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.