Raven

by Monica Porter

  COOL BLACK STUD AGED 28: ‘Ha! That’s good. I think you need to be shown what you’ve been missing out on.’

  RAVEN: ‘I might be up for that. We should meet and see if we like each other. So what is your considered view of older white women?’

  BLACK STUD: ‘That they’ve been missing out by being with white men all their lives. I think the younger generation of white girls are more open (or maybe even prefer) to be with a black man.’

  RAVEN: ‘Well, I’d like to find out what I’ve been missing.’

  BLACK STUD: ‘Want to find out soon?

  RAVEN: ‘I’m pretty busy for the next few days but I’ll see if I can fit you in.’

  BLACK STUD: ‘Mm…it'll be interesting to see if you can “fit me in”. It'll be very exciting, I'm sure.’

  RAVEN: ‘Hey, I’ve an idea. I'm at an event in town this evening but it’ll probably be over by 8.30. Meet for a drink afterwards?’

  BLACK STUD: ‘I actually have a date tonight, with a white chick. She’s 23 and fun. How about Saturday? We could have the whole day/night together, rather than one rushed evening.’

  RAVEN: ‘As it happens I’ve got a date myself on Saturday.’

  BLACK STUD: ‘With a white guy?’

  RAVEN: ‘Yup.’

  BLACK STUD: ‘Can you change it? Black men should always take priority. We'd have an intense day together…a new experience for you, your first black guy.’

  RAVEN: ‘I can’t just blow him out. Not fair.’

  BLACK STUD: ‘Been trying to control myself from getting too excited thinking about spending time with you. Ditch those white guys. You need it big and you need it black.’

  RAVEN: ‘Really, you’re incorrigible. And just as you're about to go off on a date with some nice kid. I'm shocked!’

  But I wasn’t shocked in the least. I was growing accustomed to this sex-talk messaging with young guys on the dating site. Most of them cut straight to the chase. I was discovering an army of males in their twenties and early thirties all harbouring fantasies about being with older women. And they had found an easy way of making the fantasies come true. I had been aware that this sort of thing took place on tacky cougar websites, designed specifically for the purpose. But this was an ordinary mainstream site, it was supposed to be about ‘dating’, not fucking. On their profiles these men were all sweetness and cherry pie, looking to have lovely dates with lovely people and maybe even find that ‘crazy little thing called love’. But behind it all there was a lot of hunting going on for the next free shag. Why pay? At this rate hookers would soon be out of business.

  There was a 25-year-old in the catering business who caught my eye because, like me, he hailed from Hungary. I sent a jovial hello to this compatriot, who also happened to be easy on the eye. He immediately asked whether I wanted to fix up a ‘rendezvous’.

  ‘Sure we can meet up sometime. Although my children are older than you!’

  ‘But you like young guys?’

  I thought of Pup. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do you like them?

  ‘Great bodies and lots of energy, less emotional baggage. Simple!’

  ‘So tell me if I’m wrong but I think you are looking for some fun.’

  ‘Well I'm certainly not looking for a full-time partner right now – been there, done that and got the crummy teeshirt.’

  ‘If you are looking for some sex…well I can give that to you.’

  ‘Well, you certainly don't waste time. So I guess you’re into older women?’

  ‘Yes I am. I find them very attractive and they turn me on much more. You like young bodies. So that’s it. If you are looking for the same thing as me, why not?’

  ‘That sounds reasonable. Just as long as you don’t expect me to make goulash.’

  We exchanged mobile numbers and the next thing I knew he texted me to ask what kind of ‘undies’ I was wearing. Now it was getting silly. Then he sent a picture showing his washboard stomach and muscular arms. ‘Stop showing off,’ I replied.

  I never heard from him again. My contact with Black Stud fizzled out too, before I had a chance to find out what I’d been ‘missing out on’. But that’s virtual dating for you – some guys are all jabber and no action. You can be getting on famously with someone, hammering out your hot-blooded messages, hinting at all kinds of future delights, only for the whole shebang to evaporate like snowflakes on the palm of your hand. But as there were always new prospects heaving into view, it really didn’t matter.

  Not altogether comfortably, I felt as if the process could be changing my attitude towards people. It was slowly commoditising them. And if I commoditised them, surely they did the same to me. It was a worry.

  But not a very big one. I was having too much fun. Who would have thought that at sixty I’d be having more down-and-dirty fun than I’d had in any previous decade? In my twenties I was married and starting a family and changing nappies. In my thirties there was more of the same, plus a deteriorating marriage. In my forties I was a single mum toiling in the crucible of Fleet Street in order to survive. And in my fifties I was locked in an unsatisfactory full-time relationship. So, the sexy sixties then. Letting it rip!

  *

  It’s a cliché, which is why it is so true. All women are enticed by the idea of a man in uniform. Not any uniform, obviously. Not, for example, the uniform of a park attendant. It has to be a heroic uniform. So when I got a wink from a tall, dark-haired (albeit thinning-haired) fireman, it got my attention at once. I winked back. He thanked me and our messaging began.

  LondonsBurning, aged 39, might have been a hero but his grammar was terrible. He was also a liberal user of the abominable lol. These things offended my literary sensibilities. Nevertheless, I had never been out with a fireman, so this was an opportunity not to be missed.

  He was a biker with a Harley Davidson (even more thrilling), so he suggested that as a ‘retired biker chick’ I might want to get my leathers out of mothballs and hop on the back of his machine.

  I had assumed my biking days were definitely over. But perhaps I should think again? I was glad now that my attempts months earlier to sell my panoply of leathers on eBay had been a total flop.

  That evening, as he was lounging around at the south London fire station where he was based, we texted each other to arrange a meeting for the following weekend.

  ‘You don’t sound too busy,’ I said. ‘When did you last put out a fire?’

  ‘Today, funnily enough. Nothing major. Small kitchen job. Now we’re playing with our hoses. Lol.’

  ‘Sounds kinky.’

  ‘We like to get them out now and then. Does kinda sound naughty.’

  ‘Well I look forward to hearing more naughty firemen’s tales at the weekend.’

  ‘U might be shocked.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  I suggested we meet up in my neighbourhood. (Another of Vanessa’s diktats: ‘Never put yourself out by travelling to some distant part of town for a date; make him come to you.’) But LondonsBurning – who was contemplating riding up on his bike – didn’t know north London very well and was confused about the route he should take.

  ‘No satnav?’ I asked.

  ‘On the Harley? Don’t be silly.’

  Fair Enough. My ex and I had used a satnav on the Honda Pan European (would have been lost many times without it) but Harley riders were a different breed. They considered themselves hard. And on reflection, Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda wouldn’t have been nearly as bad-ass in Easy Rider with little coloured screens in front of them, showing them where to go.

  In the end, though, LondonsBurning decided to take the tube so that he could drink. As usual, the venue I chose was The Bells. By now I suspected that the regular bartenders there – two gangly Australian youths and a Czech girl with short dark hair who vaguely resembled Sheena Easton in the eighties – had started to wonder about me, always turning up as I did for an assignation with some new young man. I hoped they wouldn’t get the wrong idea
…although the right idea was possibly not a whole lot better.

  My heart sank when I walked in and saw him standing by the bar. I wasn’t expecting him to be in full fire-fighting kit, but a little effort would not have gone amiss. Smart casual wear and a pair of decent shoes, perhaps. Or at least some well-fitting jeans and a tucked-in shirt. But LondonsBurning didn’t dress to impress. He wore baggy, frayed jeans and a shapeless, un-ironed shirt which hung loosely at his sides. Plus a pair of crappy old trainers. Not quite the image of that valiant heart-throb you would want to heave you over his shoulder and carry you gingerly down a very long ladder. A hero in uniform, maybe, but a hobo out of it.

  He was polite and a tad bashful as he bought me a glass of wine and we took our drinks to an outdoor table. Out in the sunlight I noticed that he was looking a little rough, as if he’d been on a bender the night before. And was that a bruise above one eye?

  After we sat down he apologised for not being at his best and told me he’d got into a brawl the previous night at a dive in south London where he and his fellow fire-fighters had gone drinking after their shift. He was set upon by an ‘evil’ East European bouncer and got battered. He lifted up his shirt to reveal an ugly yellow-blue blotch on his left side.

  ‘It’s mostly my ego that got hurt, though,’ he added with a crestfallen look.

  I smiled sympathetically and warmed to him a little. ‘I suppose when you’re a fire-fighter you’re seen as a tough guy and the thugs want to try to bring you down, right?’

  He nodded. ‘I guess so. If this had happened to me years ago I’d have gone right back there the next night with a couple of mates and we’d have beaten the shit out of that bouncer.' He sipped his beer, looking pensive. ‘But now…’ A pause. ‘Now I think I’ll go there in a couple of weeks, on my own, and do the job myself.’

  You had to admire him, in a way.

  Like me, he had split up with a long-term partner a few months earlier. He had loved her, but they’d had a turbulent relationship and fought all the time. She was more than a decade older than him. Smiling faintly, he said he preferred older ladies, although when an attractive blonde who looked no more than twenty-two walked past, his eyes followed her all the way to her table.

  By this stage I knew there would be no second date but I was curious about his background – call it journalistic inquisitiveness – and so I heard all about his career-criminal father who had spent years in jail and who LondonsBurning hadn’t seen for a very long time, as well his ‘lovely mum’ who had slogged away to support him when he was growing up and whom he clearly adored. (Hence his attraction to older women, I surmised, with no shit, Sherlock acuity.)

  We ordered some food and talked some more and I liked him on a basic level. Rough-cut though he was, he had old-fashioned good manners, pulling my chair out for me, helping me on with my jacket, etc. The kind of escort who would sock a guy on the jaw for making a lewd remark to his date, and that has definite appeal in today’s poncy, politically correct world.

  When we parted company he said he would like to see me again, ‘when he was in better shape’, and I suggested we text each other.

  He texted late that night: ‘I really like you and thanks for being so attentive and understanding. Hope very much to see you again soon.’

  I knew that my reply, the next day, wasn’t what he wanted to hear. It was along fairly standard lines: enjoyed meeting you, you’re a decent guy but we haven’t enough in common for us to keep seeing each other, you deserve my honesty, wouldn’t want to lead you on, blah blah…’

  There were a few more messages, then they petered out. And that was the end of my fireman. Looked like I would be keeping my leathers in mothballs a while longer.

  *

  It’s Sunday lunch with the family. Big leg of lamb with all the trimmings, the Bordeaux is flowing, the kiddies (aged two and five) are playing with their vegetables before getting bored and scampering off to watch a cartoon.

  We’ve done politics and the fighting in Afghanistan, Boris Johnson’s latest antics and plans for a surfing weekend in Cornwall, the kids’ erratic night-time sleeping patterns and our favourite moments from Breaking Bad.

  Then, in a lull, Older Son (aged 35) asks: ‘So Mum, how’s it going with the internet dating?’

  Sara (a vegetarian) looks up from her veggie-and-nut roast and our eyes meet.

  Me (noncommittally): ‘Oh yeah, it’s been interesting.’

  Older Son: ‘Been out on a few dates now, I gather from Sara.’

  Me, nodding: ‘Yes I have, an intriguing variety.’ I wonder how much I ought to reveal. Okay, here goes. Because I can’t resist a little boast. ‘To my amazement I seem to be rather popular with the younger guys!’

  Younger Son (aged 29), none too comfortably : ‘How much younger? I hope they’re at least twenty years older than me.’

  Me: small awkward laugh.

  Younger Son: ‘Oh Christ…’

  Older Son: ‘Mum.’

  Younger Son: ‘I don’t want to know.’

  Me: ‘It’s just dates. Don’t worry. I’m having a nice time. You want me to have a nice time, right? Anyway, last weekend I went out with a fireman. That was pretty interesting.’

  Older Son (in an approving tone, because as a special constable he’s got a lot of time for blokes in the emergency services): ‘Yeah? How did that go?’

  Me: ‘He was perfectly nice to me but I really couldn’t see us having – you know – a relationship or anything. We agreed to part company.’

  Older Son: ‘So there was no spark, then?’ Cue general laughter.

  Younger Son: ‘You mean he didn’t light your fire, Mum?’ More guffaws.

  Me (entering into the spirit): ‘Maybe I’m just too hot to handle!’ And as I down another gulp of wine, I catch Sara smiling at me indulgently.

  What would I do without this lot? I say to myself, feeling all cosy inside.

  Later, as we’re doing the washing-up, Older Son says: ‘Just be careful, Mum, with all that dating.’

  I don’t look at him. ‘Sure.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  A couple of weeks earlier, on one of my regular inspections of the rascals’ gallery of men on the dating site – the unending parade of faces with their sometimes bizarre user-names and occasionally original but more often cliché-ridden profile narratives – one face leapt out and instantly captivated me. Charles2013 was a man in his mid-fifties with classic good looks. Swept-back brown hair, hazel eyes, chiselled face and one of those gleaming white smiles common to Hollywood stars. I clicked on his picture and learned that, unsurprisingly, he was an American expat. And by the sound of it, a real high-flyer, looking every bit the business executive it said he was in the box marked ‘job description’.

  He was in such a different league to the other middle-aged men on the site that I wondered what he was even doing on it. Surely he must already have women hurling themselves at him in the ‘real world’ – that terrestrial zone that had begun to seem less real to me, in dating terms at least, than cyberspace. For my money it was a no-brainer and I sent him a wink without further ado.

  When I received no response I drew the reasonable conclusion that Raven – enthralling though I personally considered her to be – had not triggered an interest. Perhaps I wasn’t glamorous enough for this George Clooney-esque catch. Perhaps he didn’t like journalists. I knew it couldn’t be my age, because his profile stated that he would consider women up to the age of 58, and I was passing myself off as a mere 54-year-old. Whatever the reason, as the weeks went by without so much as a return wink, Charles 2013 simply receded from my consciousness.

  So it was with a gleeful squeal that I found a message from him one morning as I flipped open the trusty laptop.

  ‘Hi "Raven", thank you for looking at my profile and sending a wink. I am flattered! [He’s flattered?] Sorry for the delay in responding but I’ve been travelling for the past couple of weeks and just got back to London. I haven’t been on this si
te for a while…’

  He explained that he got divorced the previous year from his American wife, who had now returned to the States, and he was attempting to open a new chapter in his life after undergoing a difficult few months adjusting to his changed circumstances. He did a lot of long-haul travelling for his job in a big multi-national company, but London was his base and he loved it here, as did ‘so many of us Yanks’. He signed it ‘Charles’, and added a PS: ‘By the way, not all men are rascals!’

  He had charm, I thought, and I answered him straight away. ‘Hi Charles. I winked at you precisely because you don't seem too rascally. On the contrary! And for your interest, I grew up in the US myself. I’m sure we’ll have much in common. Maybe we can meet for a coffee one day?’

  But a scant two or three messages later the coffee idea had, between us, morphed into ‘drinks’, and then ‘cocktails’. I enthused about daiquiris, whilst he favoured martinis. This was going splendidly. Then we exchanged mobile numbers and moved on to texting. ‘I’ll give you a call tonight,’ he wrote. We were rocketing ahead. Graduating to vocals already – the final step before an actual meeting, a rendezvous, a tête-à-tête. I felt a little thrill.

  It was after ten o’clock when my mobile finally rang and I saw Charles’s name come up. I’d been dozing in front of an interminable TV documentary about family life in the Middle Ages (tell me about it) and had all but given up on him.

  ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long, I’ve been on the phone to the States for the past hour. Work! With the time difference, I often have to speak to people there late in the evening…’

  His voice wasn’t as deep and suave as I had imagined it. Not so much George Clooney as Adam Sandler. And he talked a little too fast and too much, the way people do when they are nervous. But the longer we talked the more he slowed down and relaxed.

  We covered the usual topics, e.g. our work and past relationships, and somehow ended up discussing TV shows. He said he hardly ever watched TV, except for the news. I told him about my Breaking Bad addiction and terrible habit of picking up Jesse Pinkman’s speech patterns, such as putting ‘yo’ at the end of sentences, which made my sons wince, because ‘That doesn’t suit an English lady who shops in Waitrose, Mum’. As if I would let that stop me.