In one significant way (if in no other!), dear Booby Fellatio (now up on BoobTube, as I put it in a rather splendid Freudian Slip to a friend earlier) and I are oceans apart. She (as those of you who have read, or viewed, her will know) lusts after, ‘…a plentiful supply of toothsome young men…a melange of mighty oaks…’ – whereas her redoubtable, orange-haired creator has, with one minor exception, always gone for the OLDER MAN!
My first proper boyfriend was four months my junior – and that’s the closest I have ever got to a Booby-type sexual scenario!
I have absolutely no prejudice on this front – and both know, and admire, many a woman in that hinterland between forty and seventy happily making the beast with two backs with a succession of youthful stallions! Good for them, I say! On the same lines – though not quite so extreme! – all three of my sisters are married to younger blokes!
However, my tastes have, historically – and, quite possibly, hysterically – always tended towards age (though not always maturity!). I probably fancied my father when I was four, or something.
I think another factor in my choice of bed-companion centred around the fact that I was a teacher for so ruddy long – and, therefore, any fresh-faced, light-on-years, chap I had cantered off into an orgasmic sunset with could all too easily have known, or even been (gulp!), an ex-pupil. The very thought was enough to freeze the blood – and, for this reason, I put a lower limit of early fifties (in my mind!) upon any potential conquest even when I was divorced and, thus, free to light the jolly old lamp of lust and ungird my loins (with a crowbar, if necessary!).
Booby, reading over my shoulder (as it were), is sneering away and guffawing wildly.
‘Really, Darling!’ she drawls. ‘Must you be so provincial, so damned narrow-minded? Think of all those gorgeous hunks of tautly-muscled testosterone just going to waste in the narrow beds of drunken tarts, or up a back alley in some plague-pit of a town!’
My (to me, very pertinent) points concerning saggage, baggage and wrinkles deeper than the bloody San Andrea Fault count for nowt in her jaded mind.
‘Hoick the GIRLS up as high as you can, without causing concussion!‘ she advises. ‘Pull the overhang in as far as you dare, or embrace Liposuction; wear your own weight in make-up and dress daringly at all times! Most men will be talking to your tits anyway, so why not cut out the Middleman?’
She may have a point, however.
‘Actually, Darling, I’ve got two!’ she cackles.
You see, I have always looked for emotional, intellectual and spiritual connection as well as sexual – and have created a further high-jump for the male population by insisting, somewhat stubbornly I daresay, upon a sense of humour too!
Booby – bless or curse her! – is much more direct in her needs: Under – and preferably WELL under! – forty (in years), well-blessed (in the Todger Department), gorgeous – and with the stamina of a bull servicing a herd of heifers.
I look at the wondrous specimen Booby insisted I post on here and find myself in a certain amount of turmoil: What, I ask, would one talk about after the Act? Would he be able to read? Write? Would he have any level of Emotional Intelligence?
Booby, licking her lips in prurient anticipation, has no such scruples.
‘Oh, bugger that, Darling!’ she warbles. ‘Just have your wicked way with the blighter and then turf him out! That’s what I do!’
Hmmm! I think she and I may have to agree to differ on this one for the moment.
Do I find the young man above attractive? Ye Gods, yes. But, I could so easily have taught him years ago – and I am old enough, I suspect, to be not just his mother, but probably his grandmother!
‘Nuff said, methinks!