Friday, February 22, 2013
Fountain of Youth
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.