to jog while dragging them along, whooping and screaming with joy. I’m the horse and they’re the cart. After a circuit round the perimeter, I collapse onto the grass laughing and panting, thinking how blessed I am to have these darling little girls in my life.
They go off to the playground and I watch them from a nearby bench. For no particular reason, I text MLP to ask him if he likes stuffed peppers. My instinct tells me that anything that involves me cooking for him should provoke some response. His reply comes straight back and we enter into a dialogue filled with innuendo about what to stuff them with, which culminates in him accepting my invitation to dinner on Tuesday.
In the evening my old friend, Martin, takes me to the Mandarin Oriental on our usual understanding, where we drink champagne while he eye-prowls the joint like a lounge lizard looking for prey. He has no luck there, so we go on to Zuma where again, he fails to find anything remotely pullable. Me: I ain’t bovvered. I’m not sure where MLP is tonight but I presume he’s out with friends. I am slightly miffed about not seeing him on a Saturday night but c’est ma vie. I can’t be making the running all the time.
Around midnight, I have a very strong sensation that he’s snogging someone. She’s probably a fat chav with cheap shoes and her tits hanging out. I hope I’m wrong.
Tuesday. The two-day silence is broken by a couple of texts from Flash Gordon wanting to see me again ‘if nothing else just as friends’. I don’t really need any more friends. I also get one from the long lost Rugby Player who I wind up by pretending not to know who he is.
I shop for food for the evening and spend the afternoon lovingly preparing the stuffed peppers and other delicacies for MLP’s 7 p.m. arrival. At 5 p.m. his name appears on my mobile screen, and my heart leaps then sinks. A foreboding of doom swirls malevolently around my head like fog in a 50s thriller.
I answer hesitantly and as my instinct has warned me, he sounds subdued. When he begins a sentence with: ‘My mother…’ I mentally finish it with: ‘…doesn’t want me to see you any more.’
A small tornado blows the fog away as I listen to what he has to say. Dear Mama has come home from work feeling unwell, so being the dutiful son that he is, he has helped her into bed and made her a fried egg on toast. He does not want to leave her so can he come over tomorrow night instead?
*&^%@~>?/£$!!!! But at least he’s not cancelling altogether, and the food will keep. I’m disappointed and relieved all at the same time and I make the right sympathetic noises, wishing his mother better (bitch) and looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.
I immediately dial Nutty Best Friend and invite her to come round thereby staving off an evening spent thinking about all the other reasons why he may have cancelled. The imaginary chav with the big tits comes to mind, but if he’d been making up a story, surely he wouldn’t have used his beloved mother’s name in vain?
I beat Nutty Best Friend roundly at Scrabble and give myself a pedicure before going to bed.
Within seconds, he’s texting me:
‘You took my breath away. I was not prepared for the searingly beautiful, stunningly attractive and disarming lady I met. Wish it was I opening a bottle on the sofa with you tonight! Going to the gym to get you out of my system.’
Blimey! Keep talking…I text him a thank you for the compliment and he hits me again:
‘You were wonderful company and if all that transpires is a friend then I’m all the richer. I’ll think of you at the gym with every press, thrust, sprint and jerk!’
Wow! Er…hmmm…What a shame I don’t feel the same …
I go to my mum’s for dinner and try to stay above the surface despite no message all day from MLP. I’m starting to founder when a welcome text comes through from him.
‘Hi hun I’m at my cousin’s avin a smoke xx’
Now I can rest easy tonight and start worrying again tomorrow.
Saturday. My daughter drops my grandchildren over to me for lunch and in the afternoon I take them out to the park opposite. They’re wearing their Heelys so I take along a pair of ski-poles, tuck one under each arm, while they grab hold of the ends. I then begin to jog while dragging them along, whooping and screaming with joy. I’m the horse and they’re the cart. After a circuit round the perimeter, I collapse onto the grass laughing and panting, thinking how blessed I am to have these darling little girls in my life.
They go off to the playground and I watch them from a nearby bench. For no particular reason, I text MLP to ask him if he likes stuffed peppers. My instinct tells me that anything that involves me cooking for him should provoke some response. His reply comes straight back and we enter into a dialogue filled with innuendo about what to stuff them with, which culminates in him accepting my invitation to dinner on Tuesday.
In the evening my old friend, Martin, takes me to the Mandarin Oriental on our usual understanding, where we drink champagne while he eye-prowls the joint like a lounge lizard looking for prey. He has no luck there, so we go on to Zuma where again, he fails to find anything remotely pullable. Me: I ain’t bovvered. I’m not sure where MLP is tonight but I presume he’s out with friends. I am slightly miffed about not seeing him on a Saturday night but c’est ma vie. I can’t be making the running all the time.
Around midnight, I have a very strong sensation that he’s snogging someone. She’s probably a fat chav with cheap shoes and her tits hanging out. I hope I’m wrong.
Tuesday. The two-day silence is broken by a couple of texts from Flash Gordon wanting to see me again ‘if nothing else just as friends’. I don’t really need any more friends. I also get one from the long lost Rugby Player who I wind up by pretending not to know who he is.
I shop for food for the evening and spend the afternoon lovingly preparing the stuffed peppers and other delicacies for MLP’s 7 p.m. arrival. At 5 p.m. his name appears on my mobile screen, and my heart leaps then sinks. A foreboding of doom swirls malevolently around my head like fog in a 50s thriller.
I answer hesitantly and as my instinct has warned me, he sounds subdued. When he begins a sentence with: ‘My mother…’ I mentally finish it with: ‘…doesn’t want me to see you any more.’
A small tornado blows the fog away as I listen to what he has to say. Dear Mama has come home from work feeling unwell, so being the dutiful son that he is, he has helped her into bed and made her a fried egg on toast. He does not want to leave her so can he come over tomorrow night instead?
*&^%@~>?/£$!!!! But at least he’s not cancelling altogether, and the food will keep. I’m disappointed and relieved all at the same time and I make the right sympathetic noises, wishing his mother better (bitch) and looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.
I immediately dial Nutty Best Friend and invite her to come round thereby staving off an evening spent thinking about all the other reasons why he may have cancelled. The imaginary chav with the big tits comes to mind, but if he’d been making up a story, surely he wouldn’t have used his beloved mother’s name in vain?
I beat Nutty Best Friend roundly at Scrabble and give myself a pedicure before going to bed.
Saturday, 10 November 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
MLP stretches languidly and tells me that his back and legs are aching. I lay a towel out in front of the fire and he undresses down to his boxers and I sit astride his beautiful body and give him a long, slow massage. I could baby-oil his skin all night: it is so smooth and soft and I feel at one with him in the firelight. Dionne Warwick is warbling on the iPod and when she sings I know I’ll never love this way again… I think that maybe I won’t.
I roll down off his back onto the floor alongside him and we begin to make love, gently at first and then as intensely and passionately as we ever have. I snatch at the sands of borrowed time but they slip through my fingers as I know they must. When we finish, we lay together naked stroking each other tenderly and talk until way past midnight. He says he loves listening to my stories and the way that I tell them. That he tries to express himself better when he’s with me, to use a wider vocabulary and articulate more. Yet again, I wish I could stop the clock, but I know it’s ticking towards the time when he says:
‘Sorry baby… I just can’t do this any more.’
I put on his discarded t-shirt which I shall not give back as I wish to sleep in it forever, and I get up to make him some tea. After he drinks it, he puts on the t-shirt I bought him in Paris and gets ready to leave.
‘I have one more question,’ I say as he goes to open the front door.
‘Is it a serious one?’ he asks narrowing his eyes.
‘Yes’ I reply. ‘I need to know when I’m going to see you again. I need to know when we say goodbye, when will be the next time we say hallo.’
I can't believe, with all my age and experience, that sometimes I can be so uncool.
He looks relieved that it’s not that serious and says maybe Sunday – he’ll let me know.
Thursday. I’m due to visit Eurotrash’s gallery again with my business partner, who couldn’t make it last time. I text him to tell him I’ll be there at 1 p.m. to which he replies ‘Great’.
When we arrive, exactly on time, his colleague tells me he’s popped out for an hour. I am not amused. What a coward, a loser, a prat and a wanker. I make a mental note to cross him off my list, glad I have other contenders to fall back on.
I call MLP for a chat in the evening before I go out to films with a girlfriend, and I text him ‘Goodnight’ when I get home. He replies ‘Goodnight babe. Speak to you tomorrow xxx’ which makes me smile, but I wonder if he will or if he won’t.
Just as I’m falling asleep Flash Gordon from the toyboywarehouse website texts to say he’s ‘drooling to meet me.’ As I’m a sucker for a drooler and am feeling so insecure about MLP, I give him a quick call and we agree to meet up for coffee tomorrow if we can both fit it in.
I roll down off his back onto the floor alongside him and we begin to make love, gently at first and then as intensely and passionately as we ever have. I snatch at the sands of borrowed time but they slip through my fingers as I know they must. When we finish, we lay together naked stroking each other tenderly and talk until way past midnight. He says he loves listening to my stories and the way that I tell them. That he tries to express himself better when he’s with me, to use a wider vocabulary and articulate more. Yet again, I wish I could stop the clock, but I know it’s ticking towards the time when he says:
‘Sorry baby… I just can’t do this any more.’
I put on his discarded t-shirt which I shall not give back as I wish to sleep in it forever, and I get up to make him some tea. After he drinks it, he puts on the t-shirt I bought him in Paris and gets ready to leave.
‘I have one more question,’ I say as he goes to open the front door.
‘Is it a serious one?’ he asks narrowing his eyes.
‘Yes’ I reply. ‘I need to know when I’m going to see you again. I need to know when we say goodbye, when will be the next time we say hallo.’
I can't believe, with all my age and experience, that sometimes I can be so uncool.
He looks relieved that it’s not that serious and says maybe Sunday – he’ll let me know.
Thursday. I’m due to visit Eurotrash’s gallery again with my business partner, who couldn’t make it last time. I text him to tell him I’ll be there at 1 p.m. to which he replies ‘Great’.
When we arrive, exactly on time, his colleague tells me he’s popped out for an hour. I am not amused. What a coward, a loser, a prat and a wanker. I make a mental note to cross him off my list, glad I have other contenders to fall back on.
I call MLP for a chat in the evening before I go out to films with a girlfriend, and I text him ‘Goodnight’ when I get home. He replies ‘Goodnight babe. Speak to you tomorrow xxx’ which makes me smile, but I wonder if he will or if he won’t.
Just as I’m falling asleep Flash Gordon from the toyboywarehouse website texts to say he’s ‘drooling to meet me.’ As I’m a sucker for a drooler and am feeling so insecure about MLP, I give him a quick call and we agree to meet up for coffee tomorrow if we can both fit it in.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
By way of an apology, I go out and spend a small fortune on a big, fat, juicy, organic steak for him which I can always eat myself if push comes to shove...or shove comes to push... his face in it.
I don’t really know why I get so aggressive about MLP! Everything he’s ever done to upset me has mostly taken place inside my own head. He is a good, decent, caring, genuine, polite, helpful, sweet and honest human being but if he’s not calling or texting me every hour on the hour, I turn into a paranoid schizophrenic. If he was, it would drive me mad anyway, which says more about me than it does about him.
He arrives on time (as always) and my heart melts (as always) when I see his darling face. He looks lovely: clean and scrubbed and shiny, hair very neatly slicked back, and smartly dressed. He’s ready to go straight out to the Comedy Club, but looks mighty relieved when I tell him I’ve binned that idea and we’re staying home.
I cook the dinner which he eats with much gusto and appreciation. He does the washing up and we go into the living-room, then out onto the balcony. It’s a balmy night and he stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean back into him and feel him grow hard as he presses himself towards my buttocks.
A shudder of desire rises swiftly in me and I arch my back and rest my head against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck and I angle myself into him feeling his erection through the cloth of his jeans. He starts to unbutton them then lowers his hand and unzips mine. The street is quiet below, and we giggle conspiratorially as we both drop our trousers and start to make love al fresco. He thrusts into me, panting in rhythm, enjoying the risky business of not being rumbled by the neighbours.
Apart from being afraid of toppling off the balcony, the position we're in is not very comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like making love in a big white bed. MLP climaxes suddenly but I don’t and he withdraws, puts himself away and we go back inside. My emotions are now all over the place and I suddenly decide I want to have A Talk. What I really need is An Orgasm.
I ask how he would feel if tonight were the last night we were to spend together and he looks at me as if he’s about to burst into tears. I quickly tell him it isn’t, but how would he feel if it was? Without missing a beat, he says he would miss me a helluva lot, that he is very attached to me, that he thinks about me all the time, talks about me all the time, but wishes he was older. How sweet is that? (It never occurs to me to say that I wish I was younger!)
We talk around the issue of his wanting children and I joke about us adopting a Cambodian orphan. The fact is we both know our thing must end at some point. I tell him I would never wish to curtail his freedom nor divert him away from the path of his life. Much...
He says again how much he loves being with me, and when he comes to my flat it’s like ‘coming home’. He adores being looked after and cooked for and I make him feel like a very special man. I suggest, in that case, that we just continue to enjoy the basic fundamentals of life which are food and sex. After all, what more do we need from each other?
He hugs me tightly and asks if I will always be his ‘special friend’. I say ‘Of course, and one day I want you to phone me and say ‘Wendy, I’ve just had a son…’ but I don’t really mean it. I don't see myself as Fairy Godmother to some ex-toyboy's kid but another relationship.
There is a bittersweet sorrow to our being together, feeling strongly for each other yet knowing a future is impossible. I really love him tonight and I know, in his own way, he loves me. And yet I can hear the clock ticking and the sound is growing louder and louder...
I don’t really know why I get so aggressive about MLP! Everything he’s ever done to upset me has mostly taken place inside my own head. He is a good, decent, caring, genuine, polite, helpful, sweet and honest human being but if he’s not calling or texting me every hour on the hour, I turn into a paranoid schizophrenic. If he was, it would drive me mad anyway, which says more about me than it does about him.
He arrives on time (as always) and my heart melts (as always) when I see his darling face. He looks lovely: clean and scrubbed and shiny, hair very neatly slicked back, and smartly dressed. He’s ready to go straight out to the Comedy Club, but looks mighty relieved when I tell him I’ve binned that idea and we’re staying home.
I cook the dinner which he eats with much gusto and appreciation. He does the washing up and we go into the living-room, then out onto the balcony. It’s a balmy night and he stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean back into him and feel him grow hard as he presses himself towards my buttocks.
A shudder of desire rises swiftly in me and I arch my back and rest my head against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck and I angle myself into him feeling his erection through the cloth of his jeans. He starts to unbutton them then lowers his hand and unzips mine. The street is quiet below, and we giggle conspiratorially as we both drop our trousers and start to make love al fresco. He thrusts into me, panting in rhythm, enjoying the risky business of not being rumbled by the neighbours.
Apart from being afraid of toppling off the balcony, the position we're in is not very comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like making love in a big white bed. MLP climaxes suddenly but I don’t and he withdraws, puts himself away and we go back inside. My emotions are now all over the place and I suddenly decide I want to have A Talk. What I really need is An Orgasm.
I ask how he would feel if tonight were the last night we were to spend together and he looks at me as if he’s about to burst into tears. I quickly tell him it isn’t, but how would he feel if it was? Without missing a beat, he says he would miss me a helluva lot, that he is very attached to me, that he thinks about me all the time, talks about me all the time, but wishes he was older. How sweet is that? (It never occurs to me to say that I wish I was younger!)
We talk around the issue of his wanting children and I joke about us adopting a Cambodian orphan. The fact is we both know our thing must end at some point. I tell him I would never wish to curtail his freedom nor divert him away from the path of his life. Much...
He says again how much he loves being with me, and when he comes to my flat it’s like ‘coming home’. He adores being looked after and cooked for and I make him feel like a very special man. I suggest, in that case, that we just continue to enjoy the basic fundamentals of life which are food and sex. After all, what more do we need from each other?
He hugs me tightly and asks if I will always be his ‘special friend’. I say ‘Of course, and one day I want you to phone me and say ‘Wendy, I’ve just had a son…’ but I don’t really mean it. I don't see myself as Fairy Godmother to some ex-toyboy's kid but another relationship.
There is a bittersweet sorrow to our being together, feeling strongly for each other yet knowing a future is impossible. I really love him tonight and I know, in his own way, he loves me. And yet I can hear the clock ticking and the sound is growing louder and louder...
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