Sunday, 26 October 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

Every time I think we’ve finished and I’m laid out on the deck facing north, south, east or west, he starts all over again and this continues until about 5 a.m. when I finally tell him to leave me the hell alone so I can get some sleep.

He goes out like a light snoring like Darth Vader with a sinus problem and I stuff my ear plugs in and when the room eventually stops spinning, I close my eyes and drift away.

After a couple of hours, we start again and make love intermittently between 8 a.m. and midday. I then get up v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and cook us a full English breakfast. He showers, gets dressed, hugs me affectionately and goes off to watch the football.

About an hour after he leaves, I receive an MMS from him: his hand grasping the engorged base of his fully erect penis. I’m a bit surprised it isn’t nesting quietly against his inner thigh, considering the night it’s had, and am rather taken aback by the ensuring video clip of him pleasuring himself. I can hardly walk and he’s at it the minute he gets home!

I text him to stop being a dirty, little bugger as I'm barely firing on half a cylinder and stumble through the next couple of hours tidying up my flat which looks like The International Festival du Fuck has just taken place.

Later I go to the cinema to see Away from Her where I promptly fall asleep missing the central theme of the plot. It’s about a long-married couple, the wife of whom puts herself in a home due to impending Alzheimer’s. I can’t relate to the long-married bit at all… and it would be too sad to contract Alzheimer's and forget all these delicious experiences. Just as well I’m writing them down.

I go to bed early but am woken just after midnight by another text from Cute Face, offering to come over again. I’ll save him for next Saturday. My tender nethers need to convalesce.

Monday. Cute Face texts me on and off all day and when I get home, I suggest he may want to come shopping with me at the weekend to help me choose a a new TV. You’d have thought I’d offered him a shared stateroom on a Caribbean cruise with Angelina Jolie and her twin sister!

God you really know how to get a man going’ he exudes. Electronics shopping…Absolutely!! Bring it on x

He suggests I go for the SkyHD enabled, 72” flat screen, surround-sound VHRAM home cinema thingy, and I tell him all he has to do is put it in the car, carry it up the stairs, install it and teach the Victorian woman how it works. Then I might make him a cup of tea.

'Tea is the only reward I want…' he replies '...that and to ravish your sexy naked body.

You don’t get that at John Lewis. No matter how Never Knowingly Undersold they are.

Now some people might question the fact that a 28-year old is complimenting me on my ‘sexy naked body’ at the age of 62, but I have it on good authority (unforgiving mirror, ex-lovers who come back for more) that it’s not that bad. At least no one’s ever asked for their money back, and frankly, when a man’s blood lust has headed south, I don't think it matters if you're Scarlett Johanssen or a watermelon.

Tuesday. The day begins with a good morning text from Cute Face.

I can’t get rid of my raging horn. You must have warped me, Salisbury.

Methinks it’s all in your mind, young sir... I reply.

The messages degenerate throughout the day into graphic sexual detail
(I wish I had my tongue in your pussy right now… I’m absolutely longing to be inside you and fuck you any way you want me to…I want to feel your cum on my rock hard cock… ) and so on and so forth. He's angling for another invitation before next Saturday. He won’t get it.

My long-term married lover of some thirty years makes one of his occasional calls and asks me if I want to ‘come out to play’ with him and his mistress. We’ve done this once before as I am occasionally partial to a little girl-on-girl action - isn’t everyone?? I decline however. I have enough going on and I can always pick this offer up some other time when the cupboard is bare.

In any case, I reason, what I’m doing now is just biding my time until I begin my Proper Relationship with CC at which point I will drop everyone and everything and commit myself to coupledom.

Self-delusion is alive and well and living in West London.

Monday, 13 October 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

I throw on some make-up, fluff up my hair, change my flats for heels and walk down to the local wine bar.

God! Rugby Player is way better looking than I remembered and he has indeed lost a couple of stone. He’s got a strong jaw with a cleft chin, a thick head of graying hair, and very large green eyes. He’s tall, well-dressed and from his generous present is on the right side of rich. Not that this matters to me, but if I’d passed him in the street, or anywhere else for that matter, I’d have tripped myself up and fallen headfirst into his lap.

I thank him effusively for the lurvely lingerie and ask him if he presumes that by sending such a gift, it buys him the right to handle the goods contained therein.

‘Not at all...’ he replies. ‘There’s no obligation whatsoever…though it would be very nice…I enjoy spoiling beautiful women especially those to whom I am attracted.’

I can’t argue with that. I drink a tomato juice and we chat for a while then he has to go. I kiss him goodbye and by the time I’ve walked home, he’s texted:

You are both striking and have great chat. Looking forward to indulging you xx.

Ooh! OK...Indulge away, I think to myself. I sure as hell ain’t gonna stop you.

Later that evening, while having dinner with my mother and aunt, he texts me again and because I’ve slung some Chilean Chardonnay down my neck and convinced myself that I really fancy him, I’m a little more overt than usual in my reply...

Saturday. I shoot down to Portobello Road to have coffee with an occasional customer of mine, a darling young chap I've wanted to 'mother' since the day we met.

There is a certain je ne sais quoi in the air between us and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got Benjamin-style designs on me. My maternal feelings are rather like reverse MILF i.e. SILF (son I’d like to f***…)

When we say goodbye, he kisses me fondly and says: ‘We must go out for dinner sometime.’ Yes, I think. We must.

I go home to prepare some pasta for my children, and while I’m doing this, I’m on the phone negotiating a lower price for a piece of furniture I saw in All Saint's Road.

My mobile goes off, but I ignore it and carry on with my wheeler-dealing while stirring the Bolognese. I lean over to look at the mobile screen and it says a name I don’t immediately recognize. I have a habit of giving people code names when I save them and I can't always remember who they are.

I think it may be my son-in-law’s father, but as I hang up the furniture call and pick up the mobile, I realise who it actually is.



My joy at seeing his name on the screen is totally disproportionate with any emotions I’ve experienced in the last ten years and I savour the moment before pressing the answer key.

‘Hallo?’ I say innocently, as if I don’t know who I'm speaking to.

He introduces himself and I come over all warm and soppy. As usual (he's really such a wimp) he starts with an apology.

‘I’m sorry...I’ve felt guilty all week at not phoning you.’

‘Well I was going to come round and pour melted cheese through your letter box,’ I counter, but of course I couldn’t have done this, as Mr. Cagey has never given me his home address.

‘I suppose you have a whole list of creative vendettas to draw on,’ he comments fearfully. ‘Nothing as mundane as cutting up my ties…’

The conversation carries on in this vein but by the end of it, we have another date arranged. I've agreed to let him take me out, and somehow this time, I think we’ll make it. I feel so happy I could fly.

The children arrive, eat, play and leave, and remaining on my high, I get ready for the evening.

I drive to the station and park the car where I can see the exit. Cute Face arrives on time and I see him clocking another woman. He looks like he might dive back down the tube as she’s a dog and I can tell by his uncomfortable body language that he thinks she might be me.

I bound out of the car and cross the road, and his relief is evident. We kiss Hallo and he hands me a carrier bag which contains a bottle of Taittinger. Nice one. When he’d asked me this morning if I preferred red or white, I told him to surprise me. He has.

We have a couple of drinks at the Elgin then go home as planned to watch TV.

We make kir royales with the Taittinger and once we’ve finished those, I liberate some peach and raspberry schnapps shots from the freezer. I then send him into the kitchen to concoct a toxic cocktail into which he throws rum, vodka, amaretto, brandy and fruit juice. For someone who doesn’t drink, I’m doing a passable impression of a very boozy floozy.

I put on some Bon Jovi and we crash around the living-room in what we think is dancing but which is, in fact, bumping into things. This isn’t clever, as my furniture - and I – bruise quite easily.

He then decides he fancies some more champagne and without asking, he raids my fridge and opens the nice, cold bottle of Mo√ęt I’d been saving for a special occasion. (I can’t be sure that this is not it...)

We throw the bottle back and forth to each other, spilling a fair amount on the settee and carpet. I suddenly think I’m going to throw up and rush to the loo, but the nausea passes and I lurch back into the living-room and change the music to the Pointer Sisters.

The neighbours will surely appreciate our authenticity as we obey the order to Jump!

At around 11 p.m. having had no dinner and enough booze to sink the Bismarck, we stagger like drunken sailors into the bedroom where we embark on an orgy of rampant sex.

I can’t remember the finer details of this fuck-athon except to say that I really enjoyed it.

And it goes on for a very long time.

And apart from a Cute Face, Cute Smile, Cute Body and Cute Bum, he has a Huge Cock.


Sunday, 5 October 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...6.10.08

I buzz the postman in and he climbs the stairs and delivers unto me a small square parcel. There are no clues on the label or the packaging as to who this might be from, but I slash the tape impatiently with my trusty Stanley knife, and rip off the outer wrapping.

As curiosity courses through me and my inner kitten squeals and hides beneath the sofa, a stylish, little Myla box reveals itself (think Agent Provocateur with added lady).

A slow smile tickles the corners of my mouth as I carefully unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful ivory satin lingerie bag with a hand-curled loop and button clasp in tangerine silk.

Inside is an exquisite strapless bra with matching lace panties. I don’t think anyone has ever sent me lingerie before. Bought it for me, fastened it on me, peeled it off me, but sent it to me through the post? Never. Not in my entire life. A stiff little card reads:

Enjoy. From New York Boy.

I was right. This is from Rugby Player and it's his much anticipated gift. I shake my head in amazement and grin widely. I am still able to do this as I have not, as yet, succumbed to Botox.

I rattle my proverbial pedestal and CC, precariously balanced at the top, crashes to the kitchen floor. Other wannabee mountaineers ascending the rock face of my affections stop in their tracks, look up, look down and wonder if it’s worth the rest of the climb.

Rugby Player now stands proudly at the top, arms folded triumphantly across his broad and manly chest, one foot planted firmly on a heart-shaped boulder. For the moment - for me - he is The Man.

I text him an effusive thank you and rip my clothes off to try the undies on. Although glamorous in the extreme, the bra is not a great fit, so I go to the Myla website and establish that I can change it. No point in keeping something I can’t wear, is there?

He’s spent £95 on some ecru lace dental floss whose company slogan is 'Accessories for your Sex Life' on the off chance that this may improve his. Unlikely if he’s in New York and I’m in London, but if a plane ticket in the sharp end of a jumbo jet was forthcoming, I could be persuaded.

At lunchtime, I get a text from Tom Cat saying he enjoyed our meeting last night, swiftly following by one from Cute Face getting ever more excited about our date tomorrow. He tells me he’s going for a haircut and I order him not to as I like my toyboys a tad unkempt. He insists he needs the haircut anyway and promises to maintain a degree of scruffiness.

We carry on texting silliness throughout the afternoon which could be why I’m developing RSI in my right thumb. Or it could be arthritis. At my age, anything is possible.

Rugby Player texts me back to say he landed in London early this morning and has six hours to kill until his next flight out again. Now I could have just left this alone, because God knows, I’ve got enough going on plus a stack of work to do, but because it’s Friday and it’s 3.30 p.m., I feel like knocking off early. So I do...