Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

 

Being the Bondi Blonde has been a fun thing for a while. I’ve had lots of laughs making stuff up and almost as much fun living implausibly true life. For example, recently while I was at a local cafe I was invited out on a “date” by a young, attractive male (YAM) junior enough to be carded at a pub. I know that some guys are into cougars, but really, I felt kind of uncomfortable with the whole thing.

So, in the interest of my readers, I went on the date.

First, YAM could text like Dostoyevsky could write. His mum probably text messaged her friends upon his birth, so though his spelling was questionable, he bombarded me with lots of sweet nothings way before the date, so I felt obliged to show up at the pub meeting place where the music was too loud and not a comfy seat could be found.  He was late so I bought myself a drink and settled in to watch the NRL on the big screen. I was just getting into the game when Prince Charming arrived. The bouncers let him pass without requesting his ID, but they did give him a second glance.

His fashion sense was on the money. Way too young to be classed a metro sexual, he had the black T-shirt, black jacket, dark blue jeans thing down pat. When I said that he looked like a mafia version of Don Johnson in Miami Vice, I was rewarded with a blank stare. “Don who? Miami Ice – isn’t he a rap artist like Flo Rida?”

OK then, I thought. Conversation may be tricky, just how old is this guy? I didn’t want to show my low cool quota by just coming out and asking. And I definitely didn’t want to be asked back because I wasn’t ready for a lie at this early in proceedings, so I bit my filler-plumped lips and waited for the urge to pass. We had a general chat about school. YAM was doing a Masters in Business at Uni. My kids go to one. That lasted till the second drink ended (luckily he drank alcohol – and didn’t partake in the Red Bull and Ecstasy combination that apparently is all the rage for post-teens, according to a recent article I had read in Madison magazine while waiting recently at the supermarket checkout.).

YAM was a sweetheart and very polite and so we decided to go home and have sex. Well, not really. I was thinking about cutting to the chase, considering the conversation was so boring and reminded me of the chat I had had with my eight year old kid’s friend that afternoon during a play date. Less a focus on Star Wars Lego, granted, but still a lot about the Roosters chances next year. I care because?

YAM was a sweetheart and very polite so we decided to have dinner. I wasn’t up to considering sex until he was drunk enough and it was dark enough for him to miss my mummy jelly belly and my caesarean scars rudely unveiled in that afternoon’s Brazilian waxing encounter. We decided on a cheap and cheerful Italian Restaurant, with lighting soft enough for me to hide in and a wine list big enough for us to drown in.

Finally I couldn’t control myself. After one bottle of Chianti, the main course, two conversations about Snoop Dog versus Grand Master Flash and me not talking about school fees, kids, property prices or female gynaecological issues (that constituted me ditching 97% of my usual conversational repertoire), I asked, “So, YAM, you’ve a younger brother who lives with you. How old is he again?”

“27”

AAAAAAARGH!

“How much younger is he, did you say?”

“Three years, I’m 30 and am having a party soon, do you want to come?”

“Why, to babysit?” I didn’t say it, biting again on my lips to stop the words dead in their middle-aged tracks.

Then it came. I felt like I was defenceless on a beach, watching as the tsunami relentlessly descended.

“How old are you, Blondie?”

I gasped for air, searched frantically for a distraction to hang on too or escape with. Nothing doing.

“Me? 39,” I lied, retreating further away from the harsh flickering candlelight.

“Neat. That’s only really not much, considering I’m almost 31. Thirty and one-half, really.”

“Hmmm, yes indeed, more wine?” I asked, pouring the second bottle freely into our glasses.

 I’d been 39 for three years and was glad for the lie. But, eeew, I know it’s not fair that it is considered OK for men to date someone a dozen or so years younger while considered a bit carnivorous for women to do so, but still I felt a little bit yuck for keeping this kid up so late and away from the PlayStation.

Dinner was over. We went Dutch and headed to Crown Street for another drink. My old feet hurt in their new shoes and I wanted to go home. I couldn’t decide however if I wanted it to be a solitary journey, back to late night chocolate encounters on the sofa, or a journey to the brave new world of YAM love.

Certainly this darling man didn’t seem at all phased by the age difference. He was kind, polite, Canadian. We had a wonderful conversation at dinner about things that mattered, not involving house prices; more to do with truth, justice and the Canadian way. He was sweet as fairy floss and handsome to boot. No-one would call me “slut” or throw rotten fruit at me if we did what came naturally. It was a wonderful thing to be fancied again by a fanciable man. I had suffered recently numerous close encounters of the RSVP kind with dysfunctionals of all kinds; men old enough to have more hang ups than the David Jones menswear section. Oldies who drooled, not necessarily over me, just generally drooled.

So, I went back to his Alexandria apartment. Freedom sofa, flat screen TV, IKEA everything else. Soft bed.

And then.

Yee-ha! It was a like an all day pass at Dream World, Wet and Wild and Movie World all at the same time. Granted, some of the positions were a bit like riding the roller coaster three times in succession, making me a bit up-chucky, but overall I lasted the distance, kept my end up (a little bit tired, but I bravely struggled on), he kept his end up (no problems there) and it was zipless fun (button tab jeans). I got a cramp with my legs over my head while trying to hold my tummy muscles in, but YAM was understanding and gave me a very nice massage.

It was a lovely, happy encounter. Great sex with a yummy YAM. No consideration of him step-fathering  my kids or me having his. We met a few more times and each encounter was simply enjoyable.

So, dear readers. Yes, I am a cougar. But a harmless one and my prey ran to me, so I don’t feel guilty.

Still, we did end it around a month ago. For me, generally if it doesn’t happen between the ears, the between the sheets part won’t last for long. My YAM was a sweet heart, just very different from me. I like books, words, stuff like that. He likes balls, sport, business. We just ran out of things to talk about.

He was great about it, kind and sweet and I think we both enjoyed all of it. I ran into my YAM yesterday at the coffee shop where we met. He was with his younger brother, talking football and university. I was with my pre-schooler, talking Star Wars and eating cookies.YAM and I kissed hello, introduced our family members, smiled gently into each other’s eyes and said goodbye.

No-one was hurt, no one had their heart broken. It was all quite lovely. Purrrrr.

 

 

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