THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Thursday. Due to being tired and emotional following another night of hot sex and snoring with MLP, we get into a heavy textual discussion about our future - this after only two weeks! There are some very strong emotions going down on both sides but I need to pay attention to my own writing as in:

By all means have your legs in the air, but for God’s sake keep your feet on the ground.

'If I was halfway sensible' I text him, 'I would end it now before I get hurt. I like you a little too much for my own good. Sorry but I know exactly where this is headed…X x'

'No worrys babe' he replies. 'We need to get things clear about us. Also I do have feelings for you. I just don’t know how to word them. I know we cant be together forever and this sadens me a great deal, it sounds weird but it feels astho we have broken up already but theres no ending to us.'

I don’t quite understand this but something tells me he’s going slightly off the boil. From past conversations, I know he eventually wants to get married and have children (and so he should, but obviously not with me!).

I suppose the 33-year age gap should be a minor consideration, although not, funnily enough, when we’re horizontal. Or in the bath lapping champagne off each other’s clavicles. Or sharing chocolate-covered strawberries in a certain French position with Ravel’s Bolero blaring on the iPod.

I vow not to get too heavy and to try to enjoy it for what it is with which he agrees ‘holehartedly’.

Wednesday. MLP takes me to the Emirates Stadium to see Arsenal playing Spurs. He confesses to having spent £70 on each ticket (for which we could have gone to see La Traviata at Covent Garden – albeit in the crap seats) but I don’t tell him this. It is a significant occasion for both of us - him introducing me into his domain.

We set off in the tube but there are delays and some stations are closed, so we get out at Paddington and cab it the rest of the way which I pay for. He sits in the taxi with his head in his hands certain we’re going to be late and miss the kick-off. I stroke his thigh and rub his back cajoling and consoling him as if we are on the way to a hospital where his beloved mother has just been taken following a fatal car crash. We arrive in the nick of time and I tell him not feel stilted because I’m there and to behave exactly as he would normally.

He does - yelling, swearing, chanting, abusing and picking me up and hurling me around every time Arsenal score. His behaviour is that of a drunken football hooligan who gets arrested on his way to Eindhoven... and I love it. I downgrade my persona, accent and demeanour, even taking a couple of sips of his yukky lager at half time to show him how well I fit in this milieu.

The Gooners win 3-1 but we can’t get transport out of there and have to walk for about two miles. On the way, we stop off at an antique shop which happens to be open, where he puts a £5 deposit down on a 1930s serving tray which I really like. We then manage to hail a cab back to mine, again which I pay for. I don’t care. I just can’t wait to get him home. He’s staying over, so tonight I’m Ladette Barbie and he, the little darling, is Lager Lout Ken.

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

I wake up to the Kosher Kid again with a text describing another one of his dirty little wet wanks.

'You are hilarious...' I reply '...and it’s not outside the realms of possibility that one day, or night, your dreams may come true!'

Not exactly treating ‘im mean, but certainly keeping ‘im keen.

My Little Ponytail texts to confirm tonight. Him being half Turkish ‘n all, I make some crack about looking forward to savouring some Turkish Delight. He says he doesn’t like it, but he is prepared to ‘endoulge’ me (sic) if I fancy some. Yum!

I marinate the prawns in chilli, garlic, olive oil, ginger and spring onion and get into the shower. I scrub my hands clean lest I inadvertently scratch my needy itch with my chilli-infested fingers.

The Rugby Player texts to say he cannot get my pressie in the post today but will do so on Monday. Like I giveashit. I reply that I shall eagerly await the postman adding ‘He always rings twice, you know.’

A girlfriend phones to say she’s just dumped her boyfriend after a year. This means there’s another girlfriend to go around with when the famine kicks in. Which it will…it will…

Sunday. MLP and I suddenly seem to be in a relationship. I have no idea how this has happened. Last night he cooked for me, and we had a wonderful evening and a heavenly night together. The sex is electric, his body strong, hard and firm. He has the most delicious buttocks ever...I can’t keep my hands off them.

I sat astride him this morning and gave him a sensual massage then I covered myself with a baby oil and we slithered all over each other making a hideous mess of my very expensive Egyptian cotton sheets. Lovely!

We got up and showered and I put some slap on and made him a full English breakfast. I changed the bed while he cleared up and we then went for a romantic walk in the park, bought the Sunday papers and laid around reading them in The Elgin (where I’d met the Kosher Kid a few nights before.)

MLP managed to read, snack and drink coffee while never breaking physical contact with me. I love this a lot. He is exhibiting demonstrative PDAs with a woman old enough…..well let’s not even go there.

Monday. Sometimes I feel like a Barbie doll. Tonight I am Yoga Barbie and tomorrow I’ll be Posh Barbie (who goes to the theatre and out to dinner with Antique Ken). During the day, I’m Street Barbie (who tucks her jeans into her boots and hunts for treasure round the antique markets) and here comes Cockney Barbie (who drops her aitches and says ‘innit’ when she’s in the company of MLP, aka Geezer Ken).

A bit of a RANT!!

Sorry, dear readers, but yet again I have to blow off steam!

Having attempted to walk the straight and narrow but failed miserably (well there's a surprise!) the semi-suitable bloke I've been keen on for four months and with whom I was attempting to form some kind of... 'word beginning with R....' rumbled me the other night and discovered I am not a repressed Victorian after all.

Now you and I knew that... but he, poor deluded soul, living in negative solitary confinement in his giant ice cube, wanted a woman to adhere to his strict moral code whose default setting was 'boring'. (Having said that he did request me to wear a basque and suspenders which I bought at great expense and is still in the Agent Provocateur box. I'm not intending to return it for a refund...I'm sure it'll come in handy sometime...)

He simply could not cope with the fact that I am fit, feisty and fabulous and although those were the qualities to which he was initially drawn, he immediately required me to negate them and abdicate my throne to become some kind of timid little mouselet, available on his (very infrequent) demand. I tried...Oh Lord, I tried but I fell off the wagon, didn't I? I mean three dates in three months doth hardly a Relationship make...doth it?

The way he dumped me, however, was unforgivable, laying into me in a most abusive and personal way, with venom, anger and disrespect. This told me a lot more about him than it did about myself and Puritanism is not a sexy attribute in the 21st Century, is it?

And so I live to fight another day, down but not out, bowed but not broken, warmed, encouraged and re-booted by the fantastically loving and supportive words and actions of my so many friends who don't always approve, but do appreciate that I am who I am and I do what I do.

Girls, never let a man diminish or reduce you. Be yourself every step of the way and if he doesn't like it, let him lump it.

Guys, I'm free again...bring it on!!

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

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...

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?

BLOODY CHEEK!!!

My book ‘The Toyboy Diaries’ was recently reviewed in The Evening Standard. I was very flattered as I’m sure the Standard has many book choices for its Life & Culture pages and it’s a huge accolade that they chose mine.

HOWEVER, Nirpal Dhaliwal who wrote the piece, has his own agenda, being the dastardly, dumped, ex-husband of Liz Jones who has documented their disastrous marriage over the past few years in The Mail on Sunday, trashing him and his abysmal behaviour on a weekly basis.

He had clearly not read ‘The Toyboy Diaries’ properly nor researched its provenance as glaring inconsistencies and inaccuracies littered ever line of his rambling review.

In order to set the record straight, my memoir was published first and foremost as a book and never began life as a blog. I can cope with being called a ‘lovably whorish great-aunt’ (quite funny, really!) but he peppered his prose with the smuttiest quotes he could find, all out of context and chronology.

My sex life has never been a ‘constant humiliating submission’ – why would I want to live like that? It has been, and still is, a gloriously joyful embrace of hedonism and his comment that all my boyfriends ‘vanished’ on me is guff as I am still in touch with most of them.(I’m sticking my tongue out at you right now, Nirpal!)

He also comments that I write ‘without any inward contemplation’. Everyone who's read ‘The Toyboy Diaries’ appreciates the fact that each romantic episode is related with great depth of feeling and introspection, my emotions honestly described, my soul sensitively bared. Women have derived strength and inspiration from reading it and men admire my openness and the fact that they can learn how to adjust their behaviour wherever necessary to get the best out of their relationships!

Both sexes can relate to the humour, the highs and the lows, and acknowledge with a sympathetic nod the vagaries which dog all single people in their pursuit of love.

Do try and get a life, Nirpal – your review makes you sound like the sad and embittered one…not me!

Oooh! I feel better now...!

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Wednesday. Checking my morning emails, I notice my daily missive is missing from My Man in Oman who appears to have gone deep into his cave.

A little back story on him: I went to Muscat on a business trip two months ago and stayed in the utterly sumptuous new 6* Shangri-Spa Hotel. Hot and cold running flunkeys who licked the sand from between your toes whilst mopping your brow with a cool, scented flannel and feeding you mango and papaya whether you required it or not. My kinda place.

On click-clacking through the solid gold Reception Atrium one day, the Manager approaches me and starts chatting. He’s Canadian, tall, dark, reasonably handsome, and very personable. Long story short, he chats to me a little more intensely every time we meet, and there is an unmistakeable chemistry between us. On my last day he tells me he’ll soon be visiting London which he doesn’t know very well. I offer to show him around and we exchange business cards.

On returning home, a most inappropriate email awaits me which begins ‘My sweet and lovely Wendy…’ and over the course of the next few weeks, he continues to write daily and before I know it we’ve ‘fallen in love’ cyber-stylie. This is all completely ridiculous as I don’t even know the guy! In fact when we first met, I thought he was gay but he's clearly not.

I’m slightly worried by his mood swings which are either very high or very low. Also, most of his messages are All About Him. Notwithstanding this, I am very drawn to the idea of a life lived swanning around the world’s most exclusive hotels, so I keep the banter going and find myself becoming dependent on his daily contact. When he’s in a depression I don’t hear from him for days. When he’s hippy-happy, he texts me ‘I luv u, I miss u, I’m thinking of u’ all the time. It starts to mess with my head.

He invites me to meet him in Dubai, but my instinct tells me not to invest in the ticket until I’m sure he’s not a complete nutter. Mea culpa, but if he writes me a line, I reply with a novel. Then I don’t hear from him for days on end. Virtual relationships are shit. You never know what’s really going on. Dubai seems dubious.

Thursday. MLP texts to tell me that he thinks he’s left his beanie hat in the cinema. I phone Odeon Lost Property but they haven’t found it. I text him back an offer for somewhere else to stick his head which is guaranteed to keep it warm. He replies LMAO which I think is his predictive text gone wrong until I Google it and find out it means ‘laughing my ass off.’ Get with the urban lingo, old woman!

He accepts my invitation to come and cook for me - i.e. trash my kitchen - next Saturday night. Yay! I go to First Sport in Whiteleys and get him another beanie hat. I detest this look but it gives me pleasure to buy him a present and there’s a certain spiritual fulfilment in that.

Oman Man wakes up and texts me ‘I am thinking of u’.
I text back: ‘And what are you thinking exactly?’
He doesn’t reply.

THE DAILY MALE...

We return home and he pulls up alongside the other cars.

“Wouldn’t you like to come up?” I bleat, disappointment pouring from every pore.

"Of course" he replies, "but I didn’t want to appear presumptuous..." Bless.

I put on some sweet music, Madeleine Peyroux since you ask, light the fire and some scented candles and we settle down on the sofa. About three hours later, having resisted as much as I possibly can, and slightly against my better judgement, I lead him to my lair where we make unexpectedly slow, sweet love. The date ends at 5.45 a.m. when he leaves me splashed across my wrecked bed with a blissed out smile on my sleepy face.

Monday. MLP texts to thank me for a most romantic and wonderful night. Colour me tired but happy.

Tuesday. The arrogant Rugby Player I met a few weeks ago on a dating website keeps texting me that when we eventually meet he’s ‘gonna rock my world’. Yeah… well… wha’ever... My world is currently being rocked by another, thank you very much. He wants to take me away for a long weekend to a Country House Hotel. Says he knows somewhere with roaming peacocks and awesome rooms. I tell him I prefer awesome peacocks and roaming rooms. He calls me a ‘smart arse - the cockiest woman I know’. I thank him for the compliment.

This obviously winds him up so he continues with his textual advances which include wanting to buy me ‘a closetful of expensive cocktail dresses’ (the word ‘cock’ in one form or another features heavily in his dialogue). He also wants to shower me, and shower with me, dressed in Agent Provocateur lingerie (him or me?)

I’m unsure how this overpriced gossamer tutt would hold up in my power shower, but that’s never going to happen anyway, however much he wills it. It involves too much exposed flesh and undignified postures whilst trying to appear seductive and not getting my hair wet. Or slipping over and breaking my hip.

Long, slow, candlelit, champagne bubble baths I can cope with…

THE DAILY MALE continues...

Monday. I awake with My Little Pony(tail) on my mind and curse myself for having handed him back his card. And why on earth did I tell him I was so busy? Fired up by the challenge of a mission improbable, I manage, through a circuitous and convoluted route which involves phoning a girlfriend to text the singer to email his mate who knows someone who might…I manage to obtain his number.

I text him some cock and bull story about a friend needing a new kitchen. Well ‘e’s a builder, in ‘e? He texts me back that he’d be happy to help and we begin an ‘eeger corispondance’. (Normally, I drop men instantly if they’re illiterate but for some reason, this one slips past the Spelling Police.) We arrange to get together next weekend.

Sunday. He arrives at 7 p.m. to pick me up for our first date. He hugs me 'allo, and as he enters my flat, he immediately admits to being very nervous. When I ask why (as if I didn’t know) he says he’s never dated an older woman before and wonders what we’ll find to talk about… Who wants to talk?

I confess to being nervous too which is a blatant lie and I pour us two large Screwdrivers, heavy on the vodka. He relaxes; we drink, we chat and then we set off out. He’s driving a mid range nice clean car which turns out to belong to his father. I’m sixty one years old and I’m dating a man who lives with his parents!

He holds my hand as we walk to the restaurant which makes me feel all girlie (again...) and we have no problem with conversation over a Thai meal which he pays for. We then drive to the Odeon Marble Arch and he stands behind me in the queue with his arms hugged around my waist. I lean back against him feeling incredibly happy and irrationally secure. He insists on buying the cinema tickets despite my offer to go Dutch.

I have an economic dilemma at the box office when I wonder fleetingly whether I should tell him I qualify for the senior discount. I decide, for once, to keep my lip zipped We sit in the back row mouth feeding each other chocolate raisins like a pair of soppy teenagers, thereby missing half the film.

I'm happy to report that following my ageism rant and the posting up of my real age on toyboywarehouse.com I still got a few hits today from intelligent men who don't see age as a barrier!

Or maybe they're just desperate to get their rocks off with anyone with a pulse! Who knows? I think the times they are a'changing and not a moment too soon. Be a shame to miss out on the fun just because you've drawn the line under a certain number...

DAMN THE D.O.B.

D.O.B. may be the acronym for Date of Birth but in my book it stands for Diva on Board. My inner Diva was provoked recently by an act of prejudice which – although it could be argued was self-induced – upset me just the same.

Now prejudice comes in many shapes and sizes but if you dissect the word, it means to pre-judge – i.e. form an opinion before not after the event.

The contretemps happened following a delightful dalliance with a gorgeous young stud who'd approached me on www.toyboywarehouse.com. Now I cannot alter the fact that I am a lady of a certain age. Because society conditions us to put people into categories, trying to re-educate them is a momentous task. Pushing the boundaries is what toyboywarehouse is all about, and I’m not talking about 35-year olds dating 28-year olds – that doesn’t constitute Toyboy Heaven in my world. To qualify at that level, he’d have to be 12 and I’d get arrested!

Everyone knows that the female (and many males) of the species have their own agendas when it comes to manipulating the truth for self-enhancement. A man will lie about the size of his portfolio; a woman will lie about her age. It’s not a crime…it’s often just a way of getting to first base. Hair, make-up, cosmetic surgery, Wonderbras, Magic Knickers – all have their place in the altered images Hall of Fame.

When I created my profile on the site, mindful of these social hang-ups and their influence, I made a tiny numerical adjustment to my d.o.b. Call me a cab but yes… I knocked ten years off my age. I reckoned that if any interested party saw the number ‘61’, he’d be a lot less interested than if the age box said ‘51’. He may even run away screaming – after all I am old enough to be a grandmother (but then again so’s a 30 year-old if she and her daughter got knocked up at 15!)

Anyway - back to my recent night of passion (would that I could!) with the afore-mentioned sexy, handsome, intelligent 22-year old who thought I was 51. (This was borderline for him as he’d made a decision not to date anyone older than his mum!) We got on wonderfully well on all the important levels, and everything came up except my age, until the morning after the night before, when he happened across the truth and recoiled in horror.

This was not one of those scenarios where a bloke’s picked up some slapper in a pub who looks like Gwen Stefani when he’s off his face, then turns into Quasimodo’s ugly sister early next morning. Toyboy and I had been sober when we met and built up to our congress with our eyes wide open and all our senses fully engaged.

But somehow, on discovering my deception, in his mind the woman between whose thighs he’d been more than happy to burrow mere hours before changed dramatically when the 5 became a 6. Because of some inbuilt societal brainwashing preconception, I had become a gnarled, warty, old witch with spiky hairs growing out of my chin. In reality of course, I was exactly the same slim, blonde, shapely, sensuous siren I had been when he thought I was 51!

OK so the kid felt misled. It’s probably not the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. But his good sense abandoned him because instead of focusing on the person he knew me to be, he focused on the media’s perception of a 61-year old, i.e. a little old grey-haired lady queuing for her pension in the local post office.

Catherine Deneuve, Goldie Hawn, Charlotte Rampling, Joanna Lumley, Susan Sarandon and Helen Mirren are all over 60 and I bet none of you guys out there would kick any of them out of bed!

I’ve ‘fessed up now and told the whole truth in my profile because I’m not ashamed and women over 60 are still fabulous. We do not lose our sexuality as we age, we gain mature allure. Ok, so our bosoms may no longer be under our chins but they are warmer and more welcoming than size zero bee stings.

And if any of you toyboys out there refuse to consort with me because of a silly number, then that’s your loss… You really don’t know what you may be missing…!

Media Whore!

On the back of my double page spread in last week's Daily Maul (they definitely digitally disenhanced me by adding extra lines to my face and neck) I appeared on This Morning this morning.

God! Phillip Schofield is utterly butterly gorgeous and even though I don't normally go for anyone over the age of 33 (except CC... keep reading The Daily Male to find out who he is) I could definitely have had Phil washed and brought to my tent. He was wearing about four inches of pancake make-up hence the cleansing requirement, but talk about scrummy! Even more entertaining was the fact that he was so shocked by the contents of my book 'The Toyboy Diaries', he held it as if it were about to go off in his hand! He'd planned on reading some excepts on air, but couldn't find anything clean enough.

Apparently there's sex every four pages, according to my publisher. When I heard that, even I was shocked and I wrote the bloody thing. Of course the research was a dirty, filthy job...but somebody had to do it.

When I got home, I had fan mail from all over the country! Men and boys sitting at home watching daytime TV found me 'alluring' and 'delectible' (sic). It does make me sic when people can't spell but hey...nice to get the compliments.

Following the programme, and Phillip's squirming sexual discomfort at having such a sexy guest on his sofa, he kindly held the book cover full on to camera for the longest time, which caused my Amazon sales ranking to shoot up to 36!!! That was just below Katie Price at 35 which means that for today at least, I'm nearly as famous as Jordan! How cool is that??

And I have normal size tits, which may or may not be relevant at this point...