The people who read my review with Irish Denise (May 24th) will know that I wasn't in the best of form that day.
I have a serious health issue that began bothering me over a year ago and refuses to go away. I've reasoned with it, cajoled it, pleaded with it, fed it bucketfuls of drugs and still the bastard refuses to budge. Not even for half a day which would give me a few hours of peace.
In a strange sort of way this problem reminds me of my first girlfriend's mother- Jesus, what a bat she was - not my girlfriend, her goddam mother.
Every single time I visited my girlfriend, her mother would usher me into the sitting-room and there she would remain for very minute of my visit. Sitting beside the fire, one eye on her knitting, the other eye on me.
I never once remembered the crazy old bat leaving the room to go to the loo. For God's sake, when I was on the premises she even prepared supper in the sitting-room
Naturally I developed Twitch Syndrome, Unsettled Nerves Syndrome and other unmentionable Syndromes.
We'd be standing in the porch, swapping sweet talk and waiting patiently for the old bat to go to bed. But she never did. There were jobs to be completed, like putting out the milk bottles - there were only three of them but they were dispatched one by bloody one to the front step. And on each of the three visits to the doorstep she'd say 'goodnight' right into my gob.
Then the pinch-faced bat with the charm of a rancid raccoon would park her hippo-sized bum on the stairs and continue eyeballing us.
Sorry for taking the scenic route to the real point for discussion today. You see, I got to thinking about the first girlfriend in my life, the girl whose mother put the frighteners on me.
Life can be hell when you're 17 - when emotions and naivety conspire to make your life intolerable.
And then the sun begins to shine. A girl from dreamland grabs your heart in a Sloopys lurch, and you begin fantasising that her Mother is really the Ma from the Waltons.
Marriage arrives. So do children. Pure bliss. But bliss can sometimes be an illusion. And like all illusions you can make yourself believe it's still there, alive and thriving, still feeding us illusion magic in our cosy homes in suburbia.
Perhaps it was inevitable that Irish Denise would step into my ageing world.
Denise, pragmatic, a beautiful survivor in today's lousy world.
Denise is not a half hour fling or a one hour fling. She's much more than that.
She's wise and she's patient. She listens and she advises.
She does so because clients can sometimes require more than the Fav List offers.
I was that client last week. I suffer from a heart condition that, too many times, threatens my existence. That's why I needed to talk as much as I needed sexual relief, perhaps even more.
As Denise hugged me I looked into the sea of blue that are her eyes. Those eyes told me she understood.
She talked softly while stroking the sensitive points at the back of my head and neck. She talked even more softly while caressing and putting life, rock hard life, into my most erogenous zone.
She didn't talk at all when her mouth went south.
And then as we lay back with our bodies entwined we talked some more. About her life, about my life, about the emotional baggage that all of us carry.
About mistakes, regrets, the joy of living, the joy of surviving, the shape of things to come. The shape of Denise's bum poured into white jodhpurs got in-depth analysis. If eyes could get an erection then I had two of them last week.
More chat. For instance, Denises's so long, shapely gorgeous legs. Her genetics were surely at their best when these legs were planned. I ask her why she's so alluring, why she's end-to-end svelte. She's simply an orgasm that begins between her elegant red painted toes, travels up those long languid legs, before stopping for ultimate pleasure between her white jodhpured ass globes.
***reviewers latest review of this escort***