So, I have a confession to make. You'll be thrilled to learn it's not a faux-cute, self-consciously winsome revelation such as, "I secretly love Britain's Got Talent," or, "I just can't stop eating chocolate eclairs." Or like when someone is replying to a question posed to reveal something unknown about them, like, "What do you least like about yourself?" and says, most infuriatingly, something along the lines of, "I can't say no," or, "I'm too kind to people who ask me to do stuff." That's not a confession, you twat. You're supposed to tell us something genuinely unpleasant about yourself, like, "I always shout out the wrong name when I climax," or, "I deliver promotional leaflets for the BNP."
So, having identified what a real confession should be, I am grasping the nettle with brio and making one that is pretty unedifying and casts me in a fairly unappealing light. All that a confession should be. Here it is.
I really fancy my neighbour's 17-year-old son. This may not seem like much of a revelation, but it is, trust me. I don't just fancy him; I positively lust after him, as if I were what used to be known as a dirty old man. I blush when he glances at me. In keeping with most of his age group, he's a wannabe rock star, so I caught myself letting him know that I know someone from the Clash. And it was worth it—he gazed open-mouthed at me with real admiration. It might not have been sexual, but it was a long gaze and I'm not about to split hairs. I make efforts to make conversation with him, and I've never done that, not with any boys—ever, not even when I cared. I'm 49. I stopped being entitled even to look at teenage boys (except to reprimand them for antisocial behaviour at a bus stop), never mind fancy them, aeons ago. I stopped fancying everyone aeons ago. Sure, I can appreciate a fit boy as much as the next guy, or girl, but all that falling madly in love with people based on nothing more than what they look like in a pair of jeans left me way back. Nowadays I see an attractive man and think, "He's good-looking, I guess," and that's about it. I don't actively fancy them. If you want proof of this assertion—and proof does not come more rock solid than this—consider this. I recently went into the new Abercrombie & Fitch shop in the west end. The main door was manned by four boys wearing jeans and nothing else, not even socks. Their torsos looked as if they'd been hewn out of soap, but what did I do? I laughed. Ha! That's how impervious I am these days to tasty boys. So you'll appreciate how surprised I am to find I can't look at my pal's son without coming over all peculiar.
I know there's actually nothing wrong, per se, with fancying 17-year-old boys when you're in your late forties. Germaine's bored us all amply on the subject, but I happen to think it's revolting. I'm not Anne Bancroft and, as I recall, we weren't supposed to find Mrs Robinson that sympathetic a character at the time, more a sozzled predator. Granted, that says more about society's view then, and probably now, of the inappropriateness of an older woman acting upon her sexual urges. That's not a view I share, but, you know, unless my pal's son were to write me a letter of intent and have it signed by two independent witnesses, I am going to assume I appeal to him, physically, about as much as his mother does. When I was that age and my parents' pals gave me the glad eye, I nearly puked on the spot. Those guys might as well have had two heads, so inconceivable, to me, was their sex appeal. I'm duty-bound, I'm ashamed to admit, that not much has changed since. A sixtysomething man asked me out recently, and I reacted as if he'd taken leave of his senses—that's how deluded I am. Yet not so deluded that I imagine for one second that my pal's son fancies me back.
But, I must stress, I do not want to have sex with my pal's son—yes, well, all right, if he could be given a magic pill afterwards that would guarantee he'd immediately completely forget what we'd done, then, OK, maybe. (I'd need one of those pills for my husband too, obviously, and maybe one for me while we're at it.) The problem lies in the fact that I've been hijacked by this desire—on paper I'd never dream of fancying a teenager. I don't want not to be able to look him in the eye, I don't want to be checking in the mirror before I pop around to have a cup of coffee with his mum in case he's there. Bloody hell, I'd never have got married if I could be bothered to put make-up on every day!
However, one good thing has come out of it, out of this personal trial. For the first time in my life, I feel a soupçon of sympathy for all those old guys who have to conjure up repulsive images such as cold fried eggs covered in two-day-old jelly every time a crop-top-wearing-tiny-shorts-up-her-bum-tousled-hair lovely walks down the street. Having said that, I'm in control here—so unlike my parents' friends, I won't be trying to get my neighbour's son to sit on my lap. And that's pretty restrained of me, I think.
