I stay with Calm Best Friend until the doctor arrives then go down to the village to pick up her meds. I pop into the dining-room at lunchtime to get her some plain boiled rice et voilà! Hot Frog is there as usual. Despite his urgent need for snogging lessons, he still has sexuality oozing out of every pore.
We share a secret smile (I’m going to run out of these if I’m not careful…) and my attraction to him increases. If I could just train him to kiss my way, all holiday fantasies would be fulfilled. When I get dressed for the evening, I don my ‘just-in-case-I-get-lucky’ undies - just in case. Be a shame to waste them, wouldn’t it?
Because I have no problem fancying two men at the same time, CC and I spend the evening continuing our chemical bonding. This man has long-term potential but Hot Frog might have to be climbed because, like Everest, he is there. He is also irresistibly randy eye candy, and MLP, I’m happy to say, has been relegated to the Third Division.
CC and I play footsie under the table over dinner sharing long looks and whispered confidences. He is such a fantastic raconteur, and I am increasingly drawn to him. His humour is addictive and I match him as best I can, hanging on his every word, and trying to make him laugh as much as he makes me. Being slightly pissed on unlimited Mojitos, my tongue is as loose as a chav’s morals, a fact which I shall live to regret.
Just before midnight, CC offers to walk me back to my room again and we end up having a huge snog in the corridor. Now here’s a chap who really knows how to kiss, tenderly, exploringly, yet with an underlying passion that promises great things. And he really turns me on. How cruel and shameless of me to use him as my warm-up man, but he doesn’t know this and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I pull away before we both become overly engaged, but he begs a few more moments alone with me which I find hard to refuse. I go into his room, mindful of the fact that the midnight text from Hot Frog is due through at any moment. Not having any pockets in my trousers, my mobile is wedged firmly between my breasts...
Sunday, 27 January 2008
Sunday, 20 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...20/1/08
Despite my presumption of HotFrog being a galloping Gallic love machine, he has no idea how to kiss. He opens his mouth far too wide for a start, and his lingual swirling is too wet and sloppy, the intended prelude to passion not arousing me one little bit. He’s got me pinned against my seat and I don’t want to start a major struggle, so I go along with it for a while then push him away gently and stand up.
He takes this as an invitation to lunge back in and kisses me again, but still, sensuality is in absentia. Not even close. Definitely no cigar. Apart from the Upmann Gigante growing in his trousers…
I push him away again, shaking my head gently in mock disapproval and he takes the rejection in good heart. Well, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his career by having a client cry ‘Rape’ now, would he?
‘Can you find your way back?’ he asks.
‘I think so’ I reply. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I?’
He takes hold of me again but I wriggle free and he opens the door to let me out.
‘Come back if you get lost’ he calls after me, and I return to my room feeling somewhat virtuous, a sensation I’m not overly familiar with.
CBF is waiting up and I tell her that despite his stunning good looks, he’s a lousy kisser. We giggle and chat awhile until we fall asleep, but in early hours, the poor girl is propelled out of bed by a violent attack of gastro-enteritis which lasts the rest of the night and into the dawn.
First thing in the morning, I ask Reception to call her a doctor and use it as an excuse to text HotFrog – he needs to know what’s going on in with the hotel guests, doesn’t he?
He texts back that he’s sorry to hear this, to let him know if there’s anything he can do, and not to forget to wash my hands at every opportunity. He tells me he’s in meetings all morning, but would be free to see me again this evening if I’d like…
I think about it for a nanosecond and decide, for the sake of the sisterhood, to take him up on his offer.
He takes this as an invitation to lunge back in and kisses me again, but still, sensuality is in absentia. Not even close. Definitely no cigar. Apart from the Upmann Gigante growing in his trousers…
I push him away again, shaking my head gently in mock disapproval and he takes the rejection in good heart. Well, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his career by having a client cry ‘Rape’ now, would he?
‘Can you find your way back?’ he asks.
‘I think so’ I reply. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I?’
He takes hold of me again but I wriggle free and he opens the door to let me out.
‘Come back if you get lost’ he calls after me, and I return to my room feeling somewhat virtuous, a sensation I’m not overly familiar with.
CBF is waiting up and I tell her that despite his stunning good looks, he’s a lousy kisser. We giggle and chat awhile until we fall asleep, but in early hours, the poor girl is propelled out of bed by a violent attack of gastro-enteritis which lasts the rest of the night and into the dawn.
First thing in the morning, I ask Reception to call her a doctor and use it as an excuse to text HotFrog – he needs to know what’s going on in with the hotel guests, doesn’t he?
He texts back that he’s sorry to hear this, to let him know if there’s anything he can do, and not to forget to wash my hands at every opportunity. He tells me he’s in meetings all morning, but would be free to see me again this evening if I’d like…
I think about it for a nanosecond and decide, for the sake of the sisterhood, to take him up on his offer.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...15/1/08
CC and I walk quietly along the corridor hand in hand and he tries to kiss me goodnight outside my room. I coyly avoid this without, I hope, hurting his feelings, thinking that I can’t possibly kiss him now and potentially, despite my best intentions, Monsieur le Grenouille Chaud later on.
I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)
At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.
‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.
‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.
I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’
He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.
He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?
He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!
I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.
‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.
I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…
I wave CC goodnight as he retires to his room down the hall. I wait until I hear his door close, then hotfoot it back upstairs where the bar is just closing. I secrete myself in a large, leather wing chair to await the midnight hour. (Just to remind you, I am also awaiting the guy I vowed not to touch with a sterilised bargepole which I have somehow failed to acquire and hide about my person.)
At 11.56 p.m. Hot Frog texts to say he’s free if I still want to meet him and if so, where am I? I text him back painstakingly one letter at a time, as I’m too excited to reset my phone to French predictive, and a few moments later, he appears as if by magic at my side. Mercifully, the red satin pantaloons have been exchanged for grey flannel trousers and a black cashmere polo shirt. God, he is gorgeous. All thoughts of MLP, CC, STD and the BBC are instantly forgotten.
‘This isn’t very discreet’ I whisper, conscious of my ‘reputation’ (huh?) and the odd staff member who’s still around.
‘Comm and ‘ave a dreenk in my rrroom’ he suggests disarmingly.
I shake my head slowly and say: ‘I don’t really want to do that…’
He appears not to understand why and I cave immediately. He gives me directions on how to access his roof apartment, slopes off with a satisfied smile on his face, and I follow him up at a discreet distance.
He lives in a studio at the top of the hotel. It looks like a panther’s lair: dark walls, deep pile carpets, soft lighting, leather furniture, TV droning quietly in the corner. I’m pretty sure this place has seen a not inconsiderable amount of sextracurricular activity. Am I about to become another notch on his bedpost or is he on mine?
He pours me a fruit juice (I’ve drunk quite enough for one night) and takes a small bottle of water from the fridge for himself. We sit down on separate sofas and talk. The expected plying of alcohol to weaken me for seduction does not take place. He tells me he never drinks, neither on nor off duty. We discuss the career of a Club Med ‘Chef de Village’ and the rootlessness attached to a life spent six months here and two years there. He says he loves it except when the customers complain, but the only real complaints he gets are from his own countrymen. I didn’t realise the French also hate each other!
I enjoy chatting with him as I hardly ever get a chance to practice my French and he repeatedly compliments me on my linguistic skill. He ain’t seen nothing yet! After a pleasant half an hour or so, I finish my drink and look at my watch. He asks if I’m tired and I say not particularly.
‘Zo why you go?’ he queries and in one move, he’s kneeling before me and his tongue is swirling around in my throat.
I think how recently it was that I was kneeling before MLP mourning his imminent demise and I marvel at the serendipity of life and how quickly a heart can heal. I also fleetingly consider the future possibilities with CC and my cup runneth over…
Thursday, 10 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...10/1/08
Enjoying the Mata-Hari element of the impending assignation, I write my mobile number on a piece of paper and secrete it about my person. When I enter the dining-room, I fake a handshake with Hot Frog and slip the note between his fingers. I'm conscious of exuding pheromones like a bitch on heat, the significance of which is not lost on my male companions who respond with lecherous leering and in-yer-face innuendo. Throughout it all, CC and I share many special, secret looks.
After the meal, we go down to the theatre to watch the cabaret in which Hot Frog features predominantly, stripped to the waist and looking buff in a pair of red satin pantaloons and a yellow cummerbund. CC sits tight up against me giving a hilarious yet disparaging commentary on my paramour's performance. I feel a mélange of guilt and excitement. He’s such a terrific guy; he’d hate me if he knew…
With great flair and élan, Hot Frog smashes, walks on, then lies across a bed of broken wine bottles. I find this excruciatingly embarrassing and wonder what on earth I’ll find to say to him if/when I see him later. ‘Loved the show! Er...by the way, you’re bleeding...’
CBF retires early promising to wait up for me. CC and I repair to the bar where we embark on a deeply personal conversation. Because I’m nervous while marking time ‘til midnight, I spill out my entire life story including my excitement yet trepidation about the imminent release of my first solo book, The Toyboy Diaries.
I also reveal my real age (61) which doesn’t seem to faze him, as he immediately confesses to an irrepressible weakness for older women. The heady combination of alcohol and altitude does not prevent me from working out that I really, really like this man, who at 46, living and working within walking distance of me in London, could potentially be proper relationship material. But the lure of adventure is stronger than my morals...and so I continue on my nefarious course...
At 11.50 p.m. CC yawns, stretches and offers to walk me back to my room. Since I cannot very well tell him that I’m staying up to meet the horny Frenchman in an illicit after hours client/manager lurve tryst, I accept his offer, and we go up in the lift together to our floor.
He strokes my hair and looks down at me from his 6'2" height with tenderness in his eyes.
After the meal, we go down to the theatre to watch the cabaret in which Hot Frog features predominantly, stripped to the waist and looking buff in a pair of red satin pantaloons and a yellow cummerbund. CC sits tight up against me giving a hilarious yet disparaging commentary on my paramour's performance. I feel a mélange of guilt and excitement. He’s such a terrific guy; he’d hate me if he knew…
With great flair and élan, Hot Frog smashes, walks on, then lies across a bed of broken wine bottles. I find this excruciatingly embarrassing and wonder what on earth I’ll find to say to him if/when I see him later. ‘Loved the show! Er...by the way, you’re bleeding...’
CBF retires early promising to wait up for me. CC and I repair to the bar where we embark on a deeply personal conversation. Because I’m nervous while marking time ‘til midnight, I spill out my entire life story including my excitement yet trepidation about the imminent release of my first solo book, The Toyboy Diaries.
I also reveal my real age (61) which doesn’t seem to faze him, as he immediately confesses to an irrepressible weakness for older women. The heady combination of alcohol and altitude does not prevent me from working out that I really, really like this man, who at 46, living and working within walking distance of me in London, could potentially be proper relationship material. But the lure of adventure is stronger than my morals...and so I continue on my nefarious course...
At 11.50 p.m. CC yawns, stretches and offers to walk me back to my room. Since I cannot very well tell him that I’m staying up to meet the horny Frenchman in an illicit after hours client/manager lurve tryst, I accept his offer, and we go up in the lift together to our floor.
He strokes my hair and looks down at me from his 6'2" height with tenderness in his eyes.
Saturday, 5 January 2008
THE DAILY MALE continues...5/1/08
After a long coach journey, we arrive at the resort and are welcomed by the French ‘Chef de Village’, Eric, or ‘Eh-reek’ as he introduces himself. He is tall, dark, tanned, suave and sexy – a bad boy Hot Frog with a slept-in face and a ‘You’re Next’ look in his eyes. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could toss him. What a time he must have seducing all the laydeez – their knickers must fall at his feet! CBF is very taken with him but I wouldn’t touch him with a sterilised bargepole. Oh No! Too clichéd anyway, like shagging the tennis coach (or up-jumped ski instructor which is pretty much what he is). Rather tasty though…
Tuesday. The holiday is going very well. They’re a good crowd once you get to know them, especially our lovely new friend CC but I’m not getting too involved as I’ll probably never see him or any of the others ever again once the trip is over.
After a heavy dump of snow last night, the weather today is picture perfect. We swish down the slopes at the end of the day to find Hot Frog and his team of G.Os there to greet us. For the Club Med uninitiated, the G.Os are ‘Gracious Organisers’ who provide service and entertainment around the clock. They're dressed in Rio Carnival attire this evening, dispensing smiles, chat, mulled wine, tea and cakes.
I help myself to a dark, moist, chocolate brownie and a glass of vin chaud and go into raptures, in French natch, as I savour the orgasmic flavours. Hot Frog is watching me closely and comments on my accent, asking me where I’m from. I tell him I’m from London but I went to the French Lycée and a lively dialogue ensues. He’s very complimentary about my linguistic skills, and of course, the more he smarms, the more I show off. I finish my brownie and wine and sashay away (as best one can dressed as a Michelin woman with monster ski boots) to get ready for the evening.
Walking into the dining-room for dinner, Hot Frog stands in his usual welcoming stance, front of house. His sky-blue eyes scan me up and down like lasers and I check my ankles to see if his gaze hasn’t melted my knicker elastic.
The males in our group all change places at dinnertime and I flirt with a few of them to keep myself entertained. The free cocktails and flowing wine loosens everyone up, and I pause for a moment to reflect gratefully on the fact that the pain of MLP’s departure is lessening by the minute.
CC is particularly wonderful company, his raconteur skills, wit and humour keeping us in fits a lot of the time. I don’t abandon base camp however, and keep up the textual repartee with Flash Gordon and Brad Pity as I’ll need these boys bubbling away on the back burner to be brought to boiling point when I get home.
Wednesday. Hot Frog, serving drinks at the Piste Bar, draws me into a private conversation. We talk about the day’s skiing and I ask him where in France he comes from. He says he’s half French and half Spanish which is an irresistible opportunity for me to show off my Spanish simply because…well… because I can. Isn’t education a wonderful thing? The trouble is I speak four languages and don’t know how to say ‘No’ in any of them.
Hot Frog suddenly drops his voice to an intimate whisper, which means I have to lean in close to hear what he’s saying. He asks me how come my husband has let me come away without him. Men are so transparent except when they’re being dense. I tell him I’ve dispensed with two husbands and now have a whole stable of young men at my beck and call. Honesty and modesty are not two of my stronger suits. I’m not consciously aware of giving him the come-on, but he suddenly moulds his mouth around my ear and asks if I’d like to meet him for a drink when he comes off duty after the show at midnight.
Why I should be surprised at this, I do not know, but you could have knocked me down with a snowflake! Shrugging one shoulder coquettishly, I adopt my best Brigitte Bardot pout and reply: ‘Peut être…’
It takes me a while to ‘fess up to CBF while we’re dressing for dinner about Hot Frog and our impending ‘date’. I feel a bit guilty as I know she really fancies him and I wouldn’t want to upset her for the world. He’s certainly not worth losing a friend for, and in any case there’s No Way this is going anywhere; it’s just a drink, right?
CBF takes it in good part saying if it can’t be her, she'd rather it was me than any of the other girls in our group. That way she gets to find out all the gory details and can thereby live it vicariously. I take special care not to put on my best undies. All women know that mismatched lingerie is always the best contraceptive.
Tuesday. The holiday is going very well. They’re a good crowd once you get to know them, especially our lovely new friend CC but I’m not getting too involved as I’ll probably never see him or any of the others ever again once the trip is over.
After a heavy dump of snow last night, the weather today is picture perfect. We swish down the slopes at the end of the day to find Hot Frog and his team of G.Os there to greet us. For the Club Med uninitiated, the G.Os are ‘Gracious Organisers’ who provide service and entertainment around the clock. They're dressed in Rio Carnival attire this evening, dispensing smiles, chat, mulled wine, tea and cakes.
I help myself to a dark, moist, chocolate brownie and a glass of vin chaud and go into raptures, in French natch, as I savour the orgasmic flavours. Hot Frog is watching me closely and comments on my accent, asking me where I’m from. I tell him I’m from London but I went to the French Lycée and a lively dialogue ensues. He’s very complimentary about my linguistic skills, and of course, the more he smarms, the more I show off. I finish my brownie and wine and sashay away (as best one can dressed as a Michelin woman with monster ski boots) to get ready for the evening.
Walking into the dining-room for dinner, Hot Frog stands in his usual welcoming stance, front of house. His sky-blue eyes scan me up and down like lasers and I check my ankles to see if his gaze hasn’t melted my knicker elastic.
The males in our group all change places at dinnertime and I flirt with a few of them to keep myself entertained. The free cocktails and flowing wine loosens everyone up, and I pause for a moment to reflect gratefully on the fact that the pain of MLP’s departure is lessening by the minute.
CC is particularly wonderful company, his raconteur skills, wit and humour keeping us in fits a lot of the time. I don’t abandon base camp however, and keep up the textual repartee with Flash Gordon and Brad Pity as I’ll need these boys bubbling away on the back burner to be brought to boiling point when I get home.
Wednesday. Hot Frog, serving drinks at the Piste Bar, draws me into a private conversation. We talk about the day’s skiing and I ask him where in France he comes from. He says he’s half French and half Spanish which is an irresistible opportunity for me to show off my Spanish simply because…well… because I can. Isn’t education a wonderful thing? The trouble is I speak four languages and don’t know how to say ‘No’ in any of them.
Hot Frog suddenly drops his voice to an intimate whisper, which means I have to lean in close to hear what he’s saying. He asks me how come my husband has let me come away without him. Men are so transparent except when they’re being dense. I tell him I’ve dispensed with two husbands and now have a whole stable of young men at my beck and call. Honesty and modesty are not two of my stronger suits. I’m not consciously aware of giving him the come-on, but he suddenly moulds his mouth around my ear and asks if I’d like to meet him for a drink when he comes off duty after the show at midnight.
Why I should be surprised at this, I do not know, but you could have knocked me down with a snowflake! Shrugging one shoulder coquettishly, I adopt my best Brigitte Bardot pout and reply: ‘Peut être…’
It takes me a while to ‘fess up to CBF while we’re dressing for dinner about Hot Frog and our impending ‘date’. I feel a bit guilty as I know she really fancies him and I wouldn’t want to upset her for the world. He’s certainly not worth losing a friend for, and in any case there’s No Way this is going anywhere; it’s just a drink, right?
CBF takes it in good part saying if it can’t be her, she'd rather it was me than any of the other girls in our group. That way she gets to find out all the gory details and can thereby live it vicariously. I take special care not to put on my best undies. All women know that mismatched lingerie is always the best contraceptive.
Monday, 31 December 2007
THE DAILY MALE continues...31/12/07
Thursday. A horrible night. I wake every half an hour with a dragging sense of something terribly wrong in my life. My mouth turns down at the corners in misery as the memories of last night wash over me and I fight back the tears as I wriggle myself back to sleep.
At dawn, I am drawn up through the depths like an underwater swimmer who longs to remain on the sea bed. I shun the naked light of day and try to return to oblivion by diving beneath the covers, but I’m awake now and I must face the truth. MLP and I are over. How many more times can I do this?
I get up early and flip the radio on. Terry Wogan is playing Laura Brannigan singing Gloria and the line ‘If everybody wants you, why isn’t anybody calling?’ strikes a sardonic note. I pick up my weights and try to rustle up some endorphins, kick start my metabolism, and fight off the depression. I shower, sit down at my dressing-table and phone up anyone who'll listen as I relate the latest saga of my having been dumped.
This is the Road to Hell as every time I tell the story, I tell it better and the better I tell it, the more it upsets me. I am trying to do my make-up which is not only difficult but stupid, as the tears moisten my mascara which streaks down through my foundation resulting in a salty, smeary paste instead of the flawless finish as promised by Estée Lauder.
The sisterhood is suitably sympathetic but reminds me that it was always finite, that I knew it would end sooner or later and isn’t it better to have ended now, as I haven’t had time to get too attached. HAVEN’T I?!!! Why do I feel so shit then?
I battle through the morning and by lunchtime have pulled myself together sufficiently to reel in some back-up. I text Oxbridge and Brad Pity with the good news (for them) that I’m back on the market, and they both sound pleased and keen to see me. I go out for supper and to the theatre with a group of old friends which I find very comforting, in a This-is-the-future-in-a-Retirement-Home kind of way.
Over the next few days, I allow myself to think about MLP for about three minutes every hour before cutting off his blood supply and pushing the memory of him as far away as possible. He is absolutely and strictly forbidden to live rent free in my head.
Saturday. Although I have loads to do as I’m going away ski-ing first thing in the morning, I can’t cope with the Saturday-night-is-the-loneliest-night-of-the-week-syndrome, so I text Flash Gordon to tell him I’m free if he is. He excitedly offers to see me Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere. Perhaps I should rename him Martini (for those of you too young to remember - this was the strap line of their advert in the 1980s starring Joan Collins!)
We arrange to meet at the Elgin and he arrives just after me. He greets me with a warm hug and a kiss on both cheeks and goes straight to the bar. I study him from my table by the window. Could I? Should I? Would I? Not really. He is truly nice-looking and well-dressed as before, but nowhere in my chemistry lab do I find a Bunsen burner bubbling away with any degree of enthusiasm. And I’m sure he’s lied his age up. He looks about sixteen; I don’t even think he shaves yet.
We go through the usual What-you-been-up-to? natter and when it gets too noisy for conversation, we go up the road for an Indian. I feel a bit mean using him to sublimate my loneliness tonight, and I wonder, en passant, if the rest of him is in proportion with his short stature. He could be hung like a buffalo in which case I’d be missing out big time, but if he was, I can’t help thinking he would have dropped this juicy little nugget of information into the conversation somehow, as in:
‘Did I ever tell you about the time I had to take my girlfriend to the hospital to have her foufou re-modelled?’
We leave the restaurant and he moves in for a snog, but I do my little ducky divey dance and brush him away.
‘I live just round the corner!’ I say in mock shock. ‘I know a lot of people round here so PDAs in the street are not really appropriate…’ which of course we all know isn’t true.
He slinks off with his tail between his legs and I go home and finish packing thinking how glad I am to be getting away and vowing to leave all painful thoughts of MLP behind.
I go to bed wondering if he’s with his new squeeze having their first encounter, and how that feels for him. Exciting, probably. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?
I set my alarm for 5 a.m. and try to get some sleep.
Sunday. Calm Best Friend and I set off early for our Club Med ski trip with forty other singles. No sooner are we at the Gatwick check-in than we’re joined by a tall, dark, handsome, charming guy sporting the same luggage tags as us. He and I have a momentary eye fuck but I decide to let CBF have first dibs as:
a) I don’t need another involvement just now
b) she hasn’t had a boyfriend in a while
c) I don’t need another involvement just now and
d) I’m tired and I keep repeating myself.
I check out the rest of the motley crew but no-one remotely piques my interest. Calm Best Friend goes off shopping and Check-in Charlie (CC)and I hang around together chatting until the departure gate number comes up. We sit together on the plane and he entertains us for the entire flight. He is quick-witted and clever, every comment twisted into a hilarious metaphor.
I find myself inexorably drawn to him... but try not to show it...
At dawn, I am drawn up through the depths like an underwater swimmer who longs to remain on the sea bed. I shun the naked light of day and try to return to oblivion by diving beneath the covers, but I’m awake now and I must face the truth. MLP and I are over. How many more times can I do this?
I get up early and flip the radio on. Terry Wogan is playing Laura Brannigan singing Gloria and the line ‘If everybody wants you, why isn’t anybody calling?’ strikes a sardonic note. I pick up my weights and try to rustle up some endorphins, kick start my metabolism, and fight off the depression. I shower, sit down at my dressing-table and phone up anyone who'll listen as I relate the latest saga of my having been dumped.
This is the Road to Hell as every time I tell the story, I tell it better and the better I tell it, the more it upsets me. I am trying to do my make-up which is not only difficult but stupid, as the tears moisten my mascara which streaks down through my foundation resulting in a salty, smeary paste instead of the flawless finish as promised by Estée Lauder.
The sisterhood is suitably sympathetic but reminds me that it was always finite, that I knew it would end sooner or later and isn’t it better to have ended now, as I haven’t had time to get too attached. HAVEN’T I?!!! Why do I feel so shit then?
I battle through the morning and by lunchtime have pulled myself together sufficiently to reel in some back-up. I text Oxbridge and Brad Pity with the good news (for them) that I’m back on the market, and they both sound pleased and keen to see me. I go out for supper and to the theatre with a group of old friends which I find very comforting, in a This-is-the-future-in-a-Retirement-Home kind of way.
Over the next few days, I allow myself to think about MLP for about three minutes every hour before cutting off his blood supply and pushing the memory of him as far away as possible. He is absolutely and strictly forbidden to live rent free in my head.
Saturday. Although I have loads to do as I’m going away ski-ing first thing in the morning, I can’t cope with the Saturday-night-is-the-loneliest-night-of-the-week-syndrome, so I text Flash Gordon to tell him I’m free if he is. He excitedly offers to see me Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere. Perhaps I should rename him Martini (for those of you too young to remember - this was the strap line of their advert in the 1980s starring Joan Collins!)
We arrange to meet at the Elgin and he arrives just after me. He greets me with a warm hug and a kiss on both cheeks and goes straight to the bar. I study him from my table by the window. Could I? Should I? Would I? Not really. He is truly nice-looking and well-dressed as before, but nowhere in my chemistry lab do I find a Bunsen burner bubbling away with any degree of enthusiasm. And I’m sure he’s lied his age up. He looks about sixteen; I don’t even think he shaves yet.
We go through the usual What-you-been-up-to? natter and when it gets too noisy for conversation, we go up the road for an Indian. I feel a bit mean using him to sublimate my loneliness tonight, and I wonder, en passant, if the rest of him is in proportion with his short stature. He could be hung like a buffalo in which case I’d be missing out big time, but if he was, I can’t help thinking he would have dropped this juicy little nugget of information into the conversation somehow, as in:
‘Did I ever tell you about the time I had to take my girlfriend to the hospital to have her foufou re-modelled?’
We leave the restaurant and he moves in for a snog, but I do my little ducky divey dance and brush him away.
‘I live just round the corner!’ I say in mock shock. ‘I know a lot of people round here so PDAs in the street are not really appropriate…’ which of course we all know isn’t true.
He slinks off with his tail between his legs and I go home and finish packing thinking how glad I am to be getting away and vowing to leave all painful thoughts of MLP behind.
I go to bed wondering if he’s with his new squeeze having their first encounter, and how that feels for him. Exciting, probably. Well, it would, wouldn’t it?
I set my alarm for 5 a.m. and try to get some sleep.
Sunday. Calm Best Friend and I set off early for our Club Med ski trip with forty other singles. No sooner are we at the Gatwick check-in than we’re joined by a tall, dark, handsome, charming guy sporting the same luggage tags as us. He and I have a momentary eye fuck but I decide to let CBF have first dibs as:
a) I don’t need another involvement just now
b) she hasn’t had a boyfriend in a while
c) I don’t need another involvement just now and
d) I’m tired and I keep repeating myself.
I check out the rest of the motley crew but no-one remotely piques my interest. Calm Best Friend goes off shopping and Check-in Charlie (CC)and I hang around together chatting until the departure gate number comes up. We sit together on the plane and he entertains us for the entire flight. He is quick-witted and clever, every comment twisted into a hilarious metaphor.
I find myself inexorably drawn to him... but try not to show it...
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
THE DAILY MALE...continues...26/12/07
‘I’m multi-tasking like women can!’ I say, trying not to sound too bitterly, twistedly ironic. ‘Clever that, wouldn’t you say…being able to watch TV and THINK at the same time?’
This would have made him laugh in any other circumstances but he doesn’t laugh this time.
‘Just watch the film,’ he advises, like this will solve all my problems.
‘It’s really good…’
I chew my lip for a while then perk up a bit as I have a flash of inspiration, or is it desperation?
‘Any reason why we shouldn’t have sex tonight?’ I query engagingly.
He sniggers and says: ‘I s’pose not’ and I momentarily feel a little better, like I have something to look forward to. I’m not convinced, however, that making love when you know it’s for the last time, is such a good idea…
Eventually I settle down and we actually snuggle up and I pretend to watch the film. My body language, however, is horrendous. I’m wrapped around him like a drowning woman clutching a life raft. One of my legs is thrown around both of his and I’m holding both his hands like I’m trying to create an unbreakable circle. But it’s already broken. I know that. He’s drawn away from me if not physically, then certainly mentally.
When the film (what film?) ends, I ask trepidantly: ‘What now?’
‘I’m shooting’ he replies having a long stretch.
I get up and walk out. I busy myself in the kitchen. He comes looking for his trainers and with a slight sense of embarassment, I open the broom cupboard and hand them to him. He scowls and shakes his head, then goes back into the living-room to put them on and collect the rest of his stuff.
I remember his Nike t-shirt I’d slept in then hand-washed and ironed lovingly like it was the Turin Shroud or something, and I go to the bedroom to get it. I hand it to him but I cannot meet his eyes. I do not want to watch him leave. I’ve played that scene too many times before. It hurts. We stand opposite each other in the hallway and I take his face in both my hands. I turn it this way and that kissing him on both cheeks as I studiously avoid his sweet and tender mouth. It’s the way a mother would kiss a much-loved child goodbye. He plants a smacker on my lips like he did that very first time, but this time as I draw back, I’m not giggling.
‘Talk to you later’ he says cheerily.
I raise one eyebrow.
‘Or tomorrow or the next day…’ he goes on.
I pull a 'wha’ ever…' face, open the front door and he walks.
‘Don’t ever be afraid to phone or text me,’ I call out, as he heads off down the stairs, and I close the door firmly behind him.
I take the deepest breath and set my mouth into a thin, determined line. I march into the bathroom, pluck The Robe off the back of the door and stuff it into the washing-machine... ready for its next wearer.
This would have made him laugh in any other circumstances but he doesn’t laugh this time.
‘Just watch the film,’ he advises, like this will solve all my problems.
‘It’s really good…’
I chew my lip for a while then perk up a bit as I have a flash of inspiration, or is it desperation?
‘Any reason why we shouldn’t have sex tonight?’ I query engagingly.
He sniggers and says: ‘I s’pose not’ and I momentarily feel a little better, like I have something to look forward to. I’m not convinced, however, that making love when you know it’s for the last time, is such a good idea…
Eventually I settle down and we actually snuggle up and I pretend to watch the film. My body language, however, is horrendous. I’m wrapped around him like a drowning woman clutching a life raft. One of my legs is thrown around both of his and I’m holding both his hands like I’m trying to create an unbreakable circle. But it’s already broken. I know that. He’s drawn away from me if not physically, then certainly mentally.
When the film (what film?) ends, I ask trepidantly: ‘What now?’
‘I’m shooting’ he replies having a long stretch.
I get up and walk out. I busy myself in the kitchen. He comes looking for his trainers and with a slight sense of embarassment, I open the broom cupboard and hand them to him. He scowls and shakes his head, then goes back into the living-room to put them on and collect the rest of his stuff.
I remember his Nike t-shirt I’d slept in then hand-washed and ironed lovingly like it was the Turin Shroud or something, and I go to the bedroom to get it. I hand it to him but I cannot meet his eyes. I do not want to watch him leave. I’ve played that scene too many times before. It hurts. We stand opposite each other in the hallway and I take his face in both my hands. I turn it this way and that kissing him on both cheeks as I studiously avoid his sweet and tender mouth. It’s the way a mother would kiss a much-loved child goodbye. He plants a smacker on my lips like he did that very first time, but this time as I draw back, I’m not giggling.
‘Talk to you later’ he says cheerily.
I raise one eyebrow.
‘Or tomorrow or the next day…’ he goes on.
I pull a 'wha’ ever…' face, open the front door and he walks.
‘Don’t ever be afraid to phone or text me,’ I call out, as he heads off down the stairs, and I close the door firmly behind him.
I take the deepest breath and set my mouth into a thin, determined line. I march into the bathroom, pluck The Robe off the back of the door and stuff it into the washing-machine... ready for its next wearer.
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