Romance is Dead

Believe it or not, there’s “a thing” in literature called the Bad Sex Awards. When I say ‘literature’ I use the term loosely since this might include eel-vomit novels such as 50 Shades etc., which would win every category of Bad Writing Awards. Passages of writing depicting romantic, sensual, or sexual encounters are notoriously difficult to write without them sounding naff, ridiculous, or gross – conversely or otherwise.

In cinema, badly scripted/filmed scenes leave less to the imagination. This is almost worse. The best movies use ‘the kiss’ as shorthand: a symbolic depiction is always better than explicit action. In the novel I’m working on, since cinema is a running theme throughout, I have a useful get-out. When things get steamy, I simply bring in the swirling violins and fade to black-out.

Things aren’t like this in real life – as Tom Dexter, in Woody Allen’s Purple Rose of Cairo, realises. As he steps out of the silver screen to join Cecilia, when they kiss he is baffled that the background music doesn’t fade out five seconds later.

 

Tom:            [pauses after kissing Cecilia] Where's the fade-out?

Cecilia:        What?

Tom:           Always when the kissing gets hot and heavy just before the lovemaking, there's a fadeout.

Cecilia:        Then what?

Tom:            Then we're making love in some private, perfect place.

Cecilia:        That's not how it happens here.

Tom:            What, there's no fade out?

Cecilia:        No, but when you kissed me, I felt like my heart faded out. I closed my eyes, and I was in some private place.

Tom:            How fascinating. You make love without fading out?

Cecilia:        Yes.

Tom:            Well, I can't wait to see this!

 

Even so, we are still left to imagine what happens – after all, the entire conceit, that an actor can walk out of a film, is in Cecilia’s imagination. As Cecilia says: ‘I just met a wonderful new man. He's fictional but you can't have everything.’

 

 

When someone has an affair, it is very tempting for the cheated-on to want to know what happened in the “other man’s” bed. The film Closer – a dangerous ménage à  quatre concerning Alice/Dan & Larry/Anna – undresses this with ferocious bitterness.  When Larry asks Anna about her affair with Dan, she leaves nothing to the imagination.

 

Anna:          We do everything that people who have sex do!

Larry:          Do you enjoy sucking him off?

Anna:          Yes!

Larry:          You like his cock?

Anna:          I love it!

Larry:          You like him coming in your face?

Anna:          Yes!

Larry:          What does it taste like?

Anna:          It tastes like you but sweeter!

Larry:          That's the spirit. Thank you. Thank you for your honesty. Now fuck off and die, you fucked up slag.

 

 

But Alice claims to know the 'truth.'

 

 

When I recently found myself to be a pawn in an affair, I made the mistake of confronting the cuckolded husband and telling him what had been going on. At that point, I didn’t know that the person who I’d been seeing had just got married: all I knew was that she’d apparently lost the baby she was expecting. It turned out this was a miscarriage of Love. The child now exists, and I suspect its biological paternity remains dubitable.

I imagine that when she was confronted about this affair, she passed it off as the wild rambling of a deranged poet; a fantasist with a complicated personal history. How she explained her miracle pregnancy to him is another mystery. Undoubtedly, as often happens with difficult or traumatic situations, her husband will have cloaked the truth in a pall of denial and attempted to bury the whole thing.

It would have been sensible if he had done this straight away and kept quiet. This would have saved him, and many other people, a lot of distress. Instead, he decided to publicise his complicity with his new wife’s recent duplicity and – perhaps attempting to render me impotent – he tried to silence me with slander, libel, threats, and abuse. A cuckold, and a fool.

 

Here, then, are three poems which – against my usual practice – are explicit and more-or-less autobiographical. The first takes poetic license over the wording of her tattoo, although her request to have lines from my poetry sequence, The Olive Box, permanently inscribed on her skin is no fabrication – no matter how much she may deny it.

 

Tattoo

You wanted lines of my poetry

   tattooed somewhere on your body.
I dismissed the idea as absurd!
   Even so, I kissed the words
already etched in time and place
   upon your shoulder-blade
as we conjoined in an intimate embrace,
   wondering why or what had made
you want to ink that writing
   on your soft, white, delicate skin.
I found it strangely inviting
   and yet, equally appalling:
quirky, quasi-legalise cod-Latin.
   Still, as your body was enthralling
mine, I ran my mouth along
   the lettering, embossed, scripted
like sensual braille for the tongue.
   Our sex was interrupted
then by something humdrum
   and domestic. Was I blind?
I cupped your left breast
   in my hand as we remained
engaged, but failed to notice how
   that writing, burnt on flesh,  
was also written on the wall.
   It was with more than your skin
that, lying, your body took me in.                  
   Had Love been put to trial
it would have been found wanting;
   lacking any sense of truth or evidence,
like your skin-deep graffiti,
   a case deserted pro loco et tempore.

 

It is a given that, when an affair with a poet goes awry, that poet might use the most intimate details available to fuel their pen. If the cuckold of this sordid affair is still in denial of our sexual encounter, this poem contains a few facts that only he and I (and her previous sexual partners which, despite her claim were none, I suspect were very many) will know.

 

A Vow

Like many her age

(but not, I thought,
her gender) she learned
about it from the internet.

Claiming her ingénue,

her sighs and cries
were dubious; as fake
as the words ‘I do.'

I wanted to ask her,
‘Why, when we make
love, you never say,
the words “I love you?”’

Calling out my name

in throes of ecstasy
again and – oh – again
enough to convince me

our love was true.
On the first of many
hoped-for times
(transpired-too-few)

I took her curiosity
as a given, just like
the assumption that
we’d have children.

And as she explored,

wide-eyed as she lied,
the gift I gave her
soon her behaviour

grew experimental.
She’d tell me ‘Your…’
(feigning coyness,
she left an ellipsis)

‘Is the most amazing

thing I’ve ever tasted.’
Her flattery, naturally,
I foolishly trusted.

After all, the vows

we’d taken secretly
were real: who was I
to disavow her? Now

years later I realise
it wasn’t the presence
of any human eyes
or God as witness,

but a false testimony

of the cock-and-ball
bullshit of the internet
that fuelled her passions.

She wanted to know

about other positions,
out of pure curiosity –
it all came naturally –

and, as she straddled me,

took my hand and tried
to make me slap her behind.
Taken aback, I refused.

‘Why are you imagining

that’s even “a thing”?’
And then I realised
it was not her but I

who was the innocent;

was simply being used
for the sex she meant
as romance, abused

thanks to a culture

that, failing marriage
promises or reverent
intent, responsibility

or meaning; a token

solemnity given in
exchanges unspoken
without any ring,

was the pornography

she’d gleaned and come
to see as normative:
to get sex was to give.

‘For better or for worse’

I said, ‘You understand,
I swear I’ll never curse’
or raise my hand

'against the one I love.’

She understood, and
as I placed my palm
upon her softest cheek –

the one with a similar

beauty-spot to that
on one of her feet –
(I thought it familiar

although I now fail

to remember which)
and as we engaged,
again, in copulation –

an act I regarded

as symbolic or perhaps
a celebration of
what comfort, honour

and protection

I afforded her –
her false promises
little rewarded a

love that I intended:

one that should have
lasted for a life ended
in cessation as abrupt

as hers when she declared

my passion 'too intense.'
Subsequently it appeared
her love was but corrupt,

yet worse: was fraudulent.

But she had, by then,
achieved her full reward.
A husband. Or a Cuckold?

I’d like to say, who knows?

But of what’s lies or truth,
or false, or genuine abuse,
more years will only show.

This, our final sexual encounter, happened only days before she got married to her poor, deluded fiancé – having deluded me too. She told me she was attending the funeral of her mother who had killed herself (how sick a story is that?) A week later, like a teenager she ended our intimate relationship by text, from her honeymoon location.

On her return, we met. I foolishly begged her to re-consider. I could sense there was something wrong; something far more than her having to overcome the loss of two lives. Our final rendezvous took place in a more-than-ominous location.

 

Stone-cold

Because I feared our love was dead

(if it existed in the first place)
we met up in a cemetery
for our final assignation.
Seeing in your face
the first tremor of recovery,
sitting on the sun-warmed steps
I longed to kiss your lips
but you refused –
said it would give the wrong idea
(although you craved it too);
let me kiss your neck, your ear,
allowed me to caress
your favourite breast.
I placed my other hand
between your thighs,
soliciting familiar sighs.

Tempted to return my passion,
you added to your catalogue of lies:
when I stroked your arm you claimed
as you shivered at my touch
a post-traumatic flinch,
reacting from a former wound.
A new one to me.
So I touched you tenderly,
avoiding the crook of your arm
while you convinced yourself
of your latest fable,
thinking yourself able
to hook me as you’d managed
well so far. I’d caused no more harm
than Love’s moronic damage.

A spider scuttled across the lichen;
you elaborated upon the web you’d spun.
Though self-deceived, I had begun
to unravel your deceit,
while clutching at the straws of…
was it love? For sure I’d longed for yours.

I watched my hopes diminish

and fade between the graves.
And as we stood to leave,
I tried to resurrect a death-wish.
How pathetic I must
have sounded as
I begged you reconsider.
When you embraced me,
it was then I figured:
this wasn’t love but lust.
And as you pressed
your body into mine – a gesture
purely sexual – your words
‘I’m so ... attracted to you’
corroborated what your
body had already told me:
that, whatever was in your mind,
your heart was cold and empty.

Whatever the truth behind these stories, and of the poetic licence I have taken, the fact of the matter remains: this young woman was – and probably still is – a deranged fantasist. On Valentine’s Day, the Romantic in me wants to say that all sex without love is Bad Sex. Perhaps the same could be said of the poems that have come out of this ghastly encounter.

While much of what I have written about this episode of my life has been published, I suspect these poems will only be available on this blog. Unless someone creates a Bad Sex Award for poetry… in which case there will be plenty of competition! Just keep scrolling down for more.

 

Or wait for the next instalment...

 

 

Married to an Angel?

Shortly before Christmas I had a poem published. It quotes the song ‘Just the way you are.’ So does my last blog-post. You might call this ironic. (Yes, it rained on my wedding day.)

 

Olivia, Beatified 

Dear, think not that they will forget you:
-If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.

                             - Thomas Hardy

If I wanted you to be a saint

I’d call you Saint Cecilia
who sings celestial charms
that soothe the raging heart.

I could pray to Saint Audrey

(as they do in Ely) whose tawdry
trinkets were at first the cause
of curse, but then became a balm.

If I banished you to the kitchen,

with subservience of Martha,
a saint of domesticity, you could
claim your rightful title of a martyr.

You could castigate yourself; a cross

between Rapunzel and Saint Barbara.
You’d piss me off, for sure – far more
than I already irked your father.

 

No, I don’t want you as a saint.

Do I not apotheosize you?
God knows, I worship you; set you
up upon a Thomas Hardy shrine.

I don’t want you for eternity;

I want you here and now.
Not perfect, godly, or divine;
not with a halo, nor angelic glow.

I crave the present: the saints            

are dead; numbered with the stars.
Like Billy Joel or Jerome Kern,

I love you – just the way you are.

 

Sometimes, when you place someone on a pedestal, you can fool yourself that they are better than they are. Literally too good to be true, they fool themselves and the truth is neither in them nor the person who worships them. That poem was from my sequence of poems called The Olive Box, which charts a fictional love affair with a violinist called Olivia.

The persona in the poems thought that his Olivia could do no wrong, mistaking her ‘saintly’ acts for non-reciprocal altruism. He never imagined that she was anything other than his own (flawed) projection of perfection. As I said last month, those who apply the ‘Just the Way You Are’ fantasy-ideal to their lovers, partners, or wives are probably deluded fools.

In 2014 I fell for someone who turned out to be someone completely other than who she presented to me, and who tricked me into a relationship more fake than a prostitute’s orgasm. Naturally, I was pretty pissed off. When I discovered she had got married while we were still supposedly seeing each other, I was horrified. And when I found out she was pregnant I realised that, in my naïveté, I may have given far more than just my heart to her.

This time last year the man who she married, having discovered her pre-marital infidelity, in complicity with her egregious deception attempted to silence me. By setting up various fake social-media profiles, in his pathetic envy he wanted to avenge me for the fact that his fiancé was fucking around. Using false, defamatory and misleading information, he posted emails, tweets and messages in an attempt to sway all my friends, followers and associates.

He failed, of course. And pissed off a lot of people.

Perhaps he was in denial of the whole affair – the mark of a man deceived. He was warned that his activities were illegal, yet he persisted, leaving himself vulnerable. He began his campaign against me on Christmas Day 2014, spuriously claiming some misplaced altruism that might protect the children of the world. I suspect he was keen to protect his own child, due in March 2015, from the knowledge that its ‘dad’ might not be his ‘father.’

By keeping her affair from their friends and family, they will be deceiving them all over the dubitable paternity of the child. For some reason, he is in complicity with this deceit. Above all, he was in a relationship with someone other than the person who she alleged to be. He is deceiving himself far more than she ever deceived him or me. This, then, is the Truth.

 

 

 

The primary act of infidelity is the kiss. And this was how it was with us. We had been on a bicycle ride to Musselburgh where we ate a shop-bought picnic by the beach, then attended a spoken-word evening. I read one of my Cautionary Tales, written especially for her. After the evening was over and the other people had left the room, as we were about to leave she turned and kissed me on the lips. Then she apologised. With caution, I invited a second kiss.

This was the point that her carefully-planned deception kicked in. She explained how she’d never done anything like it before. Allegedly fiercely independent and supposedly innocent (to use that word in a compound sense) she nonetheless seemed pretty confident that her bold act was the pre-cursor to sex. She announced this idea to herself in pretend surprise.

Unfortunately, her intention at that stage was scuppered by a strange incident as we took to our bikes for the journey back. Having extracted, with alarming insistence, more information out of me than I was prepared to give about my personal history, she pushed away on her bicycle. I called after her, “Your rear light isn’t on!” Glancing behind to check, she swerved and hit the kerb. Her bicycle flew out of control and she landed chin-first on the pavement.

There was a lot of blood. She lost her memory, momentarily. (I later learned from an article about her that she previously suffered from amnesia.) And in some pain, I remember quite clearly, she whimpered, “I love you.” Nowhere was open, so using my meagre ration of pocket tissues to soak up the blood, we made the long journey back to my flat with her chin dripping profusely all over her bicycle, down her long, red coat, and onto my doorstep.

Unperturbed by my dearth of first aid supplies, she seemed more intent on pressing her body against mine, thrusting herself into me in movements I can only describe as mock copulatory. Were it not for her wounds, we might have had sex there and then. But I, for one, don’t fuck on a first date and she, more important, was keen to get home and get cleaned up. I called a taxi. One good thing: she’d have to return for her blood-soaked bike at some point…

 

Later she texted me to say that she’d driven herself to the hospital (despite being incapable of handling a bicycle.) She was told she needed stitches, yet she refused. I suspect that it was her fiancé (about whom I knew nothing) who drove her there; I doubt either was keen for her to have a stitched-up face on their wedding day. Is that ironic? How she explained to him what had happened, I’ll never know. The expression ‘stitched up’ seems doubly fitting.

This was in May – or as the German Romantic poets would say, Im wundershönen monat Mai. Although it would be some months before I learned about her wedding, this was the start of a ‘Dichterliebe’ episode that, if nothing else, produced a tranche of words flowing from my pen as fast as the blood that dripped from her chin that portentous night in May.

One day, I may send the lot to her – or to him. Perhaps there are others who would like to know the Truth. One day, I might send the lot to them. For now, I will post them here.

 

 

And this is how it happens in Allegory

              Today we have discovered the truth:

                “Beware the flatterer… who spreads
                    a net for his neighbour’s feet.”


You will go on a long, long journey.
It may be by earth or air or sea
or possibly – to modernise the myth –
by train or tram or car or bicycle.
You will face challenges and obstacles;
inclement weather; or the roadways, rough
with dips and steps, will trip and throw you off.
You’ll lose your mind, but not the man you’re with.
You’ll meet along your journey characters
personified by adjectives; monsters,
demons, beasts, or words too strong to mention.
Your injuries you’ll shrug off with derision…
but not the memory of that contusion
that will bleed profusely for eleven days,
portentous. But you’ll press on anyway,
determined to complete your subtle mission.
There will be complications that will try
your metal, psychological and physical.
And  sometimes, lured by flattery,
or tempted by a voice that utterly
beguiles, you may return the compliment.
And as you spread your net (for it was meant
to be a double-trap) you’ll lose control
and fall headlong into your own hyperbole.
For on this trip, which from its conception
will be analogous with its deception,
you’ll find yourself, at last, relieved
to hold on to the one you most deceived.
It’s not the journey but the destination;
not the means that justifies your celebration,
but the end. You won’t have travelled far.
And yet your flesh will bear another’s scar.

 

For those unfamiliar with Schumann’s song cycle, Dichterliebe, here is a video. My poem summarises the whole piece, but adds a twist in the tale.

 

 

And this is how it happens in Lieder

                Es ist eine alte geschichte,

                Doch bleibt sie immer neu
                Und wem sie just passieret,
                Dem bricht das Herz entzwei.

 

A young man loves a maiden but –

to cut an old, old story short –
she loves somebody else. This doesn’t stop
him sing of flowers in bloom, of birdsong, spring;
his sighs become a choir of nightingales;
compares her to a dove, a rose, the sun,
and – most peculiarly – the Virgin Mary
(although to ‘plunge his soul into her lily’
is a euphemism only poetry
or Romantic Song would dare to sing.)
Naturally, the story ends in tears.
He passes by a wedding-feast and hears
the sound of pipes and drums, a string quartet,
and, wracked with grief that stars illuminate,
and morning summer sun will not forget,
the sad, pale man refuses yet to hate
the one who disabused him of her love;
he grudgingly concedes to her distress.
He calls upon her in his dreams and weeps,
throwing himself at her unforgiving feet;
is beckoned by the hand of fairy-tales
that ancient melodies delight to tease
as if the very flowers pity or please
the man. The white hand in the mist dissolves
as morning sun awakens his resolve
to sink the hurtful songs into the ocean – 
with them, his heavy heart, so deeply broken.
What happens to the girl, we’ll never know.
It is a tale repeated ever-new:
presumably, therefore, in time as she
regrets, she’ll ditch the ‘other man.’ And he
will also feel his heart breaking in two.


Do not fear - there will be more in February, when Saint Valentine pins his  flaccid tail to the donkey of idiotic, god-forsaken love.

Christmas - and other ridiculous myths

On this day, in certain parts of The Church, they celebrate the myth of the Virgin Mary. In the ancient Christmas Carol, The Cherry Tree Carol it states from the outset that...

Joseph was an old man

And a very old man was he

When he married Mary

In the land of Galilee.

Questions may be asked as to why this old man was marrying someone who was, it is suggested, very, very young. It seemed his arm was somewhat forced, since she’d become pregnant through some mysterious encounter about which Old Joseph was in the dark. But let’s get one thing absolutely straight: she was no virgin. This was just a silly idea, a cover-up, and a theological sleight-of-hand to explain the yet-invented Holy Spirit.

The Bible’s pretty hot on mystery pregnancies, and doesn’t rule out rape or incest, so the age-gap thing was less of a problem for young Mary explaining herself to Joseph. What’s more, it paved the way for the modern paradox, that it’s okay for young women to go for older men, whereas older men fancying younger women is troublesome. For some.

And this is how it happens in the Bible.

The women-folk are all so desperate

to be ‘with child,’ a patriarchal God
performs a winning hand of magic tricks
to help them out. In the beginning, He
creates a snake and, with a piece of fruit,
imbues creation (or sex) with original guilt.
The Lord, of course, abhors homosexuality,
but after turning Lot’s Wife into a pillar
persuades his daughters to date-rape their father.
To other women, too haggard or barren,
He introduces spite and jealousy
and then opens their wombs to fertility.
Some women are less-keen to get knocked-up;
but Rachel, like Rapunzel who was locked up
in her tower, ended up with twins
who in her womb quarrel like Cain and Abel.
It’s a bitter battle no woman wins.
And Abram, finding his elderly wife unable
to bear a son and heir, abused his servant-
girl, Hagar. Some call this canny; others, deviant.
In years to come, the same capricious Deity                 
by-passes conception immaculately –
although just how this ‘virgin’ explains
it to her aged husband-to-be remains,
in retrospect, the bigger mystery.
He must have been an understanding man.
Or did the Lord endow him with the Wisdom
of King Solomon? The man agreed,
at risk of losing face, to raise a son
conceived not of his own but of another’s seed.
After all, what was this man to do?
He couldn’t exactly chop the child in two.

 

Lately there was a piece on a crappy website shared on Facebook which, for some reason, I clicked on – and read with horror. In these days of Thatcherite post-feminism, when women get what they want at any (or, if they’re canny, at no) cost, these fifteen reasons for dating an older man were so devoid of love – surely the bedrock of a relationship – that I found myself extremely riled. This was the premise of the piece:

WHY YOU SHOULD DATE AN OLDER MAN

Are you interested in dating an older man, but unsure about making the leap?  Then we suggest you take a look at some of our reasons why you should snatch yourself a silver fox, because let’s face it: older men just do everything better!  *Wink-wink*

Perhaps *Wank-wank* sums it up better. This was not the most intellectual set of suggestions, nor was it based on a particularly robust understanding of psychology. The user-responses were hardly academic either (nor are mine, especially) but they ranged from describing women as ‘gold-diggers,’ to expressions of seemingly genuine love of older men. A general denial of pot-bellies and little blue pills was evident. There was a wide range of age-differences from the women who spoke of their older partners, and this, I guess, is the most significant factor.

It is said (by god-knows who) that a good age-gap calculator is to half a person’s age then add seven: this gives a socially acceptable age-difference. So, generally speaking, teenagers date their own age-band; it’s not unusual for a woman of, say, 22, to be with another person in their twenties, or for a man of 35 to have a partner in her mid-twenties. It would be less-normative for a 25 year-old woman to be married to a man well into his fifties. But behavioural psychology does not presume to question love; nor does it offer any answers.

In psychology – and love – nothing is ever quite what is seems. Ultimately, the age-gap calculation is only a rule-of-thumb, and can be used as judicially as terms such as cougar, panther, silver fox, or manther. Who are we to judge? Yet questions remain. Some people turn to the Bible for answers; some to other ancient sources, or to art, or literature, or music. Some go to the incalculable idiocy of the Internet. And this is how it is in Modern Life…

(I have quoted, in full, the statements but not included the stomach-churning pictures. My response follows each)

1.

For the most part, older men don't live with their parents or share their living space with roommates. Hell. Yes.

So a Younger Woman can free-load off a man who has his own living-space, subtly impose her stamp on his lifestyle, but keep her own cheap shared-flat in case of needing a quick-and-easy get-out. Sure, it’s good if a single, Older Man lives in a nice wee flat, or – better still – mansion but that won’t guarantee they’ll be free of the fortnightly visit of offspring from a former relationship. Unless they are so significantly older their kids have grown up. In which case, you’ll get to meet someone your own age at Christmas, lucky Younger Woman! Hell? Yes.

2.

They typically know exactly what they want out of a relationship. That means no games.

The implication here is that younger women don’t know what they want, and therefore game-playing is on their agenda and will be one-sided. Which is insulting to both genders. Games, quarrelling and bargaining are important aspects of any relationship. That said, if a relationship is simply a game, or if either is playing off the other, this is not a stable basis. It’s more of a gamble. You’d better keep your ‘poker-face,’ Younger Woman, if he’s gonna ‘put a ring on it.’ (Don’t worry about him not getting the contemporary cultural references: just keep singing ‘The Winner Takes it All’ – he knows that one. Or soon will.)

3.

Older men won’t try to change you because, like we said, they know what they want out of a relationship.

Do they really know what they want? If they do, then they are perhaps more controlling and conniving than is comfortable in a new relationship. If they want equality and shared experience, they’re onto a loser anyway. But feel free to try and change them because, as these statements seem to be saying, Younger Woman does not know what she wants. Older Man will be humming ‘Just the way you are,’ while Younger Woman drunkenly hollers, karaoke-style, ‘I am what I am’ – fully intent on changing according to her whim (or developing maturity.)

4.

Older men typically have good manners. And who doesn't love a polite gentlemen?

And younger women have none? Courtesy, politeness, good manners, etiquette: the definition of all these is pretty fluid, and dependent on so many factors, not least age and upbringing. The word ‘typically’ seems to floating on thin ice here. Out-dated manners are insulting to many women. The indication that men should be ‘gents’ and woman, ‘ladies’ applies only to the signs on lavatory doors these days. If bedside-manners are not equal, then neither is the relationship. Put away your Debrett’s, Older Man, or hang on to your regrets.

5.

Oh, and did we mention older men are just plain hot? Two words: Silver fox!

Does it not concern the reader that ‘hot’ is not a sensible or pleasing description? Neither is ‘plain.’

6.

They are more experienced in and out of the bedroom. You know what they say: practice makes perfect!

If you’re expecting ‘perfect’ sex (the ‘out of the bedroom’ bit is unqualified) then you may well be disappointed. The idea of sexual ‘performance’ seems to be the tone here. If Younger Woman yearns for something a little less vanilla, she will go and find it (out of Older Man’s bedroom.) Conversely, if his experience leads him to want something a little more ‘exciting,’ the chances of this being grounded on equality seem dubious, given that Older Man has the upper hand of experience, so we’re told. Of course, he might not be so experienced or willing to experiment; in which case: good luck, pal. She’ll be taking you for a ride, either way.

7.

With age comes wisdom and intelligence. Not to mention, older studs usually shell out great advice.

Do you want an aged counsellor to whom you are peculiarly attracted, who exudes fake wisdom and may not be as clever as he seems just because he has had a few more years’ life experience? Go on then, Younger Woman. But be prepared to agree with everything he says, if that is your perception of him. Until you find you’re wrong. Let’s shell out one more piece of advice while we’re at it (whatever ‘it’ is.) If your ‘older stud’ calls you a ‘fine young filly,’ feel free to kick him in the knackers. That’s where – if he’s an older stud – he’ll be heading anyway.

8.

Older men make you feel young(er) because, well duh, they're older than you. That's definitely a plus!

No: younger women make older men think they are younger when, in fact, the age-gap will become even more contentious as it diminishes. Down the line, should children appear in the arrangement (and they might already factor, if he’s seen a bit of life) it will be clear to the Young(ish) Woman that a retired man may not have the necessary income to raise her child(ren.) He may die before seeing the child(ren) into adulthood. Furthermore, he may be a grand-parent to his first flush of child-bearing sexual encounters. Younger Woman, you married a Granddad. Ew.

9.

Older men are generally more well off. Even though that's not a be-all, end-all, it's still a nice perk.

Let’s face it; if they’re not well-off, then the tenor of this statement suggests there is little point in dating them. If money is a ‘nice perk’ then you might as well forget about the sex. As for love… I was coming to that. But, nah!

10.

Maturity is key in a relationship, and who wants an immature man?

And why would a mature man want an immature woman? Then again, age and maturity are different things. It’s perhaps likely that Older Man will want Younger Woman because he has ‘immaturity issues’ (too many to begin to contemplate here) that will be revealed as the relationship develops while he no longer does so. To keep this idea simple:  there are two ‘key’ elements to a good relationship: maintenance and reparation. These are what help a relationship develop and mature. The idea of a pre-packaged maturity seems, paradoxically, rather naïve.

11.

Older men are usually easy-going and much more relaxed than their younger counterparts.

If only that were true: this is a stereotype that the younger woman will soon see through if he is emotionally unstable. Which he may well be if he is being seduced by womanly youth. And the ‘younger counterparts’ – what the hell does that imply? Perhaps, ‘Potential Suitors’ is the term we’re looking for. The potential for jealousy seems to be simmering under the surface. Well, Older man, you’d better stay relaxed while your Younger Woman is out with those naughty counterparts. Let’s hope that ‘easy-coming’ isn’t ‘easy-going’ as far as she’s concerned.

12.

They can also be more grounded.

Such a meaningless statement, there are no grounds for any response.

13.

Older men are more able to help you get through tough times, both emotionally and mentally.

Do older men really have more emotional or mental stability? Tough times: what does that mean? The tough times will be when you’re having to care for them in old age when physical and mental attributes diminish. You’d better fit that stair-lift, Younger Woman. Or save up for those Nursing-Home fees. Or just get out while you can.

14.

They know how to have an intellectual conversation and keep you interested.

Unless they turn out to be intellectual frauds whose conversation runs quickly out as your shared life-experience turns out to be limited and exclusive. People in their 50s have chest-freezers and quote lyrics from Rod Stewart or Carole King. They drive slightly embarrassing cars, like Peugeot Estates, and wear jumpers. They have a penchant for reminiscing on children’s TV-shows and quoting adverts from the 1970s. Hardly intellectual, but if you don’t know what brand of beer “stays sharp to the bottom of the glass” your relationship will soon lose its fizz.

15.

Young men like to score as often as they can, but older men like to take things slow. That being said, they are usually also more loyal.

These three statements do not make syllogistic sense. Older Man will see Younger Woman as a ‘trophy.’ Given his (implied) inability to “go fast,” Older Man will be reluctant to lose Younger Woman. This said, it is no wonder he is likely to be loyal – even if his ‘trophy’ has the tendency of her male counterparts (by which I mean age, just to clarify my use of ‘counterpart’ here) to score often. Older Man may not get another chance, and will (if he is as wise as his years suggest) forgive Younger Woman for even the most horrific infidelity.

He may resort to bringing up a child that was possibly conceived while his ‘trophy’ played – and scored – elsewhere, even in the knowledge that this child might not be his. And all the time, Younger Woman has Older Man exactly where she wants him – domestically, financially – tied around her finger. If she is really canny, she will have got him to put a ring on it, binding him, while biding her time ’til Older Man is, frankly, far too old to be of use. And then she will spit him out and pick on someone her own age.

Which is what Older Man should have done in the first place.

 

I will post more of my “And this is how it is…” poems in the coming months, and plenty more over the year. Meanwhile, I’m off to sing Christmas carols about Virgins, Angels and Wise Men - and other things that don’t exist.