Monday, 3 March 2008

O please let me not be 70+ and still hankering after cute young boys

For reasons too convoluted to go into (but not terribly interesting), we ended up on Friday night for dinner at a very expensive restaurant, hosted by an old rich man we barely knew.

Among other things, the old rich man – 71, I know because he told me repeatedly; and let’s call him Don Juan, why not? – had taken a fancy, earlier, to one in our party of six: my friend T, who is darkly beautiful but also very shy. Don Juan, wanting only T, generously invited us all to join his table – which we did, although with varying levels of discomfort and disbelief.

Which grew progressively more intense (and the apparent generosity was exposed for what it really was) as Don Juan ignored all present and leaned with laser-like focus into T, showering her with bizarre pickup lines (which included a flattering reference to her body temperature), and T leaned progressively farther away from him.

Finally, when Don Juan’s failing prostate called him serendipitously from the table, T swopped places with one of the male members of our party. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do this,’ she said. ‘I know he’s paying for our meal, but he’s… he’s… so OLD.’

T was happy thereafter to be sequestered between a bouncy French photographer and a Jesus-lookalike masseur, both on the sunny side of 45 (relatively young where we come from).

But Don Juan was not to be deflected. Soon – all too soon – he too had engineered a seat swop, and T was once again being showered with unwelcomely creepy compliments. Her body language simply could not have been clearer: if she’d leaned any further away from him off her seat, she would have been horizontal.

Fortunately, Don Juan was too old to keep going for long, and tottered off to bed around midnight. At which stage, and at long last, T could relax, regain verticality, and flirt merrily – and without intent on either side – with people nearer her own age. And we escaped back to my place and partied happily until the break of dawn. (We also, in deference to what we realised was going on, agreed among us to split the outrageous bill; in Don Juan’s defence, even though he hadn’t got what he’d clearly set out for, he refused all offers of payment. I do think, in retrospect, his generosity was genuine.)

Anyway, for reasons of friendly connections (also too convoluted to go into here – and not because they’re interesting either, promise), I had reason to have coffee the next morning with Don Juan.

‘So,’ he said, ‘your friend T: did she notice I was paying special attention to her?’

‘Yes,’ I said (too tired and hungover, to be honest, to bother with mincing words).

‘And when she swopped seats that first time: was that because of me?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Why?’ he asked.

I did a quick search through the quagmire that was pretending to be my mind (I had had three hours sleep, my house was trashed, and there was a Jesus-lookalike masseur recovering in my bed) and said, ‘Surely, at your age, you’ve learnt to read body language?’

‘At my age and with my money,’ he drawled, giving me a look that I think he meant to be sexy but appeared to me that he’d lost control of his left eye muscles, ‘all that matters to me is women.’

Oh dear.

Please let me never be really old and richer than God, and still be looking for a happy ending – or at the very least not with people young enough to have been spawned from my own eggs.

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meggie said...

Thank goodness I have found as I age, I am not the least interested in younger men! I can admire, & say if I was 30 years younger, but would never contemplate the idea at my current age.
Gom is the same, & has never ogled a woman in his life. I find if I am admiring a man, perhaps to flirt a little, he is likely to be my age or older.

settledowndude said...

Apropos of absolutely nothing, as one gets older, ones brain shrinks (and you dont get embarraed at all apparently)
So hangovers come from a too tight brain as your body dehydrates, goes into survival mode and shunts all remaining body fluid to your head.One of the chief joys of getting old is ---hey no hangovers--. (not that I would know)
Muriel, your are clearly not as old as you make out, you still get hangovers. oh and pull blond jesus like etcetera