I stay with Calm Best Friend until the doctor arrives then go down to the village to pick up her meds. I pop into the dining-room at lunchtime to get her some plain boiled rice et voilà! Hot Frog is there as usual. Despite his urgent need for snogging lessons, he still has sexuality oozing out of every pore.
We share a secret smile (I’m going to run out of these if I’m not careful…) and my attraction to him increases. If I could just train him to kiss my way, all holiday fantasies would be fulfilled. When I get dressed for the evening, I don my ‘just-in-case-I-get-lucky’ undies - just in case. Be a shame to waste them, wouldn’t it?
Because I have no problem fancying two men at the same time, CC and I spend the evening continuing our chemical bonding. This man has long-term potential but Hot Frog might have to be climbed because, like Everest, he is there. He is also irresistibly randy eye candy, and MLP, I’m happy to say, has been relegated to the Third Division.
CC and I play footsie under the table over dinner sharing long looks and whispered confidences. He is such a fantastic raconteur, and I am increasingly drawn to him. His humour is addictive and I match him as best I can, hanging on his every word, and trying to make him laugh as much as he makes me. Being slightly pissed on unlimited Mojitos, my tongue is as loose as a chav’s morals, a fact which I shall live to regret.
Just before midnight, CC offers to walk me back to my room again and we end up having a huge snog in the corridor. Now here’s a chap who really knows how to kiss, tenderly, exploringly, yet with an underlying passion that promises great things. And he really turns me on. How cruel and shameless of me to use him as my warm-up man, but he doesn’t know this and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I pull away before we both become overly engaged, but he begs a few more moments alone with me which I find hard to refuse. I go into his room, mindful of the fact that the midnight text from Hot Frog is due through at any moment. Not having any pockets in my trousers, my mobile is wedged firmly between my breasts...
Sunday, 27 January 2008
Sunday, 20 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...20/1/08
Despite my presumption of HotFrog being a galloping Gallic love machine, he has no idea how to kiss. He opens his mouth far too wide for a start, and his lingual swirling is too wet and sloppy, the intended prelude to passion not arousing me one little bit. He’s got me pinned against my seat and I don’t want to start a major struggle, so I go along with it for a while then push him away gently and stand up.
He takes this as an invitation to lunge back in and kisses me again, but still, sensuality is in absentia. Not even close. Definitely no cigar. Apart from the Upmann Gigante growing in his trousers…
I push him away again, shaking my head gently in mock disapproval and he takes the rejection in good heart. Well, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his career by having a client cry ‘Rape’ now, would he?
‘Can you find your way back?’ he asks.
‘I think so’ I reply. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I?’
He takes hold of me again but I wriggle free and he opens the door to let me out.
‘Come back if you get lost’ he calls after me, and I return to my room feeling somewhat virtuous, a sensation I’m not overly familiar with.
CBF is waiting up and I tell her that despite his stunning good looks, he’s a lousy kisser. We giggle and chat awhile until we fall asleep, but in early hours, the poor girl is propelled out of bed by a violent attack of gastro-enteritis which lasts the rest of the night and into the dawn.
First thing in the morning, I ask Reception to call her a doctor and use it as an excuse to text HotFrog – he needs to know what’s going on in with the hotel guests, doesn’t he?
He texts back that he’s sorry to hear this, to let him know if there’s anything he can do, and not to forget to wash my hands at every opportunity. He tells me he’s in meetings all morning, but would be free to see me again this evening if I’d like…
I think about it for a nanosecond and decide, for the sake of the sisterhood, to take him up on his offer.
He takes this as an invitation to lunge back in and kisses me again, but still, sensuality is in absentia. Not even close. Definitely no cigar. Apart from the Upmann Gigante growing in his trousers…
I push him away again, shaking my head gently in mock disapproval and he takes the rejection in good heart. Well, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his career by having a client cry ‘Rape’ now, would he?
‘Can you find your way back?’ he asks.
‘I think so’ I reply. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I?’
He takes hold of me again but I wriggle free and he opens the door to let me out.
‘Come back if you get lost’ he calls after me, and I return to my room feeling somewhat virtuous, a sensation I’m not overly familiar with.
CBF is waiting up and I tell her that despite his stunning good looks, he’s a lousy kisser. We giggle and chat awhile until we fall asleep, but in early hours, the poor girl is propelled out of bed by a violent attack of gastro-enteritis which lasts the rest of the night and into the dawn.
First thing in the morning, I ask Reception to call her a doctor and use it as an excuse to text HotFrog – he needs to know what’s going on in with the hotel guests, doesn’t he?
He texts back that he’s sorry to hear this, to let him know if there’s anything he can do, and not to forget to wash my hands at every opportunity. He tells me he’s in meetings all morning, but would be free to see me again this evening if I’d like…
I think about it for a nanosecond and decide, for the sake of the sisterhood, to take him up on his offer.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...15/1/08
CC and I walk quietly along the corridor hand in hand and he tries to kiss me goodnight outside my room. I coyly avoid this without, I hope, hurting his feelings, thinking that I can’t possibly kiss him now and potentially, despite my best intentions, Monsieur le Grenouille Chaud later on.
I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)
At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.
‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.
‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.
I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’
He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.
He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?
He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!
I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.
‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.
I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…
I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)
At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.
‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.
‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.
I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’
He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.
He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?
He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!
I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.
‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.
I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…
Thursday, 10 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...10/1/08
Enjoying the Mata-Hari element of the impending assignation, I write my mobile number on a piece of paper and secrete it about my person. When I enter the dining-room, I fake a handshake with Hot Frog and slip the note between his fingers. I'm conscious of exuding pheromones like a bitch on heat, the significance of which is not lost on my male companions who respond with lecherous leering and in-yer-face innuendo. Throughout it all, CC and I share many special, secret looks.
After the meal, we go down to the theatre to watch the cabaret in which Hot Frog features predominantly, stripped to the waist and looking buff in a pair of red satin pantaloons and a yellow cummerbund. CC sits tight up against me giving a hilarious yet disparaging commentary on my paramour's performance. I feel a mélange of guilt and excitement. He’s such a terrific guy; he’d hate me if he knew…
With great flair and élan, Hot Frog smashes, walks on, then lies across a bed of broken wine bottles. I find this excruciatingly embarrassing and wonder what on earth I’ll find to say to him if/when I see him later. ‘Loved the show! Er...by the way, you’re bleeding...’
CBF retires early promising to wait up for me. CC and I repair to the bar where we embark on a deeply personal conversation. Because I’m nervous while marking time ‘til midnight, I spill out my entire life story including my excitement yet trepidation about the imminent release of my first solo book, The Toyboy Diaries.
I also reveal my real age (61) which doesn’t seem to faze him, as he immediately confesses to an irrepressible weakness for older women. The heady combination of alcohol and altitude does not prevent me from working out that I really, really like this man, who at 46, living and working within walking distance of me in London, could potentially be proper relationship material. But the lure of adventure is stronger than my morals...and so I continue on my nefarious course...
At 11.50 p.m. CC yawns, stretches and offers to walk me back to my room. Since I cannot very well tell him that I’m staying up to meet the horny Frenchman in an illicit after hours client/manager lurve tryst, I accept his offer, and we go up in the lift together to our floor.
He strokes my hair and looks down at me from his 6'2" height with tenderness in his eyes.
After the meal, we go down to the theatre to watch the cabaret in which Hot Frog features predominantly, stripped to the waist and looking buff in a pair of red satin pantaloons and a yellow cummerbund. CC sits tight up against me giving a hilarious yet disparaging commentary on my paramour's performance. I feel a mélange of guilt and excitement. He’s such a terrific guy; he’d hate me if he knew…
With great flair and élan, Hot Frog smashes, walks on, then lies across a bed of broken wine bottles. I find this excruciatingly embarrassing and wonder what on earth I’ll find to say to him if/when I see him later. ‘Loved the show! Er...by the way, you’re bleeding...’
CBF retires early promising to wait up for me. CC and I repair to the bar where we embark on a deeply personal conversation. Because I’m nervous while marking time ‘til midnight, I spill out my entire life story including my excitement yet trepidation about the imminent release of my first solo book, The Toyboy Diaries.
I also reveal my real age (61) which doesn’t seem to faze him, as he immediately confesses to an irrepressible weakness for older women. The heady combination of alcohol and altitude does not prevent me from working out that I really, really like this man, who at 46, living and working within walking distance of me in London, could potentially be proper relationship material. But the lure of adventure is stronger than my morals...and so I continue on my nefarious course...
At 11.50 p.m. CC yawns, stretches and offers to walk me back to my room. Since I cannot very well tell him that I’m staying up to meet the horny Frenchman in an illicit after hours client/manager lurve tryst, I accept his offer, and we go up in the lift together to our floor.
He strokes my hair and looks down at me from his 6'2" height with tenderness in his eyes.
Saturday, 5 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...5/1/08
After a long coach journey, we arrive at the resort and are welcomed by the French ‘Chef de Village’, Eric, or ‘Eh-reek’ as he introduces himself. He is tall, dark, tanned, suave and sexy – a bad boy Hot Frog with a slept-in face and a ‘You’re Next’ look in his eyes. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could toss him. What a time he must have seducing all the laydeez – their knickers must fall at his feet! CBF is very taken with him but I wouldn’t touch him with a sterilised bargepole. Oh No! Too clichéd anyway, like shagging the tennis coach (or up-jumped ski instructor which is pretty much what he is). Rather tasty though…
Tuesday. The holiday is going very well. They’re a good crowd once you get to know them, especially our lovely new friend CC but I’m not getting too involved as I’ll probably never see him or any of the others ever again once the trip is over.
After a heavy dump of snow last night, the weather today is picture perfect. We swish down the slopes at the end of the day to find Hot Frog and his team of G.Os there to greet us. For the Club Med uninitiated, the G.Os are ‘Gracious Organisers’ who provide service and entertainment around the clock. They're dressed in Rio Carnival attire this evening, dispensing smiles, chat, mulled wine, tea and cakes.
I help myself to a dark, moist, chocolate brownie and a glass of vin chaud and go into raptures, in French natch, as I savour the orgasmic flavours. Hot Frog is watching me closely and comments on my accent, asking me where I’m from. I tell him I’m from London but I went to the French Lycée and a lively dialogue ensues. He’s very complimentary about my linguistic skills, and of course, the more he smarms, the more I show off. I finish my brownie and wine and sashay away (as best one can dressed as a Michelin woman with monster ski boots) to get ready for the evening.
Walking into the dining-room for dinner, Hot Frog stands in his usual welcoming stance, front of house. His sky-blue eyes scan me up and down like lasers and I check my ankles to see if his gaze hasn’t melted my knicker elastic.
The males in our group all change places at dinnertime and I flirt with a few of them to keep myself entertained. The free cocktails and flowing wine loosens everyone up, and I pause for a moment to reflect gratefully on the fact that the pain of MLP’s departure is lessening by the minute.
CC is particularly wonderful company, his raconteur skills, wit and humour keeping us in fits a lot of the time. I don’t abandon base camp however, and keep up the textual repartee with Flash Gordon and Brad Pity as I’ll need these boys bubbling away on the back burner to be brought to boiling point when I get home.
Wednesday. Hot Frog, serving drinks at the Piste Bar, draws me into a private conversation. We talk about the day’s skiing and I ask him where in France he comes from. He says he’s half French and half Spanish which is an irresistible opportunity for me to show off my Spanish simply because…well… because I can. Isn’t education a wonderful thing? The trouble is I speak four languages and don’t know how to say ‘No’ in any of them.
Hot Frog suddenly drops his voice to an intimate whisper, which means I have to lean in close to hear what he’s saying. He asks me how come my husband has let me come away without him. Men are so transparent except when they’re being dense. I tell him I’ve dispensed with two husbands and now have a whole stable of young men at my beck and call. Honesty and modesty are not two of my stronger suits. I’m not consciously aware of giving him the come-on, but he suddenly moulds his mouth around my ear and asks if I’d like to meet him for a drink when he comes off duty after the show at midnight.
Why I should be surprised at this, I do not know, but you could have knocked me down with a snowflake! Shrugging one shoulder coquettishly, I adopt my best Brigitte Bardot pout and reply: ‘Peut être…’
It takes me a while to ‘fess up to CBF while we’re dressing for dinner about Hot Frog and our impending ‘date’. I feel a bit guilty as I know she really fancies him and I wouldn’t want to upset her for the world. He’s certainly not worth losing a friend for, and in any case there’s No Way this is going anywhere; it’s just a drink, right?
CBF takes it in good part saying if it can’t be her, she'd rather it was me than any of the other girls in our group. That way she gets to find out all the gory details and can thereby live it vicariously. I take special care not to put on my best undies. All women know that mismatched lingerie is always the best contraceptive.
Tuesday. The holiday is going very well. They’re a good crowd once you get to know them, especially our lovely new friend CC but I’m not getting too involved as I’ll probably never see him or any of the others ever again once the trip is over.
After a heavy dump of snow last night, the weather today is picture perfect. We swish down the slopes at the end of the day to find Hot Frog and his team of G.Os there to greet us. For the Club Med uninitiated, the G.Os are ‘Gracious Organisers’ who provide service and entertainment around the clock. They're dressed in Rio Carnival attire this evening, dispensing smiles, chat, mulled wine, tea and cakes.
I help myself to a dark, moist, chocolate brownie and a glass of vin chaud and go into raptures, in French natch, as I savour the orgasmic flavours. Hot Frog is watching me closely and comments on my accent, asking me where I’m from. I tell him I’m from London but I went to the French Lycée and a lively dialogue ensues. He’s very complimentary about my linguistic skills, and of course, the more he smarms, the more I show off. I finish my brownie and wine and sashay away (as best one can dressed as a Michelin woman with monster ski boots) to get ready for the evening.
Walking into the dining-room for dinner, Hot Frog stands in his usual welcoming stance, front of house. His sky-blue eyes scan me up and down like lasers and I check my ankles to see if his gaze hasn’t melted my knicker elastic.
The males in our group all change places at dinnertime and I flirt with a few of them to keep myself entertained. The free cocktails and flowing wine loosens everyone up, and I pause for a moment to reflect gratefully on the fact that the pain of MLP’s departure is lessening by the minute.
CC is particularly wonderful company, his raconteur skills, wit and humour keeping us in fits a lot of the time. I don’t abandon base camp however, and keep up the textual repartee with Flash Gordon and Brad Pity as I’ll need these boys bubbling away on the back burner to be brought to boiling point when I get home.
Wednesday. Hot Frog, serving drinks at the Piste Bar, draws me into a private conversation. We talk about the day’s skiing and I ask him where in France he comes from. He says he’s half French and half Spanish which is an irresistible opportunity for me to show off my Spanish simply because…well… because I can. Isn’t education a wonderful thing? The trouble is I speak four languages and don’t know how to say ‘No’ in any of them.
Hot Frog suddenly drops his voice to an intimate whisper, which means I have to lean in close to hear what he’s saying. He asks me how come my husband has let me come away without him. Men are so transparent except when they’re being dense. I tell him I’ve dispensed with two husbands and now have a whole stable of young men at my beck and call. Honesty and modesty are not two of my stronger suits. I’m not consciously aware of giving him the come-on, but he suddenly moulds his mouth around my ear and asks if I’d like to meet him for a drink when he comes off duty after the show at midnight.
Why I should be surprised at this, I do not know, but you could have knocked me down with a snowflake! Shrugging one shoulder coquettishly, I adopt my best Brigitte Bardot pout and reply: ‘Peut être…’
It takes me a while to ‘fess up to CBF while we’re dressing for dinner about Hot Frog and our impending ‘date’. I feel a bit guilty as I know she really fancies him and I wouldn’t want to upset her for the world. He’s certainly not worth losing a friend for, and in any case there’s No Way this is going anywhere; it’s just a drink, right?
CBF takes it in good part saying if it can’t be her, she'd rather it was me than any of the other girls in our group. That way she gets to find out all the gory details and can thereby live it vicariously. I take special care not to put on my best undies. All women know that mismatched lingerie is always the best contraceptive.
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