Saturday, 27 September 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Flash Gordon sends me a choice of dates when he’s free to see me. None of them suit my diary, and I’m not really sure I want to see him again anyway. He is a nice person and a real little gent, but he doesn’t float my boat which is currently high and dry in the dockyard. I let him down gently telling him an ex has reappeared on the scene.

These bloody exes of yours, he texts back. I can’t even get a drink with you let alone waltz into your life and hog you forever. If you gave me a chance you’d forget all those fairycakes.

I’d forgotten I’d used this excuse before. If you’re going to lie you need a good memory. Or a d.o.b. that doesn’t being 194…

He forges on regardless:

All I want is to cook you a meal, tell you all my crap jokes, scrub your back in the bath and give you a deep tissue massage that will take your breath away.

Now this sounds like a pretty irresistible offer no matter which way you cut it. I mean when was the last time a good-looking 28-year old offered you such a teaser of temptations? I may allow him his way at some point, but for the foreseeable future, I think I can hold out.

At 7.35 I go and meet Tom Cat at the Elgin. Not much to look at but charming, polite and easy company nevertheless. In the present circumstances, this should be sufficient, but my Fit Bloke Alert doesn’t go off, so I know it ain’t going nowhere.

We have a couple of drinks and he removes a stack of papers from his man-bag. It’s the book he’s trying to write which he wants me to look at. Writers don’t really like looking at other people’s work, unless it’s truly appalling.

As Gore Vidal said: Whenever one of my friends succeeds, a little something in me dies.I

scan some of it, and it’s not bad – a tad overwritten, but about love and angst from the male perspective which is interesting. And guess what? Men have feelings too, but frankly, who gives a damn?

I give a critical appraisal of his style, offer a few pointers I learned way back in creative writing class, and hand it back to him. I wish him lots of luck. I know how hard it is trying to write a book. I also know he’ll never finish it.

We go for a Thai meal and a little vodka-fuelled chemistry sparks between us. He pays me loads of compliments but that’s just sycophancy and when he asks if there’s somewhere we can ‘go for coffee’ when we finish eating he adds:

‘You live near here, don’t you?’ with a most unsubtly raised eyebrow.

I definitely do not want to invite him home. I tell him there’s a café round the corner that serves good coffee, but I don’t want one, and he rescinds his request graciously.

As we leave the restaurant, he offers me his cashmere sweater because it’s chilly outside, and as we walk to my car he slips his arm through mine like an old pal. He’s rather sweet and chivalrous but…no bells. Not even a distant chimelet.

We peck a kiss goodbye; I get into my car and he walks off towards the station. One more Hallo…one more Goodbye. I'm tired and am really looking forward to getting into bed. Alone.

Friday. I trust you noticed I hardly mentioned CC at all yesterday and my philosophy of hoping he doesn’t call me so I can get over him quicker seems to be working. That and the Bach Flower Remedy that my daughter, Lily, prepared for me. She gave me a consultation last week while I was on a real CC low, and I found myself talking to her like she was a shrink or something.

She has a calm and caring way of discovering what ails you and I told her all sorts of personal stuff that maybe I shouldn’t have, what with her being ‘our kid’ ‘n all... When I'd explained the situation and my mixed-up feelings, she went off to prepare a potion. She added wild hawthorn for anxiety, walnut for melancholy, marjoram root for self-determination and arsenic in case none of the above worked. I’ve taken eight drops so far and I feel better already.

Around noon, I’m sitting at my desk tapping away and the postman rings. Twice.

I'm not expecting anything and then I remember...Rugby Player told me to look out for a parcel...

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Wednesday. An eventful day in Toy Town. I text Eurotrash to firm up Thursday and he telephones me to say that although:

‘Ze answer is Yah, it is in fact Ney’ because:

a) he’s zhtill got ze zore zroat, und
b) he’s also got ze zore finger which does not heal.

Eeuwwhh! I’d better steer well clear of him. He sounds like a walking infection.

I’m just about to hang up when he suddenly asks: ‘Zo how ij your zex life?’ like it’s any of his bloody business. I don’t reply but turn the question around and ask him about his.

‘Not much!’ he replies which I find hard to believe.

He apologizes again and says he’d love to see me ‘ven I’m vell again.’

It seems like men are apologizing to me a lot lately. This, of course, could be because they’re always guilty, unexpectedly turning up with ‘I've been fucking' flowers as my girlfriend with the wandering husband likes to call them.

Thursday. Tom Cat telephones. He sounds incredibly posh. He also went to the same school as me, which is pretty random, although we did attend some forty-five years apart! It’s unlikely that we shared any teachers but the school dinners were probably the same. He’s not coming to the gig tonight after all, as he wants to spend time working on a book he’s writing about sex and dating from the male perspective. We may discuss a collaboration and meet up tomorrow, which I now have free due to Eurotrash having syphilis and/or gonorrhaea.

I get a message from a newcomer on toyboywarehouse. He has a very Cute Face:

Hiya pretty lady! he writes. Fancy meeting up for a drink this weekend?

This could not have come at a better time as I’ve just been let down by Blonde Best Friend who I thought I was seeing on Saturday. Cute Face and I text on and off for the rest of the day, which is mildly entertaining but doesn’t mean to say I haven’t had some heart-rending moments vis à vis CC. It just means to say I haven’t mentioned them…

I am fully aware that all this so-called male attention doesn't amount to a hill of beans, and just as I’m about to go out for the evening with some proper people with proper jobs and proper modes of behaviour, Oxbridge phones. His number always comes up on my screen as ‘Unknown’ and my heart trips a beat as I think it might be CC. I forgot I was meant to be hoping he wouldn’t call.

When I hear the strange voice, I imagine for a moment it is him, but the voice gives its name and the name is wrong as is the accent. I can hardly remember who Oxbridge is in my life. Have we met? No we haven't and I don’t want to make small-talk with him any more. Maybe I should stop giving my phone number to strangers but then again, life would not be as rich as it is now!

I go to the gig at the Hope & Anchor in Upper Street. There is no talent there to speak of, except the singer, J.B. Newman, who is awesome. I remember with affection the night I met MLP at the Good Ship in Kilburn when we were listening to the same music as JB is playing tonight.

During the evening I exchange another few texts with Cute Face. He obviously fancies himself as a bit of a comedian because when I tell him I’m at the gig, he comments:

You’re really quite trendy for somehow who grew up in Victorian times, aren’t you?

I am affronted at his effrontery but rise to the challenge by telling him my horse-drawn carriage will arrive soon to take me home as it's past my bedtime and I need my Horlicks. He better not say anything ageist to my face though. That would be dangerous…

He then sends me a text obviously meant for someone else which reads:

No mate, she doesn’t seem nuts. Looks well pretty actually. I’ll just see how it goes I guess.

It’s funny that his mate thought I might be nuts…

I'm fairly convinced of it.

Monday, 8 September 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Monday. I decide to adopt a new philosophy. If CC doesn’t call today, I shall be relieved. I shall pray it’s not him every time the phone rings, and be thankful when it isn’t. I shall start from this moment to get over this man ‘cos if I see him again, and I like him again, and then he doesn’t phone me again, I’ll have to travel this rotten road one more time and frankly, I don’t fancy the journey.

So now I’m glaring at my mobile phone muttering: "Don’t you dare ring, you bastard, stay well away from me, take your monkey business elsewhere…"

Meanwhile, like an army to the rescue, a whole tangle of toyboys get in touch, one after the blessed other.

I’ve got Flash Gordon asking if I want to have a drink after work on Friday.

I’ve got Rough Stuff on his daily mission to seduce, asking if I’m free at all this week.

I’ve got a blast from the past in the form of the Arrogant Rugby Player temporarily back from New York claiming to be two stone lighter, and advising me to look out for the postman. (Remember that little something he threatened to send me? Well I don’t know if you received it, but I certainly didn’t…)

He bangs on about how much I excite him and asks if I am 'someone who likes to be spoilt in lifestyle terms and indulged sexually.' What is it with these guys? Are they all on drugs or something? His PR campaign sounds like an advert for a Country House Hotel Sex Spa and I tuck the idea behind my ear for later as a possible future business venture.

I ignore him however. I’ve heard it all before, mate. Either shit or get off the pot.

My non-reply eggs him on and just as I'm starting to think he's a right jerkoff, he suddenly suggests taking me to dinner at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon, which turns him into a right jerkoff with taste.

Joel Robuchon is a squillion-star French chef with a new London restaurant I’ve been dying to go to, so I rescind my ignoration and we make an arrangement for three weeks hence which I expect him to either cancel or forget.

I get another message from a newcomer we'll call TomCat, who looks rather tasty and is something in the City. He steams right in asking when we can meet, so I make a tentative date for a drink tomorrow night in Islington, as my friend’s son is gigging again, and I have a latent desire to recreate the night MLP and I first met.

Tomorrow I’ll text Eurotrash to see if he wants to come over and play, so as far as the rest of this week is concerned, CC can go and fuck himself.