Friday, February 22, 2013
When I was much younger - when Bakelite was a thing and decimalisation was a shiny glint on the horizon - I was quite struck with the idea of a sugar daddy. A few years of therapy later would reveal this was due to the uncompromised distance between me and my own father and that I was trying to cross that emotional wasteland in whatever manner I knew how. I nodded quietly when my therapist, the semi-glamorous Dr Susan Rayner, had come to this conclusion. She's previously decided that I revel in good music whenever I feel emotionally unstable, so after this session I then went and bought that Sugababes CD I'd been hankering for a while. Dr Rayner may have had a glorious pair of hoop earrings, but she wasn't completely infallible. So prior to that, as a fresh-faced ingenue on the Leicester scene, I'd gladly drop my handkerchief to any decent elder gentleman who'd give me the time of day (or at least hinted at the time of my life). The purchase of a half-pint of cider was merely a formality; a transaction to enforce that I'd already been bought by his soft words and rhumy eyes. Clearly as I've gone on, there's slim pickings in the line of 'elder gentleman' unless you want someone who can pop their hip out during the reverse cowgirl, or buttocks that feel like two semi-deflated Christmas balloons found behind the sofa when you're packing the tree up. However, as I screech towards my forties, I have discovered there's a swathe of emotionally-stunted youngsters who want a daddy. Completely unbidden, they are mesmerised by my Greek God beard and are in love with my more... Greek yoghurt physique. 'U is HENCH man!' someone sent me, who frankly looked like they should have been watching Blue Peter instead of chatting people up on Grindr. I had to google what hench meant. Apparently means fit. Fancy that. Thus I also discovered how... Energetic the young are. You're bound to have heard this revelation so many times before its about as shocking as the end of The Crying Game, but still. All over the place! And at some considerable speed too. Prior to this, my sexual activities were akin to playing the board game Buckaroo: just keep twitching the odd thing until it all gets too much, a leg kicks and there's now a mess all over the table. So this is by means of a thank you to all the daddies I used to know. I salute you (although it's probably more correct to say 'rest in peace', I suppose). I'm now taking up the position and definitely gaying it back.
Friday, February 15, 2013
I hadn't been single long, still finding my feet - which it turned out were more often than not in the air - and managed to find this hulking great man via Dr Grin's Patented Finder of Gentleman Friends (To An Astounding Accuracy of 65 Meters). Good body, face less so, but I was simply after a little slap, tickle and pointless validation. Which he was giving me in the strangest way: he kept stroking my hair. No, not stroking - petting. My hair was shoulder-length at this point; I recommend to almost anyone to at least give it a go growing it. Plus I'd had a new passport photo taken at that time, so I could flash it and at least pretend I was rock 'n' roll at one point in my life; that I'd travelled the world and done all the drugs. These days I think being a rebel is not piercing the film on a microwave meal, but in flashing my passport I could hint at another life where I'd tried licking toads and owned a pair of flip-flops.
I was slightly conscious of a figure of the Virgin Mary rocking back and forward with each shunt.'Dirty cow,' I thought. 'She wants in on this. Virgin my beautiful bouncy ass.' But it was only til we finished did I start to take in exactly how much religious iconography was around the bedroom. I got no problem with diddling the God-botherers - they tend to be ten times more vigorous, having finally smothered their pent-up self-loathing with brief relief, and never really want to engage with much chit-chat afterwards bar 'is that your sock or mine?' And 'You're going to Hell, you know.' Yeah well so are you for that polyester bed set, but I didn't want to be the first one throwing stones honey.
This guy, whereas: he held me for a long time after we got dressed to the point where my arms fell to my side, but he carried on. "Thank you, thank you,' he whispered. I patted his back in distracted consolation; I mean, I was ok but definitely not worth what looked like tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Blimey, perhaps this rickety old body still got moves after all. "Thank you," he repeated. "I finally fucked Jesus."
And I got out of there at the speed of God.