Just a little Hi to all my readers to wish you all a very Happy, Healthy and Successful 2009 and to thank you all for your support since I started this blog.
'The Daily Male' will be published as a sequel to 'The Toyboy Diaries' in the New Year in a slightly different format with plenty of new experiences and I'll keep you all posted as to progress.
Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and once again, every good wish for the New Year and thanks for reading.
Best regards,
Wendy x
Wednesday 31 December 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...31/12/08
46 (CC's age) is a pretty good number, so I log on to toyboywarehouse and metaphorically trade him in for one 22-year old and one 24-year old who both contacted me last night. One’s fair, one’s dark, and they’re both called Dan and are 'curious to learn more about the older woman' so who better to teach them than Yours Untruly? Either way, I’m Dan-ned if I do and Dan-ned if I don’t.
We email back and forth awhile - I have no idea which is which but no matter – and I wonder if it might be amusing to arrange to meet them both together.
In the afternoon, I prepare for a short business trip which will give me a chance to rethink some of my less-than-brilliant ideas most notably that last one.
Tuesday. Skopje. I’m travelling with a group of fifteen women headed by HRH Princess Katarina of the Balkans on a fact-finding mission to promote investment and tourism in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia.
On the first night we are invited to dinner at the British Embassy by His Excellency the Ambassador, Sir R.U. Really-Worthit and his wife, Lady Izzy Really-Worthit. We stand around in our ball gowns making small talk and drinking abominable Balkan plonk.
A group of thick-set Macedonians have been drafted in to make up the numbers. They look like rottweillers and talk like mafiosi. I spot a couple of younger men across the room and when dinner is announced, I make a beeline for their table.
After dinner, they take us out clubbing – not something I tend to do much back home. As we are travelling with the royal party, we have a fully-armed police escort, and a fleet of chauffeur-driven bullet proof Mercs. It’s hilarious.
When I get up to go to the loo in one particularly outré disco, one of the female heavies comes with me. She clears a path through the crowd, brushes aside the queue of young girls in the Ladies and fast tracks me into the nearest stall. I wonder if this is what is meant by the Royal Wee?
We all get hammered on raki and the evening leaves me feeling as flippant as a funfair and as light as meringue. A good feeling.
The rest of the trip does what it said on the brochure. We visit museums, mosques and monasteries and I make a couple of new girlfriends among the group. One of them is psychic and while visiting an archaeological dig, she comes over all spiritual. We’re walking across some old burial pits and her antenna picks something up. She turns to me suddenly and says:
‘That man you’re thinking about - you have to let him come to you…’
I stare at her for a moment and nod sagely. In spite of it all, I am, of course, still thinking about CC 23/7.
Wednesday. I check my emails and find I have several new recruits on toyboywarehouse, none of whom float my boat or twang my thang. I’m starting to worry that I’ll return home to the mortal dread of all single people: a Blank Holiday weekend. Rugby Player for all his bravado is terminally unreliable and the Desperate Dans have gone off the radar.
Saturday. After a gruelling three-hour car journey from the Kosovan border to the airport, followed by a stopover in Vienna, I get home to find my internet is down. This is quite inconvenient, the physical equivalent of having both arms cut off at the elbow and both legs at the knee.
I try not to panic or shout at Bashar in Mumbai, Prakesh in Bangalore and Kemal in New Delhi but they talk to me in tongues using words like protocol, logfile and encryption. Follow instructions as I may, I STILL CANNOT PICK UP MY EMAILS.
A migraine circles my head like a hungry scavenger then dive bombs through my skull into the side of my temple. It starts pecking away at the left cortal section of my frontal lobe causing my own hard drive to crash. I leave the unpacking ‘til tomorrow, take two heavy-duty prescription pills and go to bed, praying that the problem will have resolved itself by morning.
Sunday. Still no internet connection in my home office. The migraine has now dug itself in for the duration and every time I move, I see Aurora Borealis and hear Very Strident Music. I struggle on regardless taking my laptop to the nearest café to check my emails. Nothing earth-moving business-wise, but one of the Dans has returned to basecamp and we make a tentative date for next week.
CC has now set up shop in the part of my brain not being assaulted by the Red Army Ensemble. He is peddling his wares which include Bad Vibes, Negative Energies and Terminal Grief Syndrome which all come in my size.
I mentally compose tracts of a letter to him which all sound articulate, convincing and feasible but I don’t note any of it down, so when I actually put fingers to keyboard, I can’t remember a single word. What I do write comes out sounding stupid, needy and pathetic. I take more head drugs and go to bed.
Friday. Rugby Player and I have a date arranged for tomorrow. I text to ask if it's still on and he confirms an 8 o'clock pick up for an 8.30 table. This time it sounds like it might actually happen. I’ll wear the lingerie he sent me, but more for me than for him. I doubt he’ll get to see it.
Cute Face bleeps in. We’ve had no contact in more than a week, ever since he’d forgotten our last arrangement and I’d told him off. Frankly, I never expected to hear from him again.
Wat u up 2? Ive got the raging horn. Shall I cum over? Hehe
We email back and forth awhile - I have no idea which is which but no matter – and I wonder if it might be amusing to arrange to meet them both together.
In the afternoon, I prepare for a short business trip which will give me a chance to rethink some of my less-than-brilliant ideas most notably that last one.
Tuesday. Skopje. I’m travelling with a group of fifteen women headed by HRH Princess Katarina of the Balkans on a fact-finding mission to promote investment and tourism in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia.
On the first night we are invited to dinner at the British Embassy by His Excellency the Ambassador, Sir R.U. Really-Worthit and his wife, Lady Izzy Really-Worthit. We stand around in our ball gowns making small talk and drinking abominable Balkan plonk.
A group of thick-set Macedonians have been drafted in to make up the numbers. They look like rottweillers and talk like mafiosi. I spot a couple of younger men across the room and when dinner is announced, I make a beeline for their table.
After dinner, they take us out clubbing – not something I tend to do much back home. As we are travelling with the royal party, we have a fully-armed police escort, and a fleet of chauffeur-driven bullet proof Mercs. It’s hilarious.
When I get up to go to the loo in one particularly outré disco, one of the female heavies comes with me. She clears a path through the crowd, brushes aside the queue of young girls in the Ladies and fast tracks me into the nearest stall. I wonder if this is what is meant by the Royal Wee?
We all get hammered on raki and the evening leaves me feeling as flippant as a funfair and as light as meringue. A good feeling.
The rest of the trip does what it said on the brochure. We visit museums, mosques and monasteries and I make a couple of new girlfriends among the group. One of them is psychic and while visiting an archaeological dig, she comes over all spiritual. We’re walking across some old burial pits and her antenna picks something up. She turns to me suddenly and says:
‘That man you’re thinking about - you have to let him come to you…’
I stare at her for a moment and nod sagely. In spite of it all, I am, of course, still thinking about CC 23/7.
Wednesday. I check my emails and find I have several new recruits on toyboywarehouse, none of whom float my boat or twang my thang. I’m starting to worry that I’ll return home to the mortal dread of all single people: a Blank Holiday weekend. Rugby Player for all his bravado is terminally unreliable and the Desperate Dans have gone off the radar.
Saturday. After a gruelling three-hour car journey from the Kosovan border to the airport, followed by a stopover in Vienna, I get home to find my internet is down. This is quite inconvenient, the physical equivalent of having both arms cut off at the elbow and both legs at the knee.
I try not to panic or shout at Bashar in Mumbai, Prakesh in Bangalore and Kemal in New Delhi but they talk to me in tongues using words like protocol, logfile and encryption. Follow instructions as I may, I STILL CANNOT PICK UP MY EMAILS.
A migraine circles my head like a hungry scavenger then dive bombs through my skull into the side of my temple. It starts pecking away at the left cortal section of my frontal lobe causing my own hard drive to crash. I leave the unpacking ‘til tomorrow, take two heavy-duty prescription pills and go to bed, praying that the problem will have resolved itself by morning.
Sunday. Still no internet connection in my home office. The migraine has now dug itself in for the duration and every time I move, I see Aurora Borealis and hear Very Strident Music. I struggle on regardless taking my laptop to the nearest café to check my emails. Nothing earth-moving business-wise, but one of the Dans has returned to basecamp and we make a tentative date for next week.
CC has now set up shop in the part of my brain not being assaulted by the Red Army Ensemble. He is peddling his wares which include Bad Vibes, Negative Energies and Terminal Grief Syndrome which all come in my size.
I mentally compose tracts of a letter to him which all sound articulate, convincing and feasible but I don’t note any of it down, so when I actually put fingers to keyboard, I can’t remember a single word. What I do write comes out sounding stupid, needy and pathetic. I take more head drugs and go to bed.
Friday. Rugby Player and I have a date arranged for tomorrow. I text to ask if it's still on and he confirms an 8 o'clock pick up for an 8.30 table. This time it sounds like it might actually happen. I’ll wear the lingerie he sent me, but more for me than for him. I doubt he’ll get to see it.
Cute Face bleeps in. We’ve had no contact in more than a week, ever since he’d forgotten our last arrangement and I’d told him off. Frankly, I never expected to hear from him again.
Wat u up 2? Ive got the raging horn. Shall I cum over? Hehe
Monday 15 December 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
I spend the following morning trying to put my thoughts in order. This self-imposed nonsense (though I refuse to recognize it as such) is doin' me 'ead in, yet in some indulgently sado-masochistic way, I'm pushing the boundaries of my sanity to see how far they'll go.
In the light of my other dalliances during and since meeting CC, you (and I) might find it hard to believe that my feelings for this man are genuine and I do seem to have the ability to separate my body from my heart and my emotions from my actions and in that respect, I am fragmented yet complete.
My daughter, Lily, pops by for a bowl of soup and I tell her about the date last night.
‘He doesn’t sound that interested!’ she states. ‘And he’s already told you as much Mum, so why don’t you listen? Find someone less complicated! Now, about that course I want to go on...’
The role reversal going on here is not lost on me and annoyingly, she’s probably right. And it can’t be easy having a mother like me.
Halfway through the afternoon, I remember that Cute Face and I had made a tentative arrangement for tonight but I haven't heard from him and it's already 4 o'clock. Our wild weekend seems as far away as Venus, but when I text him Are we on for this evening? he replies Oh crap. I’ve just arranged something.
Although I’m not that bovvered preferring to stay home and concentrate on my magnificent obsession, I am slightly peeved that he's forgotten our prospective date which compounds the theory: Give a man what he wants and he no longer wants it.
I text back a sniffy: Thanks for forgetting and not letting me know! to which I get Sorry hun. Don’t be grumpy and ruin my illusion that relationships with older women are less stressful! to which I shoot a finger-wagging: You need to be polite no matter the woman's age... to which I get silence. Another one I’ll probably never hear from again.
At 6 p.m. knowing his phone will probably be off, I leave CC an effusive message:
…I just wanted to thank you for a really great evening…it was so lovely seeing you again. About the theatre, please call me back when you have your diary handy so we can make a plan and I can tempt you with whatever you want to see…I really don’t want to leave it so long before we meet again…speak to you very soon, I hope? Lots of love...
I loathe grovellers so why am I grovelling now? Answers on a postcard please.
Saturday. I wake up a little down, the positive aspects of the next date with CC diminishing with every hour that passes sans reply to my sycophantic message. I add up the credits in my social account and they don’t amount to a hill of beans. I have:
1 x lascivious lothario who lives in New York and sends me expensive lingerie he’ll never see me wear.
1 x arrogant short-arse boy toy who FORGOT WE HAD A DATE LAST NIGHT and
1 x navel-gazer who is terrified of his own shadow, never mind having a relationship with me.
Pondering woman’s propensity to find a man she really likes then immediately try to change him, I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to CC. Speaking psycho-babbly, in seeking your soul mate you are drawn to the fragilities of others from which you too suspect you might suffer. By attempting to heal them, you are attempting to heal yourself. I don’t understand this either. I told you it was psycho-babble.
I pray to the Goddess of Lost Causes to show me the way to either fuck him or forget him or at least to be able to say: Fuck him! I’m going to forget him.
I discuss the subject with my daughter again and she suggests that since I’ve been unable to express my feelings vocally, I write him a letter. Not a text, nor an email, but a good old-fashioned pen to paper letter. 'It’ll be cathartic' she advises just as I would have had she been in the same situation, 'and you never know what may come of it...' and so I begin:
My dearest CC,
Dear Sweet CC
Dear CC
CC Darling
My darling CC
which takes me twenty minutes and I don’t get a whole lot further.
Sunday. As if Dyno-rod has done a night-cleansing operation on my brain, I wake up in a completely different frame of mind. Barbra and Donna’s song No More Tears (Enough is Enough) beings playing in my head.
It's raining, it's pouring
My love life is boring me to tears,
after all these years...
and I resolve, once and for all, not to waste any more time on this man.
I really must move on. If he’s happy being a tormented, introvert, self-absorbed, sad-assed hypochondriac, then I wish him well of it. There really is nothing more I can do.
With a renewed sense of self and optimistic vigour, I step out from under the cloud of pain and with the help of John Frieda’s Highlight Enhancing Shampoo for Champagne Blondes, I wash that man right out of my hair and decide to treat myself to a feast of unfettered self-gratification by replacing him now - this very day!
In the light of my other dalliances during and since meeting CC, you (and I) might find it hard to believe that my feelings for this man are genuine and I do seem to have the ability to separate my body from my heart and my emotions from my actions and in that respect, I am fragmented yet complete.
My daughter, Lily, pops by for a bowl of soup and I tell her about the date last night.
‘He doesn’t sound that interested!’ she states. ‘And he’s already told you as much Mum, so why don’t you listen? Find someone less complicated! Now, about that course I want to go on...’
The role reversal going on here is not lost on me and annoyingly, she’s probably right. And it can’t be easy having a mother like me.
Halfway through the afternoon, I remember that Cute Face and I had made a tentative arrangement for tonight but I haven't heard from him and it's already 4 o'clock. Our wild weekend seems as far away as Venus, but when I text him Are we on for this evening? he replies Oh crap. I’ve just arranged something.
Although I’m not that bovvered preferring to stay home and concentrate on my magnificent obsession, I am slightly peeved that he's forgotten our prospective date which compounds the theory: Give a man what he wants and he no longer wants it.
I text back a sniffy: Thanks for forgetting and not letting me know! to which I get Sorry hun. Don’t be grumpy and ruin my illusion that relationships with older women are less stressful! to which I shoot a finger-wagging: You need to be polite no matter the woman's age... to which I get silence. Another one I’ll probably never hear from again.
At 6 p.m. knowing his phone will probably be off, I leave CC an effusive message:
…I just wanted to thank you for a really great evening…it was so lovely seeing you again. About the theatre, please call me back when you have your diary handy so we can make a plan and I can tempt you with whatever you want to see…I really don’t want to leave it so long before we meet again…speak to you very soon, I hope? Lots of love...
I loathe grovellers so why am I grovelling now? Answers on a postcard please.
Saturday. I wake up a little down, the positive aspects of the next date with CC diminishing with every hour that passes sans reply to my sycophantic message. I add up the credits in my social account and they don’t amount to a hill of beans. I have:
1 x lascivious lothario who lives in New York and sends me expensive lingerie he’ll never see me wear.
1 x arrogant short-arse boy toy who FORGOT WE HAD A DATE LAST NIGHT and
1 x navel-gazer who is terrified of his own shadow, never mind having a relationship with me.
Pondering woman’s propensity to find a man she really likes then immediately try to change him, I wonder if that’s why I’m so drawn to CC. Speaking psycho-babbly, in seeking your soul mate you are drawn to the fragilities of others from which you too suspect you might suffer. By attempting to heal them, you are attempting to heal yourself. I don’t understand this either. I told you it was psycho-babble.
I pray to the Goddess of Lost Causes to show me the way to either fuck him or forget him or at least to be able to say: Fuck him! I’m going to forget him.
I discuss the subject with my daughter again and she suggests that since I’ve been unable to express my feelings vocally, I write him a letter. Not a text, nor an email, but a good old-fashioned pen to paper letter. 'It’ll be cathartic' she advises just as I would have had she been in the same situation, 'and you never know what may come of it...' and so I begin:
My dearest CC,
Dear Sweet CC
Dear CC
CC Darling
My darling CC
which takes me twenty minutes and I don’t get a whole lot further.
Sunday. As if Dyno-rod has done a night-cleansing operation on my brain, I wake up in a completely different frame of mind. Barbra and Donna’s song No More Tears (Enough is Enough) beings playing in my head.
It's raining, it's pouring
My love life is boring me to tears,
after all these years...
and I resolve, once and for all, not to waste any more time on this man.
I really must move on. If he’s happy being a tormented, introvert, self-absorbed, sad-assed hypochondriac, then I wish him well of it. There really is nothing more I can do.
With a renewed sense of self and optimistic vigour, I step out from under the cloud of pain and with the help of John Frieda’s Highlight Enhancing Shampoo for Champagne Blondes, I wash that man right out of my hair and decide to treat myself to a feast of unfettered self-gratification by replacing him now - this very day!
Saturday 6 December 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...
During the evening, he’s complimented me on everything: my jacket, the colour of my top, my pearls, my earrings, my skirt, my nail varnish – every detail of what I’m wearing. To have a man seem so interested, yet still have no idea where I stand with him, is discombobulating.
Despite my recent shenanigans with AB, CD and EF, these were just pastimes to kill the hours, days and nights while waiting for CC to come back into my life. Not exactly honest behaviour, I know, but what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.
Now that I’m with him however, my blousy confidence has blown out the window and I feel like I’m drowning, the life raft having been carelessly omitted from the manifest.
As we sit in the back of the taxi, me trying somehow to climb inside him, he begins to run his hand up and down my arm. His touch is like a promise and my cheating heart soars as I take this tactile contact as proof of his feelings for me. If it's not love, it's something I manage to interpret as such.
I sigh deeply and rest my head lightly on his shoulder. He stops his movements immediately and stiffens in all the wrong places.
‘There’s so much I want to say to you…’ I whisper encouragingly, and I actually feel a lump rise in my throat.
He doesn’t ask what this ‘so much’ is and the moment somehow passes. The taxi is nearing my home and having waited so long to be with him, I know these precious few hours are rushing towards their unnatural conclusion. I need more time with him. I need to express how I feel.
The taxi pulls up outside my block, and I raise my head and look questioningly at him.
'Now what?' say my worried eyes. His impassive look reveals nothing.
‘Would you like to…?’ I begin tentatively as if I'm inviting a rabbit to stand in my headlights.
‘No. Thank you. I must get home.’ The rabbit retreats to its warren.
My heart crashes through the floor but I decide not to push it. Not tonight. It’s gone better than I could have hoped. I think.
He walks me to the entrance of my block and kisses me goodnight. The lightest brush of his lips on mine is tantalizing, but for now, that will have to do. I thank him for a lovely evening and we say goodbye.
As I climb my stairs I write the text: Everything I wanted to say could have been summed up in just three words but I do not send it. I know that less is more and I want so much more.
I go to sleep peacefully, convinced he and I are far from over. In fact, I think we’re just beginning.
Wednesday. I wake up with a banging headache as expected and replay the evening like a cracked record changing the end with every turn. I’m certainly no worse off than I was yesterday, in fact, I may be a lot better. He didn’t have a dig at my lifestyle like the last time I saw him, and he was pleasant and personable company.
I feel very restless though. I want to call him, but I’m afraid of not catching him in the right mood, of him being cold to me which will compound my insecurity. I’ll do it later and see if I can pin him down for that theatre date.
Despite my recent shenanigans with AB, CD and EF, these were just pastimes to kill the hours, days and nights while waiting for CC to come back into my life. Not exactly honest behaviour, I know, but what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.
Now that I’m with him however, my blousy confidence has blown out the window and I feel like I’m drowning, the life raft having been carelessly omitted from the manifest.
As we sit in the back of the taxi, me trying somehow to climb inside him, he begins to run his hand up and down my arm. His touch is like a promise and my cheating heart soars as I take this tactile contact as proof of his feelings for me. If it's not love, it's something I manage to interpret as such.
I sigh deeply and rest my head lightly on his shoulder. He stops his movements immediately and stiffens in all the wrong places.
‘There’s so much I want to say to you…’ I whisper encouragingly, and I actually feel a lump rise in my throat.
He doesn’t ask what this ‘so much’ is and the moment somehow passes. The taxi is nearing my home and having waited so long to be with him, I know these precious few hours are rushing towards their unnatural conclusion. I need more time with him. I need to express how I feel.
The taxi pulls up outside my block, and I raise my head and look questioningly at him.
'Now what?' say my worried eyes. His impassive look reveals nothing.
‘Would you like to…?’ I begin tentatively as if I'm inviting a rabbit to stand in my headlights.
‘No. Thank you. I must get home.’ The rabbit retreats to its warren.
My heart crashes through the floor but I decide not to push it. Not tonight. It’s gone better than I could have hoped. I think.
He walks me to the entrance of my block and kisses me goodnight. The lightest brush of his lips on mine is tantalizing, but for now, that will have to do. I thank him for a lovely evening and we say goodbye.
As I climb my stairs I write the text: Everything I wanted to say could have been summed up in just three words but I do not send it. I know that less is more and I want so much more.
I go to sleep peacefully, convinced he and I are far from over. In fact, I think we’re just beginning.
Wednesday. I wake up with a banging headache as expected and replay the evening like a cracked record changing the end with every turn. I’m certainly no worse off than I was yesterday, in fact, I may be a lot better. He didn’t have a dig at my lifestyle like the last time I saw him, and he was pleasant and personable company.
I feel very restless though. I want to call him, but I’m afraid of not catching him in the right mood, of him being cold to me which will compound my insecurity. I’ll do it later and see if I can pin him down for that theatre date.
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