Category: Uncategorized

What to do?

Last night I went out for dinner. It was lovely, a balmy evening, good food, great wine.

And excellent company.

A perfect evening except for the couple sitting at the table next to us. She was pretty, demure, and a little meek. He had a bright red face and a booming, aggressive voice. She’d arrived first, ordered a glass of wine and waited. He’d joined her about ten minutes later.

He sat down and the first thing he said was:-

‘I’m just telling you now, I do not want to be here.’

She squirmed. We squirmed. It was uncomfortable for everyone around.

My date and I gave each other that look of ‘oh shit’ but we didn’t say anything. They were too nearby. We carried on talking – whispering actually. Our steaks had arrived and we were getting on well, having fun.

It had been feeling quite sexy, actually!

But he continued to be rude to her, then pushed his chair back and went outside for a cigarette. She sat awkwardly, staring into her wine.

I kind of wanted to interfere and tell her to leave. I know if it was me I would have got up and walked out, immediately, giving him the finger as I did.

‘It’s not really your business’, my date said. ‘You don’t know the back story.’

I didn’t.

So we tried to ignore them. I don’t think it was a first date. Maybe they were once married. Maybe she was trying to fix things. Whatever it was, he did not want to fix anything. When he came back to the table he was even more unpleasant.

She never said a word. And neither did I.

It made our dinner really horrible.

I’ve walked out on a few dates in my life. The guy who wouldn’t stop talking about himself, the guy who was racist and the guy who had blatantly lied on his internet dating profile. It had taken courage to do it, and I am so glad I did.

But I thought about all the bad dates that I had not walked out on. That I should have.

‘Leave him’, I wanted to say. ‘You don’t deserve to be spoken to this way. No-one does. Just get up and walk out.’

Instead we decided to move tables. We carried on with dessert as if nothing was wrong.

And I am really sorry.


‘Older man seeking younger woman’

What is it about older men dating younger women?  We women of a certain age are sexy. And interesting, experienced, bright, funny, and did I mention, we’ve very very sexy.

We bring a hellova lot to the party.

We might not be as toned as we were a couple of years ago and maybe we have a few wrinkles (just a few, dammit) but god we have so much else. We’re sexually aware and uninhibited.  We know what we want and we’re not scared to go after it.

So what is it with men?  My best friend is dating a girl twenty years younger than him and it makes me crazy.  I mean, I really like her, but – twenty years younger – it’s insane.

I come across this often. The older man seeking an ‘attractive young woman’.


I think older men want someone who will remind them that they are still breathing. Stroke there ego. Tell them they are fantastic in bed.  Give them back their power when they make a younger woman come.

And it does go the other way too. A lot of young women quite like the idea of an older man. And this is not always about love or  mutual connection. I think it’s about money and power which are both really appealing.

A man who can provide financial stability, pay for overseas tickets and keep a woman in a constant supply of French underwear and champagne can be kind of hard to resist.

In other words, a Sugar Daddy is fabulous!

I try and embrace my age. With age comes a certain confidence as well as a sense of adventure. We lose a lot of fear as we get older and are more willing to explore new things.

But we’re also aware we need to look after ourselves, work out, keep trim and healthy.

Which is why I go to the gym.

I spend a lot of time in the sauna where between sweating and death everyone talks. It’s a great way to get to know people.

Yesterday I was chatting to a young man. It was fun and we sorted out the South African education system, compared our favourite single malts and even flirted a little. I didn’t think of it as flirting though, but when we were walking out he asked for my number.

I choked. He was in his twenties.

When I said ‘no’ it was mostly because I was in shock and didn’t want to be seen as a cougar. And because I have been so judgemental about older men. And younger women. And everyone else.

But mostly because it terrified me. This young guy. With his man bun. Firm muscles. And gorgeously sculpted six pack. And what he might think of my not so perfect body.

Anyway. He persuaded me. He wouldn’t listen to my thing of ‘age’ and ‘what will we talk about’ because he reminded me we’d spent half an hour in the sauna and hadn’t stopped talking. He also told me I had fabulous legs.

So I said yes. And we’re going out tonight. And I’m very very nervous. I’ll let you know how it goes, dear Reader. Every single detail. Unless it turns out he’s a friend of one of my children.

In which case, I’ll be dead.

The date with Rob

We agree to meet at Chez Julien, for drinks, before committing to the ‘let’s do it for real’ deed. 

I set off for the restaurant. I’ve lost complete confidence in this. I know he’s going to be 75, hairy, oily and sweaty. But I’ve borrowed a very sexy dress, spent all my kid’s school money on stilettos,  and am wearing  dark glasses. Just in case.

And then I see him. He is EXACTLY like his profile pic, except he’s wearing clothes. Gorgeous. Young. Strong. 

I stepped towards him. Our eyes meet.

‘A bottle of Veuve Clicquot’ he snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘Orange Label’.


You’re even more beautiful in real life’, he said, as he handed me a small parcel, wrapped in black tissue with a pink ribbon. Lingerie. See through. And very very small.

I sat, stunned and speechless. I knew that if I stood up, I would fall right down again. He was perfect.

‘You can’t tell me I’m beautiful’ I gurgled at him, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. ‘It’s one of my rules’.

‘Sure’ he smiled. He was eating me alive with his eyes. Dark brown, smoldering eyes.

‘No more gifts. Ever’, I whispered, as I admired his gift.

‘No problem’ he said. ‘First, let me clasp this pretty little diamond necklace round your neck’.

I snapped my fingers at the Waiter. ‘Pen and paper. Please’.

The Waiter duly obliged.

‘I have more rules’, I spluttered.

‘No pretty little diamond necklaces.’

‘I think that may fall under the ‘no gifts’ category’.

His eyes twinkled.

‘Right.’ My pen hovered above the paper. When it came to rules, my mind went blank. I couldn’t think of any.

 His hand grasped mine. And that was me. Gone. Finished. Out of control. 

I dropped the pen. The cork popped. I jumped. He gave me his best crooked smile.

‘No crooked smiles’ I said, as I tried to write feverishly. But my hand was in his.

 ‘I think we should go straight to the room’, he whispered, tossing a heap of R 200 notes on the table and not waiting for change.

He gently guided me up the spiral staircase, his hand perfectly positioned at the small of my back.

 Click of a keycard. Lights dim. I look around, trying, but failing to control my breathing. 

The penthouse suite. An enormous bed. Velvet. Brocade. Rose petals. A bubble bath ready waiting.

 Feeling faint, I leaned against the wall, my sexy dress riding up my thighs.  He began to kiss me.  I tried to respond, but my body was shaking so much, I think he feared for my health. 

‘You need to relax a little’, he purred, guiding me towards the bed.

His strong hands unzipped my dress and slid it from my shoulders. 

‘Your skin’, he said, ‘So soft. Milky. Translucent’.

Let’s take a pause here. I know these are not great lines. But I was in no condition to judge his romantic prose.

I merely nodded in agreement.

 Running his fingers through my hair and over my back, he reached into the bedside drawer.

‘What are you looking for?’ I asked, nervously imagining whips, chains and rubber truncheons.

‘Sweet almond and vanilla,’ he replied. ‘Luxurious Persian massage oil’.

That sounded okay. I could do that. I relaxed and lay back.

Drops of warm, deliciously scented oil dripped onto my back. He started rubbing. Strong, sensual strokes, starting with my neck, moving to my shoulders, my back. I squirmed, desperately wanted to roll over and wrap my legs around him.

‘Don’t move’ he instructed. ‘Wait’.  And his hands moved lower and lower. His magic fingers transporting me to the back of beyond.

A momentary hiatus. And then . . . NOTHING.

I waited expectantly. My body craving his touch. He slowly got up from the bed and moved away. Okay. So this is part of the experience, I figure. He drives me wild with desire, and then tortures me as I wait for more. It all made weird wanton sense.

‘More’, I moan softly. ‘Don’t stop.’

But stop he has!

I turn around slowly, sleepily. ’What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Carry on. I’m loving it.’

He flashes me his million dollar smile. I can’t help myself. I make a mental note to get the number of his orthodontist. 

He leans into me.

‘Ever had an allergic reaction to oil before?’ he asks gently.

 My brain starts to freeze up.

‘I’m not big on luxurious Persian Almond oils’, I ventured. I start to feel a definite itch coming from my lower back.

‘You may want to go take a look’ he suggests, kindly.

I leap up and propel myself into the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror and gaze at my reflection in abject horror.

 Hives. Welts. Everywhere.

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I touch my arm and new red splotches begin to appear. My skin is crimson, and my face is swelling up, beyond recognition.
I’m turning into the Elephant Man!

I collapse in a naked pile on the floor, sobbing silently, scratching wildly.

 He appears at the door, a large fluffy white robe in his arms.  ‘Put this over you’, he says. ‘You’ll feel better’.

‘I’m sure they’ll go away soon’, I stammer, tears streaming down my face. ‘Maybe, we can carry on’.

‘Probably not’, he says perfectly reasonably. His voice is kind and soothing. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’

This assessment doesn’t cheer me up at all. He slips the robe over my shoulders, while simultaneously cracking open another bottle.

 He reaches for two fresh glasses. I reach directly for the bottle.

 He watches me, vaguely amused, as I tip the bottle back and gulp down the contents like a desperate hobo, his R 2000 champagne splashing down my chin.

‘You may want to slow down’, he says. 

I look at him. He’s perfect. I smile weakly and close my eyes, just for a minute, the enormity of the evenings’ events slowly sinking in.

When I wake up, there’s sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s morning. 

He’s gone.  And I’ve fucked up my life.