Another few minutes pass, during which time I develop a tic in my right eye. It flickers uncontrollably like Herbert Lom’s in The Pink Panther every time Clouseau hove into view.
Now I’m slightly tipsy and my eye’s all a’quiver. Maybe if I break both ankles as I’m going down the stairs, I can claim disability allowance and retire gracefully to Eastbourne, then I won’t have to worry about dating inappropriate men any more.
Unable to contain myself any longer, I pick up my handbag and keys, lock my front door and walk very carefully down the three flights of stairs. I twitch for another few minutes in the hallway of my block and finally, a black cab pulls up.
I leave my building smiling and walk confidently towards him, like a clapperboard's just been clapped and the director’s barked: ‘Action!!’
He’s in the back of the taxi on his mobile phone. He grasps my hand as I climb in and pulls a face by way of apology. I mouthe ‘Don’t worry…’ and squeeze his hand so tightly I nearly fracture his fingers.
I look at him and I look at him again. God. He is handsome. More so than I remember. I haven’t seen him since that awful night he fell apart in my little tub chair, and he’s actually improved.
The illusion I have of him in my mind did not, strangely, include the way he looks. It was more about the complexity of his character and the way he made me feel on holiday...certainly not since as, if you weigh it up, a major brain fuck is not perhaps that seductive.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, a grey suit and no tie. I’ve only ever seen him in ski wear or jeans. Or naked.
He finishes his call and turns to me and we give each other a big hug and a kiss on each cheek.
‘You look absolutely gorgeous…’ he says softly, looking me up and down with undisguised admiration.
Then he releases my hand abruptly, as if by holding on to it he might be lured back into some dark place he neither understands nor wishes to go.
‘It’s all new,’ I reply, so glad that he’s noticed. ‘Especially for tonight.’
Accommodate him, please him, make-him-feel-at-ease-him.
He apologizes again for having come straight from work and for being late, then draws my attention to the fact that his shoes could have been cleaner.
‘But you’ve been working,’ I say, helping to excuse him. I wouldn’t have cared if he’d been wearing one gold flip flop and one dog-eared trainer.
‘I’d wanted to go home and change, but I ran out of time’ he explains. ‘In fact, I nearly had to cancel again, but I knew that wouldn’t have gone down too well…’
Too right it wouldn’t.
‘Why what happened?’ I ask, deeply interested in what his idea of a good reason to cancel would have been.
‘There was a crisis at a property I’m renovating, but I got someone else to deal with it. If I’d had to go there myself, I suppose I could have picked you up first and taken you with...?’
‘I wouldn’t have minded that,’ I answer. ‘I would’ve put jeans on and we could’ve got a takeaway pizza…as long as we’d been together…that’s all I want…’
I drop my voice to little more than a whisper.
‘And I’ve not been well again since we last met…’ he informs me, with a drop of whine in his voice.
‘You look very well now,’ I flatter. ‘How do you feel?’
The correct answer would have been ‘All the better for seeing you’ but I don’t get that.
Instead he’s looking straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought. His hands are clasped together in his lap. I want to take one in mine and lift it to my lips but I don’t want to freak him out.
We make small talk for the rest of the journey and arrive at the restaurant where he orders two glasses of champagne. We clink a toast to seeing each other again and relax into conversation, like two normal people out on a date.
We share a bottle of wine with the meal. I know I’ll have a headache in the morning but I don’t care. I don’t need my head for anything other than thinking about him and that’s been an ache for the past five weeks anyway.
When I laugh at something he says, I realize I haven’t laughed since the last time we laughed together, and I tell him this because it’s true.
I take the conversation back to the good times we shared, trying to remind him how wonderful we were together in those carefree, heady, fun-filled days.
‘And oh those lazy afternoons... when it was snowing too hard to do anything but...' I sigh but he will not meet my eyes.
We talk about work and what’s on at the theatre, and there’s actually a play he wants to see. I immediately offer to buy the tickets and suggest we go together.
He hesitates, and I know I’m going too fast. I've definitely assumed the role of predator here, over keen, over-aged and over here. When an over eager suitor does this to me, I find it really annoying.
As we near the end of the meal, I notice a button hanging loose from the cuff of his jacket, and another one actually missing.
‘You need someone to look after you…’ I offer sweetly. ‘If you want to come home with me later, I’ll sew them back on for you.’
He looks at me as if I’ve just told him I’ve laid animal traps all up my stairs and there’s little chance of him avoiding them.
He pulls at his sleeve trying to turn it round so I won’t see it.
‘You’ll tell all your friends I arrived late looking like a tramp,’ he gripes, clearly embarrassed that I’ve noticed another flaw in his presentation,
‘Don’t be silly’ I cajole. ‘I’ll tell them that you arrived on a white charger, all tall and gorgeous, and that we had a wonderful time. That’s right, isn’t it?’
He manages to nod and shake his head all at the same time, an action Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men perfected it in the fifties.
Now it’s me who needs reassuring, me who feels insecure. I’m trying to love the pants off him and he’s shrinking down in his seat like a puppet whose master’s let go of the strings.
We share a chocolate mousse, then he pays the bill and we walk down Charing Cross Road to find a cab. He doesn’t hold my hand nor take my arm but strides on ahead looking left and right. At one point, a group of drunken youths block my path, and I have to step this way and that to get past them.
I call out to him: ‘Look after me, please. I’m about to be hi-jacked here!’ and he slows down and I take his arm.
This doesn’t feel natural. He’s holding it stiffly away from his body like someone’s left a brolly stuck up his sleeve. I let go and we carry on walking separately.
We eventually find a cab and climb in and at last, he takes my hand and I entwine my legs through his. He looks down at my feet.
‘Oh what lovely shoes!’ he remarks and I snuggle up closer to him.
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Saturday, 22 November 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
...but of course, I must be slightly attached because as the hours tick by and I don’t hear from him, I start to feel slightly miffed. I didn’t expect the mad momentum of last week - that would have been unreasonable – but a 'thank you for having me :- )' wouldn’t have gone amiss.
I get on with my day getting increasingly peeved whilst attempting to accept the inevitable. I consider texting him, but what would I say? A telling-off would be churlish and I sure as hell ain’t gonna thank him considering I did most of the work! I prepare myself for the fact that now he's had his way, I may never hear from him again.
At 6.30 p.m., I go to yoga and then for a drink with some of the girls. A guy comes over to chat to us but he’s wearing a wedding band so I send him packing, and as I’m heading back home, my phone finally vibrates. It’s Cute Face. About bloody time.
Hey sexy. Had a good day?
I smile and thank G-d that normal service has been resumed. I wait a while before replying (he's punished) and we make another date for Wednesday, in his words 'a school night', so if CC on Tuesday goes horribly wrong, at least I’ll have something to fall back on.
Just before signing off for the night, when he’s obviously having a bit of a personal fondle, Cute Face enquires if he can he ask me a very personal question. I could put money on what’s coming...
Do you ever take it up the arse? I’ve never really tried it…not bothered either way but I thought I’d ask x
How very charming! And nice that he ended with a kiss.
While I'm composing my reply which takes a while, he sends a mildly panicked Have I offended you? obviously worried that he’s gone too far.
I tried it once (thrice actually) but it didn’t work for me. Too painful, too many nasties involved and it didn’t turn me on. I know women who like it but I’m not one of them. In case the next question is ‘Do you swallow?’ I’m not keen on that either. Are you getting bored already??!
I don’t hear back from him so I shrug, switch everything off and go to sleep.
Tuesday. Today’s the today. My date with CC. He won’t cancel now, will he? I expect I’ll hear from him sometime later to confirm. I’ll give him ‘til 5, then I’ll give him ‘til 6.
I have lunch with a girlfriend in the café where I write and just as she's leaving, my mobile rings. I leap out of my seat as I see CC's name on the screen and I run out into the street to where the noise levels are lower.
I don’t want him to hear the background buzz in case he thinks I’m here with someone else. That might make him insecure again. The situation's tenuous enough as it is…
He sounds bright and perky and offers to pick me up in a cab at 7.15 to which I agree with effusive thanks. We hang up with a jointly chirpy ‘See you later' and I try to work on through the afternoon.
At 5.30 I go home to start getting ready. I change into my new coral top with the matching silk skirt, and slip into my taupe patent high heel shoes, finishing off with a pearl necklace and earrings. He’s never seen me this dressed up before. I hope he likes it.
At 6.36, I’m absolutely bricking it. If I put any more make up on, I’ll look like a drag queen. I need a drink, but I don’t want to smell of alcohol and I also feel I might throw up. Notwithstanding this, I pour myself a vodka and cranberry juice, crack some ice into it and down it in one.
Rugby Player texts me à propos of nothing: You are an uber sexy version of Jennie Bond. What the fuck is he talking about?
I ignore him ‘cos he’s disturbing this deliciously anticipatory moment, but at 7.20 I declare CC officially late.
I’m not unduly worried. The drink has calmed me down somewhat but now I’m dying for a fag. That would truly be the kiss of death. He’s very anti-smoking and he would definitely smell it on me. And I don’t really smoke anyway, except I really need one NOW.
My phone rings suddenly and I grab it off the kitchen table. It’s him. He can’t make it. No, it’s OK. He’s apologizing. He’ll be another five minutes.
‘No problem!’ I squeak brightly.
You can be five years late, mate, as long as you turn up eventually…and I take a long, neat slug from the vodka bottle.
I check myself in the mirror one last time. Short of stripping everything off and starting again, there’s not a lot else I can do.
I get on with my day getting increasingly peeved whilst attempting to accept the inevitable. I consider texting him, but what would I say? A telling-off would be churlish and I sure as hell ain’t gonna thank him considering I did most of the work! I prepare myself for the fact that now he's had his way, I may never hear from him again.
At 6.30 p.m., I go to yoga and then for a drink with some of the girls. A guy comes over to chat to us but he’s wearing a wedding band so I send him packing, and as I’m heading back home, my phone finally vibrates. It’s Cute Face. About bloody time.
Hey sexy. Had a good day?
I smile and thank G-d that normal service has been resumed. I wait a while before replying (he's punished) and we make another date for Wednesday, in his words 'a school night', so if CC on Tuesday goes horribly wrong, at least I’ll have something to fall back on.
Just before signing off for the night, when he’s obviously having a bit of a personal fondle, Cute Face enquires if he can he ask me a very personal question. I could put money on what’s coming...
Do you ever take it up the arse? I’ve never really tried it…not bothered either way but I thought I’d ask x
How very charming! And nice that he ended with a kiss.
While I'm composing my reply which takes a while, he sends a mildly panicked Have I offended you? obviously worried that he’s gone too far.
I tried it once (thrice actually) but it didn’t work for me. Too painful, too many nasties involved and it didn’t turn me on. I know women who like it but I’m not one of them. In case the next question is ‘Do you swallow?’ I’m not keen on that either. Are you getting bored already??!
I don’t hear back from him so I shrug, switch everything off and go to sleep.
Tuesday. Today’s the today. My date with CC. He won’t cancel now, will he? I expect I’ll hear from him sometime later to confirm. I’ll give him ‘til 5, then I’ll give him ‘til 6.
I have lunch with a girlfriend in the café where I write and just as she's leaving, my mobile rings. I leap out of my seat as I see CC's name on the screen and I run out into the street to where the noise levels are lower.
I don’t want him to hear the background buzz in case he thinks I’m here with someone else. That might make him insecure again. The situation's tenuous enough as it is…
He sounds bright and perky and offers to pick me up in a cab at 7.15 to which I agree with effusive thanks. We hang up with a jointly chirpy ‘See you later' and I try to work on through the afternoon.
At 5.30 I go home to start getting ready. I change into my new coral top with the matching silk skirt, and slip into my taupe patent high heel shoes, finishing off with a pearl necklace and earrings. He’s never seen me this dressed up before. I hope he likes it.
At 6.36, I’m absolutely bricking it. If I put any more make up on, I’ll look like a drag queen. I need a drink, but I don’t want to smell of alcohol and I also feel I might throw up. Notwithstanding this, I pour myself a vodka and cranberry juice, crack some ice into it and down it in one.
Rugby Player texts me à propos of nothing: You are an uber sexy version of Jennie Bond. What the fuck is he talking about?
I ignore him ‘cos he’s disturbing this deliciously anticipatory moment, but at 7.20 I declare CC officially late.
I’m not unduly worried. The drink has calmed me down somewhat but now I’m dying for a fag. That would truly be the kiss of death. He’s very anti-smoking and he would definitely smell it on me. And I don’t really smoke anyway, except I really need one NOW.
My phone rings suddenly and I grab it off the kitchen table. It’s him. He can’t make it. No, it’s OK. He’s apologizing. He’ll be another five minutes.
‘No problem!’ I squeak brightly.
You can be five years late, mate, as long as you turn up eventually…and I take a long, neat slug from the vodka bottle.
I check myself in the mirror one last time. Short of stripping everything off and starting again, there’s not a lot else I can do.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Sunday, 9 November 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...9/11/08
I'm talking to my girlfriend about sex at sixty. She’s currently got it all going on with a 67-year old millionaire from Monte Carlo who slams her up against the wall every time they meet. (This relationship doesn't last...)
We discuss the aggravation aspect of men versus no men which is a no-brainer. Of course there’s aggravation. It goes with the territory. (And talking of aggravation, I still think CC is worth fighting for…)
I notice in the mirror that I’ve got a spot on my chin…perhaps it comes from behaving like an adolescent. Having the spot is bad enough, but now that I’ve mucked about with it, it’s looking a lot worse.
I wonder, if I cover it with enough make-up, will I be able to angle my face in such a way as not to rub the make-up off when Cute Face kisses me? (There are people out there dying, but this to me is a major problem. All my lifetime I should have such problems...)
It’s a very sunny day and The Spot will no doubt shine out from my chin like the Eddystone Lighthouse. Maybe I’ll pass on the TV shopping and stall Cute Face until it gets dark, bearing in mind he’s told me several times what’s going to happen the minute he steps across my threshold. Out Damned Spot! I’ll have to bank on him not noticing the mantelpiece while he’s stoking the fire.
I go to have my hair trimmed and finish earlier than expected. Now I have two hours to kill. As if reading my thoughts, he texts to ask if 3.30 is still OK.
Or sooner? I offer, forgetting about the sun/Spot situation. 2.30? he enquires eagerly. Go on then…x I reply and dash home to change my clothes - four times as if it matters.
I’m delighted to see that it’s started raining. I close the bedroom curtains so there’s not a chink of light, and I potter about in the kitchen ‘til the doorbell rings.
He bounds up the stairs and the minute I set eyes on him, I start giggling. I knew I would. All the sexual build-up of the past week de-materializes into a form of embarrassment, as we hug and kiss awkwardly on the doorstep and I lead him into the living-room.
We sit down on the sofa both talking rubbish at once and I wonder where all the feelings went. How liberated we were by text, without eye contact, without inhibitions… I offer him something to drink but because it’s too early for alcohol, the afternoon turns into Mrs. Beeton’s Victorian tea party.
I’m in my comfort zone: boiling the kettle, buttering the crumpets, preparing the tea things on a pink embroidered traycloth, decanting some raspberry jam into a small china ramekin. He appreciates this and it diffuses the tension between us.
He puts the (old) TV on (we’re not going to make it out, are we?) and we relax in each other’s arms. It’s only 3.20 p.m. We have all the time in the world…
By 3.27 p.m. we’re in bed with our heads between each other’s legs and the week long fantasy is coming true. How blissfully liberating is Saturday afternoon sex, especially when you’ve got the rest of the weekend ahead of you…
Our ardour rises rapidly and I’m glad he’s not tall as we fit each other perfectly, whichever way you turn it. He’s shaved his entire genital area and with my fresh Hollywood frou-frou, we’re both as silky smooth as Romeo and Juliet without the family problems.
When we finish our first bout, he puts The Robe on (see Chapter Five The Toyboy Diaries) and with me in my lilac tracksuit, we go back to the fireside sofa for more tea and a game of Scrabble.
It really is delightfully dichotomous: a 28-year-old and a 61-year-old who happen to be lovers, hot for each other one minute, competitive with word games the next. He’s never played before. He picks it up bloody fast and tries to thrash me. I can see the makings of a Very Bad Loser, and we finish two points short of each other, him winning under my expert tutelage. To celebrate his victory, I give him a blow job which leads to us going back to bed for Round Two.
As I am, at this point, needing a little help to reach my destination, I fantasize that I’m a young nun being raped by the Mother Superior wearing a strap-on.
At 6 p.m., the designated 'cocktail hour', he opens a bottle of rosé for himself, pours me a Scotch and ginger and I cut up some crudités to eat with the blue cheese dip I prepared earlier.
We relax back on the sofa, cuddled up in each other’s arms. It’s cold and wet outside but the stars are aligned in perfect symmetry. At 8 p.m. I stick some Waitrose Thai in the oven and we eat in off a tray in front of the tele. Aaaah! Blissto.
Having started our date at 2.30 p.m. and had two energetic bouts of deeply satisfying sex, by 10 p.m. we’re both shattered. He falls asleep on the sofa spooned in behind me snoring like a hog. I tolerate this for as long as I am able, then I get up and clear away the dinner things. When I go back to check on him, he’s flat out on the couch, one leg thrown over the back, his face buried in a pile of cushions. The snoring continues apace, so I switch off all the lights, lower the volume on the TV, and take myself - happily alone - off to bed.
I contemplate throwing a duvet over him to make him more comfortable but I can’t be arsed to rummage around looking for it. And I certainly don’t want to wake him up, so I adjust the heating instead, remove my make-up and go to sleep.
At around 2 a.m. I hear him get up and go the loo, and then, of course, he comes to join me. Damn. He snuggles up but I ignore him and he soon falls back to sleep his face pressed up hard against my neck. The snoring begins again in earnest, and I push him away crossly and reach for my ear plugs. He spreadeagles himself across my bed then wriggles through the rest of the night, until he’s wrapped up like a mummy in my top sheet. For a little guy, he sure takes up a lot of space and I am now seriously uncomfortable, wide awake and very grumpy. I keep trying to shove him away but he’s too hard to shift.
God! I think. The price one has to pay for a couple of man-made orgasms. (Hail, oh Rabbit! I love thee well…)
We discuss the aggravation aspect of men versus no men which is a no-brainer. Of course there’s aggravation. It goes with the territory. (And talking of aggravation, I still think CC is worth fighting for…)
I notice in the mirror that I’ve got a spot on my chin…perhaps it comes from behaving like an adolescent. Having the spot is bad enough, but now that I’ve mucked about with it, it’s looking a lot worse.
I wonder, if I cover it with enough make-up, will I be able to angle my face in such a way as not to rub the make-up off when Cute Face kisses me? (There are people out there dying, but this to me is a major problem. All my lifetime I should have such problems...)
It’s a very sunny day and The Spot will no doubt shine out from my chin like the Eddystone Lighthouse. Maybe I’ll pass on the TV shopping and stall Cute Face until it gets dark, bearing in mind he’s told me several times what’s going to happen the minute he steps across my threshold. Out Damned Spot! I’ll have to bank on him not noticing the mantelpiece while he’s stoking the fire.
I go to have my hair trimmed and finish earlier than expected. Now I have two hours to kill. As if reading my thoughts, he texts to ask if 3.30 is still OK.
Or sooner? I offer, forgetting about the sun/Spot situation. 2.30? he enquires eagerly. Go on then…x I reply and dash home to change my clothes - four times as if it matters.
I’m delighted to see that it’s started raining. I close the bedroom curtains so there’s not a chink of light, and I potter about in the kitchen ‘til the doorbell rings.
He bounds up the stairs and the minute I set eyes on him, I start giggling. I knew I would. All the sexual build-up of the past week de-materializes into a form of embarrassment, as we hug and kiss awkwardly on the doorstep and I lead him into the living-room.
We sit down on the sofa both talking rubbish at once and I wonder where all the feelings went. How liberated we were by text, without eye contact, without inhibitions… I offer him something to drink but because it’s too early for alcohol, the afternoon turns into Mrs. Beeton’s Victorian tea party.
I’m in my comfort zone: boiling the kettle, buttering the crumpets, preparing the tea things on a pink embroidered traycloth, decanting some raspberry jam into a small china ramekin. He appreciates this and it diffuses the tension between us.
He puts the (old) TV on (we’re not going to make it out, are we?) and we relax in each other’s arms. It’s only 3.20 p.m. We have all the time in the world…
By 3.27 p.m. we’re in bed with our heads between each other’s legs and the week long fantasy is coming true. How blissfully liberating is Saturday afternoon sex, especially when you’ve got the rest of the weekend ahead of you…
Our ardour rises rapidly and I’m glad he’s not tall as we fit each other perfectly, whichever way you turn it. He’s shaved his entire genital area and with my fresh Hollywood frou-frou, we’re both as silky smooth as Romeo and Juliet without the family problems.
When we finish our first bout, he puts The Robe on (see Chapter Five The Toyboy Diaries) and with me in my lilac tracksuit, we go back to the fireside sofa for more tea and a game of Scrabble.
It really is delightfully dichotomous: a 28-year-old and a 61-year-old who happen to be lovers, hot for each other one minute, competitive with word games the next. He’s never played before. He picks it up bloody fast and tries to thrash me. I can see the makings of a Very Bad Loser, and we finish two points short of each other, him winning under my expert tutelage. To celebrate his victory, I give him a blow job which leads to us going back to bed for Round Two.
As I am, at this point, needing a little help to reach my destination, I fantasize that I’m a young nun being raped by the Mother Superior wearing a strap-on.
At 6 p.m., the designated 'cocktail hour', he opens a bottle of rosé for himself, pours me a Scotch and ginger and I cut up some crudités to eat with the blue cheese dip I prepared earlier.
We relax back on the sofa, cuddled up in each other’s arms. It’s cold and wet outside but the stars are aligned in perfect symmetry. At 8 p.m. I stick some Waitrose Thai in the oven and we eat in off a tray in front of the tele. Aaaah! Blissto.
Having started our date at 2.30 p.m. and had two energetic bouts of deeply satisfying sex, by 10 p.m. we’re both shattered. He falls asleep on the sofa spooned in behind me snoring like a hog. I tolerate this for as long as I am able, then I get up and clear away the dinner things. When I go back to check on him, he’s flat out on the couch, one leg thrown over the back, his face buried in a pile of cushions. The snoring continues apace, so I switch off all the lights, lower the volume on the TV, and take myself - happily alone - off to bed.
I contemplate throwing a duvet over him to make him more comfortable but I can’t be arsed to rummage around looking for it. And I certainly don’t want to wake him up, so I adjust the heating instead, remove my make-up and go to sleep.
At around 2 a.m. I hear him get up and go the loo, and then, of course, he comes to join me. Damn. He snuggles up but I ignore him and he soon falls back to sleep his face pressed up hard against my neck. The snoring begins again in earnest, and I push him away crossly and reach for my ear plugs. He spreadeagles himself across my bed then wriggles through the rest of the night, until he’s wrapped up like a mummy in my top sheet. For a little guy, he sure takes up a lot of space and I am now seriously uncomfortable, wide awake and very grumpy. I keep trying to shove him away but he’s too hard to shift.
God! I think. The price one has to pay for a couple of man-made orgasms. (Hail, oh Rabbit! I love thee well…)
Sunday, 2 November 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
Thursday. The past two days have been totally dominated by Cute Face and his not unwelcome barrage of horny, little texts filling my inbox with fun and filth, and my mind with anticipation for the weekend ahead.
It amuses me to reply in kind (any exercise in writing is a writing exercise) but I get to wondering if my 350 free texts are going to be sufficient this month - Heaven forbid this interlude should begin to cost me money!
Of course I know it won’t last. It reminds me of the beginning with MLP when it was all full-on and brimming with pent-up passion. How do you get that intensity to last? I’ve never found the formula even with my great age and experience.
I’m wondering (like it matters) whether Cute Face and I haven’t gone into overkill mode with all this expectation – the fantasy being better than the reality 'n all.
If he’s told me once he’s told me a thousand times how much he’s looking forward to seeing me again, longing to have his body next to mine, to gently slip inside me and feel how wet I am around his throbbing cock, making him wanna cum so hard he could burst, how he fancies me something rotten, that I’m well fit, that he’ll do anything for me - anything at all. It's all guff, of course...but it's a shame I can’t put him in a pot with CC and melt them both down to make the perfect partner!
The postman arrives with my replacement Myla bra. It looks beautiful. I’ll send Rugby Player another 'thank you' later when I’ve tried it on. It’s the middle of the night in New York anyway, and he’s probably busy wooing someone else.
I wonder whether to wear this new lingerie for my date with Cute Face on Saturday. I’m not sure that’s what RP intended when he sent it to me, but CF is here and RP isn’t and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Thursday night. I go out to eat over-priced Asian Fusion with the Lizard of Oz. Bless him, he’s in his sixties and still behaves like a teenager. Whoops...pot kettle black. Shame I don’t fancy him or we’d both be sorted. No more gallivanting shenanigans with unsuitable brain fucks.
I thought I saw CC in the restaurant. I did a double take and my heart made a bid for freedom by trying to punch a hole through my chest. But it wasn’t him.
Friday. I dreamt about CC all night. He called me (which would have been nice) and in my dream, we talk a lot about how it was between us when we first met and what’s been happening since. Not what I’ve been doing, Christ! I’m hardly likely to tell him that!! Anyway, it’s his fault I’m on this path of self-destruction...or ‘having a laugh’ as I prefer to call it.
In the context of ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’, I text Cute Face:
No more texting til we meet tomorrow. First one to crack gets a smack.
Rain is predicted. Good. We won’t feel guilty about staying in bed the entire weekend.
The ‘no texting’ policy falls at the first hurdle when he caves and starts e-mailing me. I ignore him.
I go to the beauty parlour and instead of a Brazilian, I have a full Hollywood. I’d already broached the subject with him and he told me to surprise him. I surprise myself by managing not to scream. I cave back and text him:
Ouch! I hope you like 12-yr olds…
Completely off? he replies. Cool. I’ll be giving you a good tongue lashing tomorrow.
A little later, obviously having pondered the matter at length (like Albert Einstein pondering the Theory of Relativity) he asks:
So when you get a wax, do you have to get naked?
How else? I reply. What are you thinking about? Another woman touching my cho-cho?
I wasn’t… but I am now! Have you ever done that? Not that I’m asking… you’re more than enough for lil' ol' me but I bet you have, being the experienced woman you are
I continue to wind him up until it’s time to go to my mother’s for dinner. Halfway through a bowl of her especially delicious chicken soup with matzo balls, Rugby Player texts me: How’s the new underwear?
Shit. I forgot to let him know it had arrived or to thank him.
I reply and a conversation ensues:
Absolutely gorgeous. Thanks again. It’ll look stunning hanging from the canopy of a king-size 4-poster bed...
I’d like to see that…
Play your cards right…
I have another pressie for you. But it’s rather more personal…
Avec batteries I presume?
Spot on!
I leave it after that. If he’s into buying presents, I have no wish to discourage that. And not replying gives me a credit. In case I should ever wish to text him first. Which I don’t.
Cute Face is out with mates tonight getting drunk. Why do they do that when they know they need to be on top form the following night?
Saturday. On waking, I find two voice messages in my mail box. Both very drunk, sent in the early hours, the noise of his feet crunching along a road.
I’m really really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow… hic…byebyebye…
followed by something that sounds like him tripping up, then a thud and a groan.
The second message is four minutes long, not talking but walking. He’s obviously forgotten to hang up the first call.
At 10.15 a.m. I text him:
Good morning! x and an hour later, he replies:
not feelin gr8
There’s a surprise… says I. Can you get here by 3.30 so we can go and buy the tele? but I don’t hear back.
I’m not unduly worried. Well maybe just a little.
It amuses me to reply in kind (any exercise in writing is a writing exercise) but I get to wondering if my 350 free texts are going to be sufficient this month - Heaven forbid this interlude should begin to cost me money!
Of course I know it won’t last. It reminds me of the beginning with MLP when it was all full-on and brimming with pent-up passion. How do you get that intensity to last? I’ve never found the formula even with my great age and experience.
I’m wondering (like it matters) whether Cute Face and I haven’t gone into overkill mode with all this expectation – the fantasy being better than the reality 'n all.
If he’s told me once he’s told me a thousand times how much he’s looking forward to seeing me again, longing to have his body next to mine, to gently slip inside me and feel how wet I am around his throbbing cock, making him wanna cum so hard he could burst, how he fancies me something rotten, that I’m well fit, that he’ll do anything for me - anything at all. It's all guff, of course...but it's a shame I can’t put him in a pot with CC and melt them both down to make the perfect partner!
The postman arrives with my replacement Myla bra. It looks beautiful. I’ll send Rugby Player another 'thank you' later when I’ve tried it on. It’s the middle of the night in New York anyway, and he’s probably busy wooing someone else.
I wonder whether to wear this new lingerie for my date with Cute Face on Saturday. I’m not sure that’s what RP intended when he sent it to me, but CF is here and RP isn’t and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Thursday night. I go out to eat over-priced Asian Fusion with the Lizard of Oz. Bless him, he’s in his sixties and still behaves like a teenager. Whoops...pot kettle black. Shame I don’t fancy him or we’d both be sorted. No more gallivanting shenanigans with unsuitable brain fucks.
I thought I saw CC in the restaurant. I did a double take and my heart made a bid for freedom by trying to punch a hole through my chest. But it wasn’t him.
Friday. I dreamt about CC all night. He called me (which would have been nice) and in my dream, we talk a lot about how it was between us when we first met and what’s been happening since. Not what I’ve been doing, Christ! I’m hardly likely to tell him that!! Anyway, it’s his fault I’m on this path of self-destruction...or ‘having a laugh’ as I prefer to call it.
In the context of ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’, I text Cute Face:
No more texting til we meet tomorrow. First one to crack gets a smack.
Rain is predicted. Good. We won’t feel guilty about staying in bed the entire weekend.
The ‘no texting’ policy falls at the first hurdle when he caves and starts e-mailing me. I ignore him.
I go to the beauty parlour and instead of a Brazilian, I have a full Hollywood. I’d already broached the subject with him and he told me to surprise him. I surprise myself by managing not to scream. I cave back and text him:
Ouch! I hope you like 12-yr olds…
Completely off? he replies. Cool. I’ll be giving you a good tongue lashing tomorrow.
A little later, obviously having pondered the matter at length (like Albert Einstein pondering the Theory of Relativity) he asks:
So when you get a wax, do you have to get naked?
How else? I reply. What are you thinking about? Another woman touching my cho-cho?
I wasn’t… but I am now! Have you ever done that? Not that I’m asking… you’re more than enough for lil' ol' me but I bet you have, being the experienced woman you are
I continue to wind him up until it’s time to go to my mother’s for dinner. Halfway through a bowl of her especially delicious chicken soup with matzo balls, Rugby Player texts me: How’s the new underwear?
Shit. I forgot to let him know it had arrived or to thank him.
I reply and a conversation ensues:
Absolutely gorgeous. Thanks again. It’ll look stunning hanging from the canopy of a king-size 4-poster bed...
I’d like to see that…
Play your cards right…
I have another pressie for you. But it’s rather more personal…
Avec batteries I presume?
Spot on!
I leave it after that. If he’s into buying presents, I have no wish to discourage that. And not replying gives me a credit. In case I should ever wish to text him first. Which I don’t.
Cute Face is out with mates tonight getting drunk. Why do they do that when they know they need to be on top form the following night?
Saturday. On waking, I find two voice messages in my mail box. Both very drunk, sent in the early hours, the noise of his feet crunching along a road.
I’m really really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow… hic…byebyebye…
followed by something that sounds like him tripping up, then a thud and a groan.
The second message is four minutes long, not talking but walking. He’s obviously forgotten to hang up the first call.
At 10.15 a.m. I text him:
Good morning! x and an hour later, he replies:
not feelin gr8
There’s a surprise… says I. Can you get here by 3.30 so we can go and buy the tele? but I don’t hear back.
I’m not unduly worried. Well maybe just a little.
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