Going down to Tuna Town
In my last column, I promised a foray into the world of older men and possibly women and, true to my word, I have much to report. After spending far too much of my student loan pursuing abortive relationships with ineffectual undergraduates, I decided to get a job working as a waitress (in a cocktail bar, of course).
On arriving at my first shift, I was titillated to discover I would be working under a gentleman who, though advanced of years, was of rather dashing appearance. I resolved that he would be my older man and lured him to the bar after the shift for a few introductory drinks. Much to my dismay, I discovered that he was married with two irritatingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed children. It occurred to me, however, that a married man might not make such an unsuitable lover. There would be none of the commitment, the insecurity, the inexperienced fumbling of the young and unattached man. Lo and behold, after a few glasses of finest red he was pouring out a catalogue of marital dysfunctions to me, or rather to my cleavage. And the rest is history.
After a few weeks of wining, dining and illicit workplace liaisons, he announced it was his birthday. The big 4-0 no less. His wife was away, so he was all mine. We went for a stylish dinner and a few rounds of cocktails, before I ushered him back to my halls. It was in the cab that I realised I hadn’t come up with the sort of extravagant gift he was probably accustomed to. His wife had got him a trip to Paris, so I thought the standard trip to tuna town I had planned might not cut the proverbial mustard. Something extra was needed. We got back to halls to find the cleaner working late, scrubbing away at a piece of old piping. It occurred to me, in a flash of lustful genius, that the perfect present for a long-fettered married man was a double parking space in tuna town.
Sheila’s eagerness to tumble into bed, apron and all, testifies to the shocking level of sexual deprivation at York. After an hour of torrid passion we lay three-abreast in a single bed with a post-coital cigarette, when my married man’s wife rang.
Hearing him address her as ‘sweetheart’ and express his excitement about Paris, I felt a befuddling pang of guilt and envy. Had I made a grave mistake in encouraging him to deviate from 15 years of matrimonial monogamy? Despite my current promiscuity, even I have pretensions to nuptial bliss, and you can be damned sure I wouldn’t tolerate some little tart and her cleaner meddling in my marriage. For the moment, however, I was too comfortably nestled between two post-coital frames to address the question. Perhaps that’s one for the next column.
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Tim
Way to go. Nothing beats putting out easy to make your mark as a serious journalist.