I weigh up the flattery factor of receiving this kind of quixotic missive from a man young enough to be my son against him being obviously pissed and looking for - as they say in the navy - any port in a storm...
I’m fairly certain he’s done the geography and my particular port is probably the closest to the bar he’s just fallen out of, not to mention the gutter he’s about to fall into.
It’s 11.45 p.m. I’m in bed, nightie on, make-up off, kilos of cream upon my face with the rotting remnants of The Migraine throbbing gently like a waiting taxi just above my right eye. The last thing I fancy is being used as a doughnut for a young man’s pleasure.
Should I even get a half decent shag out of, which frankly I can do without right now, it will no doubt be followed by a sleepless night alongside The Snore Monster, so I text back NO, it’s too late and he immediately calls and tries to convince me.
He is very drunk and when I refuse him again, he becomes abusive.
'Aw come on, at your age you should be grateful…being as how you said you were 51 on the webshite…now I find out you’re 61, which makes you a bloody liar…you should…'
I kill the call mid-stream and switch my phone off. His invective doesn’t bother me but it doesn’t make me feel great either. I decide in future to only ever tell the truth about my age. If anyone doesn’t like it, they can lump it. Besides, IT'S ONLY A NUMBER.
I sigh deeply at the tragi-comedy that is my social life and wish CC were here to take me away from all this...
Wound up now and irritated by Cute Face’s vitriol, I switch my phone back on and text him:
Life lesson for you: calling late and drunk for a fuck then making insulting remarks is neither big nor clever. U’ll never impress a woman like that. We hate arrogance and a little charm goes a long way. A hard cock is not always enough – plenty of those on offer with nicer men attached.
He throws all his toys out the pram and huffs back:
Plenty of younger women around who don’t try to take the moral high ground after they’ve lied about their age
To which I reply:
My age didn’t seem to matter when you were humping me last weekend? And you still wanted to come over tonight, right?
That shuts him up.
I ponder on this chronological/biological age thing. Looking at it from his point of view, boasting to his friends that he’s bedded a 51-year old makes him sound like a cool accomplished Casanova.
Finding out that she is in fact 61 - no matter if she only looks 51 - has put him off balance, tipping his stud scale into the realm of ladies in lavender. This could not be further from my image or that of most other 60+ year olds I know but the message that Young is Hot and Old is Not is still live and kicking in the public consciousness.
If only the media would stop defining us by a number – Paris Hilton, 25 or Vera Scrubbs, 63 – people could be judged by who they are not how old they are.
Cute Face is cross with me for misrepresenting myself but even more cross with himself for falling into the tender trap. I suspect that his gran may not be much older than me, but he’s still phoned me for a shag tonight so go figure.
I guess when the blood has risen, any orifice will do…