Miss Makeover. Love: Hearts, Flowers, and a Well-Lubed Strap On. Where oh Where is My Man Max?

By on November 10, 2010

I am well aware that I am idealizing My Man Max in his absence. Except that  the contrast between him and the dross one meets in chatrooms or bars is startling. And when you factor in the clients one could weep.
Today’s hopefuls include a sixty year old man who has obviously just plucked up the courage to get down and dirty.
“Will penetration be possible,” he asks, after some initial definition of terms and conditions… My breakfast porridge was halfway back up my throat before I realized he meant I was supposed to be stuffing him.
A wave of nausea shook me and then I was able to say, “You might find that a bit ambitious at first. It’s probably worth starting with a few fingers. And I don’t offer any sexual services.” (To people who make me wretch…) “Just domination. Corporal punishment. Impact play.”
“What’s Impact Play?”
I noticed the quaver in his voice. I wondered, yet again, what is so complicated about ‘Impact Play’, in the context  of a corporal punishment conversation.
“It’s CP without the punishment. No role play. You needn’t be a naughty boy,” especially as you’re about fifty years too old to be credible. I don’t know. There’s no shortage of these doddery old schoolboys in the less stylish parts of the fetish world. Dreadful pubs full of vengeful fat frumps and ‘boys’ whose skin is cold to the touch, a reminder of the permanent chill which will soon descend upon us all.
“Why can’t old people have their fun?” I hear you say? Well I’m not coping very well with being twenty-nine for the third time. That’s why I don’t like to take on too many pensioners. Leave that to daffy old ducks like Cynthia Payne, still to be seen sat in the window of Wimpys on Streatham High Street. As if she has to be the star even in a shithole like Streatham.  For some, all the world’s a stage, even if the audience is a bunch of chavs from the nearest estate.
Actually, she fought the law, and won. If it wasn’t for her cheek and determination it wouldn’t be so easy to be a sex worker these days so good on yer, Cyn! Have another cup of foul English tea and keep cheering us all up. Anyone whose life inspired a film where Emily Loyd shows us her bum has not lived in vain.
Why can’t I be a lovable tart like Auntie Cynthia? (“Well, partly because you’re never in any condition to appear on the telly. You’d make Tara Palmer Cokinson look like a poster girl for rehab”.) Ignore her, the grouch in the mirror. She’s just jealous.
At least My Man Max treats me like a lady. Before turning into the beast we all secretly want. Geezer can do the beast but he just isn’t suave. No chance of idealising him in his absence. He has habits. Which are distressing. To someone as fastidious as myself. Right now he’s eating ice cream, enjoying it audibly. He makes less noise eating me out than he does slurping Chocolate Chip.
“What’s up with you?” he asks, as I lie there stiff as a Viagra’d dong.
“Do you have to make that that noise?”
“Oh yeah?” he says. “I’ve seen you eat your snot. If there’s enough coke in it.”
Well, really. A gentleman wouldn’t have said that. As the succulent smacking and slurping continues I try to breathe deeply. This too will pass.
Except it doesn’t. I’d love to see one of those bestselling New Age pap authors out with their family, perhaps on a hot, crowded day at the supermarket. Give them a pair of bickering toddlers and see how long their patience holds.
He’s just come inside me. We hugged and kissed afterwards for, ooh, a good two minutes or so. An eternity in post-coital lad time. For men have to get up and hunt again, if it’s only fags, lager or the telephone. “It’s work. I have to take this call.” While we are trying to trap them, or incubate our breeding sperm.
I don’t believe it. He’s going to play his Playstation.
“You’re regressing to childhood,” I tell him. He turns the machine off, apologizes for the noisy eating and takes me in his strong arms. Not really.
“Fuck off!” he shouts. ‘You’re not my Mum’.
Who said men never want to discuss problems? Or that they’re not emotionally literate.  We are now aware that I’m not Geezer’s Mum. Is this what shrinks call a ‘breakthrough?’ Or merely an ‘insight’?
At least his outburst gets me a night out as an apology. Which is fine but…My Man Max would have ordered flowers. And he wouldn’t have raised his voice in the first place…

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