I'm a sex symbol

Good grief!

I never knew I was so gorgeous. Why didn’t somebody tell me earlier? The notifications of people wanting to meet me, who have sent messages or added me to their ‘special’ list have been pouring into my Hotmail account. Loads of them. I thought I’d wait until the end of the day, save them up, like, before I had a proper gander.

Then I had the proper look and learned the grim, awful ego-annihilating truth. Well, I won’t go through all of them for you – we’d be here for hours, or rather I’d be here for hours filling out these tables and transcribing their CVs. Let’s just do this one – a random example.

BigDan63

Age	47	Education	High school
Height	5’7’’	Profession	Unemployed
Looking for	Dating	Drinking	Often
Children	4	Religion	None
Status	Single	Ethnicity	Caucasian

The longest relationship BigDan has been in was over 3 years. (Blimey - he did well.)

About BigDan 

i’m a fun guy looking for a nice woman.lol. no complecations. Romantic,gsoh, like footie, eating in, cuddles on the sofa, music – anything good, like going to the pub for a drink or 2 lol, favrite food –curry, not bothed where u come from or wot u look like.

The picture is of a middle-aged man in a sleeveless t-shirt underneath which lurks a considerable beer belly. He looks decidedly older than 47, is holding a lager can and laughing – I expect that shows he’s ‘fun’ and the life and soul of the party. No flesh colour left on his arms, wrist to shoulder tattoos.  

Lol…not! Did he read my profile at all? Well, highly unlikely because he probably can’t read. And did you spot that ‘cuddles on the sofa’? I’m sure they put this rubbish in because they think women want to hear it; perhaps they do. I can’t be a normal woman then. (I fear I may be encouraging Stella to pass some withering comment by saying that…) 

                                                                                                                        

Anyway, BigDan’s message to me is, “Hi sexy. U new on here? Lol want to chat? Lol xx”

Frankly… must I? Is it absolutely de rigeur?

You may have noticed that I'm not what you’d call retiring or someone who is generally lost for words; however, what is the etiquette of these things? Don’t want to be rude (not his fault he’s a reject from the Jeremy Kyle show), certainly don’t want to be encouraging either.  I’ll have to have a ponder. What do you think I should say?  

The truth, the whole truth and nothing like the truth...

I’ve had my photo shoot. I’ve been to Stella’s house because she’s the one with the camera, and it was not a pleasant experience.  I had to take three changes of clothing to make it look like these are snaps taken at different times, and Stella said I had to put on full makeup to give my face “some definition”. It’s the way she tells ‘em.

According to the Oracle, you need inside and outside shots, plus one glammed up evening dress pic; this apparently indicates a/ you love the great outdoors and are in tune with nature b/ you are just as happy to snuggle up with someone on the sofa (God! The amount of people who put that in their profiles is unbelievable! I’m more of a “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine kind of person. Because, after all, when you sit on that bloody sofa you want to be able to watch the programme or read the book in peace. Well, don’t you?) And finally c/ that you scrub up well when the occasion demands.

Have you noticed something about all this? Have you been paying attention? I am lying in every photo! The great outdoors? Yeah, it’s fine, but the sudden urge to begin a life of yomping is not likely to develop at this stage in my romantic career – that is, unless there’s a substantial lunch and a coffee at the end of it.  And only if he’s strong enough to give me a piggy back when I’m fed up of the whole thing. I’ve already dealt with the sofa issue. And then there’s the catwalk/red carpet nonsense. Mm hm!  You know what that requires, don’t you? High bloody heels. Ugh. I want to stab Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik  and all of their creative, arty farty making-money-out-of-stupid-women ilk. Don’t get me wrong – they are beautiful shoes, works of art, and I wouldn’t mind having a couple of pairs to put on the mantelpiece. But on my feet? And while I’m actually supposed to be mobile? Never!

Which brings me onto another matter… On the profiles the men say they like somebody who is comfortable in all types of situations - dressed up and dressed down. What they have failed to comprehend is the bigger picture; namely, that when you get tarted up in those very sexy four inch heels, he will look like one of Snow White’s dwarves. (Sorry to go off on a tangent, but there really should have been one called Droopy – hang on, I feel a short story developing…)  I’ve suddenly got an image of Benny Hill and his side kick.

Outside and inside shots done, I had to go and change into my posh frock, which is, shall we say, a tad snug since I pigged out all week on stuff from the new bakery that’s opened up down the road.  It took me ten minutes to roll up the thigh to bust corset or spanks or whatever you call them, and the upshot of this was that my boobs seemed to develop independent personas of their very own. When Stella downloaded the photos onto her computer, if you cropped the head off (that’s not meant to be as tasteless as it appears – her pic was merely the one nearest to the truth), I looked just like Jayne Mansfield, or a Huddersfield hooker looking to turn a trick.   

So we had to take those shots again – this time with Stella’s son’s black boxers acting as much needed gazonga camouflage - a little more restrained and less likely to remind you of Ermintrude. 

So, the photos are on the site and I’m ready for the off. 

My barnet

 Whoop! Whoop! or is it Woop! Woop!? Something like that anyway. New haircut, new colour! And let me tell you, I do, in fact, cut a bit of a dash. The grey bob has gone to be replaced by a trendy sticky-out gelled-up sort of affair in shades of caramel with golden highlights.  I’m rather surprised at how good I look. Stella said it’s taken years off me; I said it’s taken over a hundred quid off me. Plus the extra twenty something for product, not that I know how to use it. Whatever it is, it is Extreme.

      "It’s an investment!’ she said. ‘What do I always tell you?”

There are times when it’s just wiser to go with the Stella flow.       “That I’m worth it.”

   “That’s right! Now--” she stopped abruptly, peering at my face. “HELLFIRE! What’s that?”
     “What?”She did that thing she does, sort of squinting and scrunching her nose up. “Just a minute… Hang on. I can’t believe I missed it. Hang on,” and rummaged in her handbag to produce… taraa! Tweezers. “You can’t snog with a moustache,” she said.

     “I haven’t got a moustache, thanks, friend.”

     “Yes, you have.”

     “No, I haven’t.”

     “Yes, you have.”
Well, I won’t go into all of the exchange – you get the gist. Anyway, I really don’t have a moustache, it was just a single whisker. One. The way she was going on, anybody would think I’d suddenly morphed into Jimmy Edwards. (Who's old enough to remember him? Probably nobody because everybody I know is younger than me. Hmph!)
 Here he is for your delight and delectation.  

I still haven’t got a pic of me on the site, so I’m going to her house later this week for a photo shoot. I hope her camera isn’t one of those gazillion pixel jobs; I need soft focus. I’m sure I’ve got some white georgette in my fabric drawer. I’ll dig it out. Just in case. 
(By the way, I'm real proud of myself for drawing the new improved version and inserting it here. I'm dead clever, me! Can you see the whisker has gone? I might crack this yet...) 

Things ain't always what they seem

I’ve got so much to report, but not all in one go because I’ve got an appointment in an hour. More of that later. 

I was Skyping with my mate, Dani, who’s a couple of years older than me, in Canada the other day; she’s a veteran of the old internet scene who finally found her gorgeous Prince Charming. But by all accounts it was a bit of a rocky road to get there. Anyway, I asked her for her guidance and advice on how to proceed with this business, what I should look out for, what to expect etc. She told me the following, but I’ll paraphrase a little because, frankly, bless her, she does go on a bit. (Takes after her mother – my Mum’s best friend from the good old days. Hi Dani!) Of course, I’ve omitted my side of this conversation, otherwise we’d be here for ever; this is a blog not a play, after all. Here's the cautionary tale. 

''There’s a sixth sense all women have and should listen to. It’s that little prickle you get in the back of your neck when you know something’s not quite right. I’d been chatting to Matt on the internet for about two months when he mentioned he was coming to Vancouver for business and would I like to meet him for dinner; he didn’t fancy dining with his business contacts and thought it would be nice to meet me. That was my first prickle.

A divorced father of two, an IT consultant, he was about to take responsibility for Vancouver for his firm. He said he loved Canadians, so open, so very accepting of all lifestyles. Prickle. So we arranged to meet at the Three Golden Horses, a rather nice Thai restaurant near his hotel. I was mildly concerned because although we’d exchanged photos earlier – his was a headshot of a middle-aged average-looking chap – would I be able to recognise him? He told me not to worry – his hair had changed slightly, but he’d be wearing a green scarf. Prickle.

The trouble is we weren’t specific about arrangements, and when I arrived a few minutes early, there was no-one in the waiting area. Had he booked a table in his name? Was he already in there perhaps? I scanned the interior, which was largely filled with groups of two or three and a few stray, solitary women, such as me, evidently waiting for their dates to arrive. But no single man sitting alone. Prickle.

I thought I’d been stood up, so I called the cell phone number he’d given me just in case. At the same time I could hear a phone ringing in the restaurant. A soft-spoken voice responded, 'Hi.' Funny, I thought – I can hear an echo. Prickle.

'Hi!' I said. 'It’s Dani. Have you stood me up?'

'No, not at all,' said the voice. 'I’m so excited to meet you. I’m inside already - I’ll come and get you.' I put my phone back in my bag. Maybe he’d been in the bathroom?

'Dani! So good to see you! And your jacket! Wow! Is it D and G? Love it!' I stood up, rather taken aback by the six foot woman, draped in a green shawl, who was giving me a bear hug.

'I’m Matt. Though, obviously tonight I’m Marina,' he/she said, adding in a whisper 'I know you’ll understand,' as he/she grabbed me by the elbow and manoeuvred me to the table.''

It seems that Matt was waiting for a sex-change operation and his frequent trips from home allowed him the freedom to test run the new, improved version of himself. Dani said she quite enjoyed the evening - well, in a surreal, parallel-universe kind of way; they discussed fashion, haberdashery, exchanged cooking tips. "Weird as it sounds, it's rather a fond memory," she said. 

There's so much to learn.

I’ve got my initial details on the website; you know the kind of stuff - age, height, town, whether you have children. Now, I have to think of something to write about myself that will make me sound youthful, alluring and fascinating. Erm… More erm… Even more erm. We might be here some time. Come on, woman! You’ve done job applications before – write the same old bullshit, only better.

Just had a thought! What would I put in my special skills and talents? Haha! Let me see. What was it exactly that I saw that girl doing to her hombre on the adult channel when I was in that hotel in Barcelona? If only I could remember… Trouble is I’d had a few (eight) mojitos and fell asleep before the action really got started. What I can recall is this; the procedure involved elastic bands, two marbles, something that looked like a lolly stick or maybe a tongue depressor, something else resembling a little coaster on wheels or a miniscule spaceship, depending on your point of view. Oh yes, and a jar of miel  -  honey in Spanish. Bloody mojitos – I could have learned something.  

Yay! I’ve just found the coaster on wheels! Looked it up on Google. Well, it started in Google with 'penile pleasure' (name for a rock band?) and finally led to Ann Summers. The item I am referring to is an In2u Euphoric Vibrating Cock Ring. 

Wonder if I should get one? 

Just in case, like. 

Here – check it out.

IN2U - Euphoric Vibrating Cock Ring - Black

Bloody hell – this is so depressing. I am so old I actually remember a time when sex itself was the biggest thrill imaginable. Are these gadgets compulsory these days? 

HEY STELLAAAAAAAA!

My friend, formerly known as Lyn, which was a pseudonym anyway, has decided that Lyn does not suit her in the least - not enough pzazz apparently. She has, therefore, decided that she would henceforth prefer to be known as Stella. Who am I to argue? You've seen what she's like....

I wonder if she'll enjoy this...
Marlon at his stellar (yeugh -sorry!) best.

Il faut se changer

“What you need,” she said, “is a shag. It’ll improve your complexion.”

It came out of nowhere. She’d plugged her Ipod into my speakers and we’d been larking around, singing along and changing the lyrics to Dana’s All Kinds of Everything, getting more outrageous and disgusting with every made up line.

“Do I? Do I? How do you know?”

“Self-evident,” Lyn said. “But the problem is—”She eyed me up and down, “The way you look.”

You can always rely on some friends to tell you the unadorned truth. The question is - should you keep them? So, OK. I’m on the verge of 50, which is apparently the new 40, or even in some magazines, I’m told, the new 30. Admittedly, I have little in common with Sharon Stone. I decided to let the hair go its natural colour about four years ago, a sort of mousy grey, which, giving my mate her due, does occasionally make my face resemble a mushroom on the turn. But you know, I’ve lived half a century – give me a break!

“And you look sort of— “She tailed off, as if choosing her words carefully. “Baggy.”  She hadn’t tried hard enough as far as I was concerned.

“What do you mean – baggy?”

“You know—a bit like-- like a hippo in painting overalls. You need to get something that fits you better.” She came up to me and pulled the free flowing (baggy) jumper I was wearing, tightening it around my waist and boobs.  

“See! You could do something with that body if you wanted to. With the right bra.” Why would I want to?

Lyn is recently divorced, ergo single, proselytizing and on the prowl. Of my married friends, the happily-so bunch have for ages been nagging me to free myself from self-imposed exile, whereas the mildly to phenomenally dissatisfied ones frequently tell me I am well out of the world of relationships. 

She dragged me to the window and made me face the light. “Hmm. Open pores. Some broken capillaries. Not too many wrinkles though. That’s good, I suppose. Now smile.”

Eh? I smiled nevertheless. She tapped my front teeth, as if I were a horse. “You know, you really should stop drinking tea and coffee, especially at your strength,” she said. “But never mind, it can all be remedied. We’ll get you shagged in no time. Now, what’s first? Let’s go and sort out an account. The sooner we get you on there the better - it’ll make you focus.”

“On where?”

“The website.”

“I’m fifty, for Christ’s sake. Leave me alone! Go pick on someone your own age.”

“No. You’ve got another 50 years to live—“she’s one of those annoyingly irrepressible glass half-full merchants, “and you’re not going to squander it on being a recluse.”

I don’t quite know how this has happened to me, but all the friends I’ve made over the past five years are significantly younger than I am - this one by eight years - and we seem to be at least two generations apart. In fact, I don’t really know why I’m her friend at all. Chalk and cheese. While I have been growing old gracefully (or so I thought), she knows the names of all the best beauty products, designers, latest celebrity gossip, and my God does she have handbags and shoes! Plus - she always wears matching underwear. You’ve got to admire a woman like that. Whereas me - all I can tell you is what’s on BBC 4 and Radio 7; and as for temperament and looks, I’m more your Granny Clampett than your Jennifer Aniston type of clone.  

But I haven’t got another project on the go at the moment (I finished the patchwork last week), so, well, why the hell not?