Raven

by Monica Porter

*

  Meanwhile Tom was keen to reconvene. In the days following our tryst (on that memorable Tinder double-whammy night) he texted me to announce that he was ‘horny as hell’ and asking whether he could come over. I said I was busy for a week or so but we could fix a date for after that. ‘Can you behave until then?’ I teased.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I can manage that. Can you?’

  ‘No! Ha ha…’

  ‘You had any sex since being with me?’

  ‘Might have done. But I’d like to be with you again.’

  ‘Shame we have to use a condom though.’

  ‘We’ll see, maybe not.’

  ‘Got to be careful with you. You sleep around.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Sleep around? It’s true you’re not the only one I’ve been intimate with in recent times. But that’s not what you’d want anyway, is it? Look, I enjoyed our time together so keep thinking of that until we see each other again. Be good, baby.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me to be good when you aren’t.’

  His petulant tone annoyed me. ‘Grow up, sweetie. I’m not your girlfriend.’

  A week later I texted him to see whether he’d calmed down a bit. Actually, I rather fancied another roll in the hay with the comely young man. But when he replied it was to tell me that he was now ‘sort of seeing someone’, so things could get complicated.

  ‘That’s good, sweetie,’ I replied. ‘I hope she’s nice to you. You’re a lovely boy and deserve it. Get in touch with me again if there is ever anything I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s nice of you. Still wanna fuck?’

  ‘Ha ha…of course. But you’re seeing someone!’

  ‘I’m sure I can keep you a secret.’

  ‘How very French!’

  He then described in X-rated detail what he intended to do when he next saw me. ‘Are you free tomorrow night? I’m supposed to be taking this girl out but I’ll see if I can get out of it.’

  ‘Oh, now I feel bad for her. Give her a chance and see how it goes.’

  Crazy mixed-up kid. He was right, things had got a bit too complicated. Didn’t need petulance or possessiveness. Those were for relationships. He couldn’t handle me and I felt he was one Tinder boy who might be better off dating a girl of his own age.

  We exchanged a few more messages at a later point, but he reverted to asking for sexy snapshots, as if he hadn’t already seen all of me there was to see. ‘Please, no more childish games,’ I told him. And with that I put him into the box marked ‘used Tinder matches’. In the Raven’s opinion, there was no point prolonging anything that had stopped being fun.

  *

  Jon was the TB I most wanted to hear from, but he made no contact. With the tenderness of his touch he had reached something in me which was buried far below the surface and which I didn’t even like to think about. It was a sentiment without a name, but had something to do, perhaps, with the need to feel cherished. And what a waste of time it was to moon over that! I had already stiffened my sinews against the likelihood of my never experiencing ‘love’ again, whatever that meant, if it meant anything at all. I’d had no lasting luck in that department, so it was safer to banish all soft, hopeful vulnerable emotions.

  But the hour or so I had spent with Jon reminded me that they were still there. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. And although, obviously, the impromptu connection between us was nothing to do with actual love or cherishing, it was a compelling, irresistible facsimile.

  I never did hear from him again. He didn’t share my sentiments and I hadn’t expected him to. Why should he? He had a future ahead of him, with its infinite promise and possibilities. For Jon, ours had merely been an enjoyable sexual encounter. Spontaneous fun. Tinder was awash with such opportunities for an engaging young man like him.

  And if he had sensed, even faintly, what he had awakened in me, all the more reason for him to move on.

  *

  I moved on too, as things were kicking off with another TB. Damian’s main photo showed a good-looking hunk with tattooed arms and caddish grin. He might as well have had ‘fuck me, baby’ stamped on those muscles, above the fire-breathing dragons or whatever they were. Damian, a power plant technician, struck me as an exciting sample of rough trade.

  It all started encouragingly enough. On receiving my calling card, i.e. the by now well-travelled M & S lingerie shot, he messaged: ‘When can I run my tongue down that body of yours?’ A most acceptable opening gambit. Then: ‘Have you always had a thing for young men?’

  ‘Except for when I was young. Then I went for older men.’

  He went on: ‘Well I’ve got a real thing for women of your age.’

  ‘Win win!’

  ‘Yeah. It’s rare to get an older woman into young men. I’ve been with a few but not often enough.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘The oldest was 60 so you would take the honours. It turns me on knowing that you want my stamina and could handle what I’ve got to give. I get bored by young women who just lie there doing nothing. I like someone who can take the lead.’

  I wasn’t so sure I wanted to take the lead most of the time, but I didn’t mention that. ‘Sure I can lead if you like. Grrrr!!’

  ‘I keep looking at your picture. You sure you’re 61?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Then he revved it up a bit. ‘What are you like down there, shaved or not? I like it not.’

  ‘Uh-oh…’

  ‘Ha, never mind! Can’t wait to taste you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘And feel you up against my body.’

  ‘I’m pretty keen to wrap myself around you too, sexy boy.’

  Then his mental peregrinations strayed into top-shelf territory as he envisaged the specifics we might indulge in à deux.

  Sara leapt back onto my shoulder at that moment, wearing her disapproving frown. I was doing it again!

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I messaged Damian. ‘You’ve done due diligence on me [he’d been scrupulous, checking me out on Facebook, LinkedIn and Wikipedia] but I don’t know much about you. Are you dangerous?’

  ‘Very dangerous…but only if you want me to be.’

  That was good enough for me. We set up a rendezvous for one evening later in the week. He worked about an hour’s drive from London and we arranged for him to come straight to my place, natch, as it was so secluded and there would be nobody to rescue me should he turn out to be the energy industry’s very own tattooed terror, scourge of womankind.

  But I heard nothing more from him and when the day of our assignation arrived and I still had received no confirmation by lunchtime I thought I had better message him. It was early evening when he finally replied, saying he was still tied up at work. He would get back to me within an hour.

  When he texted again it was to ask whether we could re-arrange for Saturday, a couple of days later. He still had work to do and wanted to get it out of the way. Naturally I smelled a rat. A super-horny guy like that wouldn’t blow me out because of work.

  ‘Can’t you see me tonight? I’m all geared up for it. It’s such a let-down to put it off.’

  ‘I couldn’t make it tonight anyway. The motorway’s jammed because of an accident!’ (Oh, so now it was a traffic problem.) ‘But I’ll make it up to you on Saturday, promise.’

  I never even replied.

  One day he’s champing at the bit (or the butt) and the next he is all patience and the conscientious overtime worker, and I’m supposed to believe that? Call me a cynic, but I think I know men well enough by now to surmise that he had found some other piece of ass on which to lavish his attentions that night. Men, rascals? Let’s not get started…

  I’ll say one thing, though. It startled me how blatantly shameless they could be. Witness Asian Tinder boy Rajesh. Tall and with striking, film-star looks. Naturally I ‘liked’ him and was chuffed when we were ‘matched’. Then he sent a message, which said only ‘DTF?’

  ‘What’s
DTF?’ I asked.

  ‘Google it.’

  I did, and it stood for ‘down to fuck’, a new slang term referring to those women who were game for casual sex. Ah, cutting to the chase. No niceties. ‘Possibly,’ I replied. ‘But you’ll need more finesse than that with someone like me.’

  ‘Ha ha. Sorry. How are you today, madam?’

  ‘That’s better. So what about you? DTF?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m in a relationship but always like exploring other options out there.’

  The flagrant cheat! ‘How would your girlfriend feel about you being on Tinder?’

  Quick as a flash he came back with: ‘How would your kids/grandkids feel about you being on Tinder?’

  ‘They’d feel embarrassed. Not betrayed.’

  Then he blocked me, even before I could block him.

  *

  I am on a girls’ night in, Sauvignon Blanc and light supper in the kitchen. Emily is a few years younger than me, Carole a few years older. Both are friends from the enthralling world of London media folk. And both are single. But there the similarities end. Their approach to men and relationships couldn’t be more disparate. And I sit between them, both at the kitchen table and in my viewpoints on those weighty issues.

  Emily has never married or had children. She is a steadfastly independent woman, beholden to no one. She likes it that way. For many years she has been involved with a married man and says theirs is a close, warm relationship and that the arrangement is mutually satisfying.

  ‘We don’t see each other often,’ she admits. ‘Maybe every five or six weeks. It’s passionate and intense and about having a wonderful time together, rather than sharing every aspect of our lives. But that seems to be enough for both of us.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I say. ‘And the wife doesn’t know?’

  ‘No and we intend to keep it that way. No one needs to get hurt. Actually, I think his relationship with me stops him from leaving his wife. It makes his marriage more bearable. I just hope she never finds out.’

  I recall a famous Fleet Street journalist (and noted ladies’ man) once telling me that his suspicious wife had the temerity to examine his emails and afterwards confront him with the evidence of his adultery. ‘She read personal emails,’ he declared in an outraged tone, ‘with no respect for my privacy.’ Only such an unashamed roué could argue that her betrayal of his right to privacy was a greater sin than his betrayal of their marriage vows.

  ‘I had a few relationships with married men, a long time ago,’ I say, ‘and it was never a happy gig for me. Won’t be going down that road again.’ I mention that one married man, with whom I’d had a passionate affair 15 years earlier, wanted to stoke up the old fire now that I was single again. Our affair had started when he was newly married and ended six months later – abruptly and painfully – when his wife became pregnant with their first child. Sobered by the realisation that he was going to be a father, he no longer had the stomach for an extra-marital affair. But now that that baby had grown into an ornery teenager and fatherhood into a wearying role, a liaison dangereuse was on the table again. ‘Looks like fidelity and commitment are fluid concepts for a lot of men. Most men, I’d say.’

  ‘You see, I could never do that,’ says Carole. ‘I’d never have a relationship with a married man. Full stop. I’ve had a few invitations from married men but always point-blank refused. It’s just wrong. And anyway, if I were in a relationship with a man I’d want it to be exclusive and not have to share him with some sad little wifey-poo sitting at home, pining away for hubby.’

  Carole is the uncompromising sort. And generally believes that she is right about things. Her partner died nearly two decades ago and except for a couple of fleeting relationships, she has been on her own ever since. The problem, she admits, is that her standards are very high and no man she meets can equal her late ex. We discuss this impasse.

  ‘You don’t want to price yourself out of the market,’ I remark.

  ‘I understand about having standards, really I do,’ says Emily. ‘But it is possible to adjust one’s standards without necessarily lowering them.’

  Carole nods. ‘Maybe, but it’s not easy. And the longer I’m on my own the harder it gets. I’m used to having things the way I like them now, so I don’t know if I’m capable of sharing my space full-time with someone else again. I don’t even like having house-guests for more than a weekend.’

  ‘You’ve become too set in your ways,’ I remark, feeling like the designated freewheeler amongst the three of us.

  ‘Comes with age, hon,’ replies Carole.

  Emily asks: ‘But you still want a man in your life, right?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t we all? Nobody wants to grow old alone.’

  ‘So what are you doing about it?’ I ask. ‘Why don’t you try online? You can meet thousands of blokes on those dating sites. There’s got to be someone out there you’d like.’ (I don’t even mention Tinder; the notion of Carole signing up for that is surreal.)

  ‘I’m too busy working. Haven’t got time for all that futzing around on the computer. Anyway, the pool of older single men in London is a nightmare. When I tried the lonely hearts ads a couple of years ago every guy I met was either a ghastly bore or weird in some way. Yeuch!’

  ‘And what about sex, Carole? Have you given up on it?’ This is my specialist subject; I feel I must ask.

  ‘Well, there’s a problem with that.’ She pauses. ‘I’m wary about having sex with anyone because I always fall in love with the people I sleep with.’

  Emily and I exchange glances. ‘Always?’ asks Emily.

  Carole nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, Carole,’ I say. ‘That’s crazy. You fought for women’s lib back in the sixties, remember? I bet you burnt your bra. We’ll never beat men at their own game if we can’t control our emotions.’

  She shrugs. ‘Sorry, that’s just the way I am. It’s no big deal, though. Sex isn’t that important to me any more.’ She flashes me a pragmatic smile.

  ‘Oh.’ I smile back sweetly. ‘I see.’

  But I didn’t really see. At this point in my life I didn’t get ‘throwing in the towel’ with regard to sex at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There were another half-dozen or so Tinder boys with whom I entered into a dialogue which began with promise and heated up into a crescendo, only to burn itself out, usually for no discernible reason. But in a few cases I knew precisely what the reason was. Young people have learnt to be cautious in the virtual world and are mistrustful sometimes to the point of paranoia. There were TBs who remained unconvinced that I was who I claimed to be, suspecting that mine was a fake account and I was up to no good.

  Admittedly it was highly unusual (probably unique) for a woman of my age to be on Tinder. So it seemed unlikely to them. There had to be something fishy about it. Was I part of a scam of some sort? One young man tried to ‘catch me out’ by inquiring whether I’d be interested in accessing his personal details, to see what my response would be. At first I hadn’t a clue what he was on about. Later he friended me on Facebook to check my credentials and that set his mind at rest, although by then we had both decided that this was not a ‘match’ we wished to pursue. (He did inform me, though, by way of consolation, that his mate ‘might be very interested’!)

  And then there was Sam, who for me spelled the endgame. Our introductory e-conversation, late one night, turned quite ugly. Although he had ‘liked’ me on the app, which was why we were communicating, he soon began to doubt my identity, demanding to know what I really looked like. I sent him my popular little lingerie shot but he brushed it aside: ‘That could be anybody!’

  Then he became insulting about my age. ‘Shouldn’t you be making jam or something?’ That was a bit below the belt.

  I didn’t know how to convince him I was genuine and was wondering why I should even try, when he sent me an obscene photo of a very fat woman doing something indelicate to herself with fruit. It was meant to shock
me, like a slap in the face, but it was too stupid and juvenile for that, it just made me realise that it was past my bedtime and I should switch the mobile off. And switch Sam off, permanently. I deleted him from Tinder and my contacts list and went to sleep.

  In the morning, without much deliberating, I went one step further and scrapped my own Tinder account. I had been on it for two weeks in total, encountered an intriguing little selection of young men and had had jolly good fun. A fascinating experiment. But the Sam episode left a sour taste in my mouth and I knew it was time to skedaddle from that particular playground. It had not been designed for the likes of me.

  I was surprised, soon afterwards, to receive a text from Sam. ‘Apologies if that actually was you last night. Had too many beers and got carried away!’

  ‘Boys will be boys. Luckily I have a thick skin. [Not necessarily true.] Well, just off to make the jam now…or should I prune the roses instead?’

  ‘Ha! Sometimes a thick skin is needed with me. I can be temperamental at times!’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  We had what seemed to be a pleasant exchange. I told him that, contrary to his impression, I was not a retired lady of leisure but a working journalist and directed him to my website. He browsed through it before messaging again: ‘I’m shocked…you’re a real person, who’s lived a very interesting life!’

  He told me he worked for a government department. Good lord, I thought, I can see why this country is in a permanent mess, with boozed-up government employees getting out of control, insulting the older generation and firing off offensive photos. Still, he seemed to have returned to his senses now.

  ‘Sam, I’m glad we had that uncomfortable Tinder chat last night because it made me realise it isn’t for me and I should get off. So I’ve deleted my account.’

  ‘You probably made the right decision. There’s a lot of testosterone flying around on Tinder, including my own. I suppose because you have no prior knowledge of anyone on there you don’t feel guilty making outrageous statements. Well I don’t!’

  ‘I agree. Anyway, for me the whole thing had got a bit crazy.’