World Wide Wonders…
International Toy Boys are a subject dear to my heart. You see its not just younger men I date; it’s always been younger foreign men. It all started when I was running club nights for the ICA when I had to do a funding bid. There was a Cultural Diversity clause included, and my friends sniggered that I’d have no problem fulfilling that particular brief, and I didn’t. In the past few years I’ve dated a veritable United Nations of Nationalities, one at a time of course.
Vincent was the first.
We met in the Jacuzzi at the gym, a place I always hang out in when I need inspiration for my writing. All the testosterone swirling about in the bubbles from the Crystal Palace football team, soaking in the hot tub after training does wonders for the skin, and the ego. Just little me, squashed in between them all. Anyway there he was 6’2’’ dark blue African, a banker, and what better match than a banker and a poet; we had absolutely no idea what the other one was talking about. He followed me from the Jacuzzi to the sauna to the pool and back again, he was 28, he couldn’t believe I was 46, the usual, except that the huge protuberance in his surfing shorts was a little troubling. We both laughed nervously and tried to ignore it. We wooed and dated a few times, as you do, at least four dates is my general rule before anything else happens, and we didn’t have that much to say to each other but our bodies were intent on their own magical mystery tour.
The first night together was a case of my jaw dropping in disbelief when he got undressed, thinking that there was no way I could possibly manage to deal with what was bouncing around in front of my eyes. It was more a case of the house shook rather than the earth moved, and over the coming months I had to teach him to refine his talent. He was sweet and lovely and attentive, we didn’t fight. If we had a disagreement he would walk out, and wait for me to ring him. Which I never did, I liked him but I didn’t love him. He was used to his women running after him, so the fact he had to chase me kept him keen. In a month or so he would turn up again, berating the fact that I hadn’t apologised or called.
I met his sister who called me ‘small but mighty,’ and his father who for some reason reminded me of a character in the children’s book Babar. I should have recognised the danger signals when he was so keen to introduce me to his family. It was fine for a year and a half, it was stable, and it was the first ‘normal’ relationship (whatever that is!) I’d had since my divorce…….. until he asked me to marry him.
That was the deal breaker for me; I’ve been married once and once is enough. So Vincent faded into the ether and we talk sometimes, last I heard he was going out with a New Zealand Vet.
As for me, later in the year I’ll be heading out East to taste the waters so to speak. I can’t wait till TBW goes international; I’ve been chatting by email to a mixed race Toy Boy working in Dubai from the site. Well sometimes a Toy Boy in the desert is worth two in the city, and the unknown and uncharted has piquancy worth waiting for.
Victoria Mosley (Siren Song) has two collections of poetry available from Amazon .co.uk The Dry Season (1998) Crazy Love (2002) and a cd downloadable from Idyllic Ipodcasts
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