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…)