By on April 8, 2010

My Man Max is a handsome rascal. A lovable rogue. Tall, dark, handsome and hands on, just where you need them. Big money, big ego and a big weapon in his pants. He cannot be wounded beneath the waist. And tell him he’s not feminine or sensitive enough and he’ll drown you with caring, sharing psycho-babble. He probably learnt it just as a means of keeping the female engine running smoothly, but at least he has learnt it. How many men would even bother trying?

He loves fast cars, any sort of engine he can tune to work better. Maybe I’m just another mechanism, something else he can control. Maybe so, but as he has very sensitive fingers I can live with it.

There is a catch, needless to say. He’s not around very often. There may be other women, although he says there aren’t. He’s too busy doing something stupefyingly boring for big bucks. Or racing his cars against other laddish millionaires. If not quite a bastard, Max is definitely the tantalisingly unavailable devil we ladies often saddle ourselves with.

Surely I can tame him? Puncture his ego with a few sly barbs? I am skilled at filleting men and removing their backbone, which I then sharpen and use to harpoon the next victim. Max is different. His real thing is cars. (What real man’s real thing is women? Damn them!) If I was a Porsche it would matter if I had developed a worrying noise in the gear-box. (Look, I don’t know or care if Porsches have gearboxes. All I know is that his is cramped and he’s always trying to drive it too fast. It’s more trouble than a catwalk model but at least it doesn’t answer back so he likes his Porsche. Even if he does cheat on it with a Bentley and a Jaguar. And a garage with two Ferraris in it.)

So he’s everything I want but he’s not here often enough. There’s too many nights when I sleep with a teddy bear. Too many nights when I’m awake and the flat is full of wide-eyed users – ‘friends’, using my body, using their drugs. Which I might, er, join in a bit with. Just to keep them company. He could rescue me, protect me. Marry me and make me happy for ever and ever. But he needs his space. Other cheating men smell of perfume. He smells of oil. And money. So he’s flawed.
I still love him.

Miss Makeover is an upmarket therapist working with men who would rather be women (as long as their wives don’t find out), behaviour modification specialist, fashionista and scene fetishist.
Suki Greene as told to MarkRamsden.co.uk

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