I didn't set out on the adventures I describe in this book with a view to writing about them. But when I realised they were exactly the kind of titillation the tabloids would find irresistible, it seemed like a good idea. My story begins in July 2012, when I awoke on my 60th birthday. I looked in the mirror. There I was. Drop-dead gorgeous in my finest lingerie, frighteningly intelligent, a cultured woman of letters. So why was I all alone?
I mentally reviewed my previous husbands and lovers. Exhibit A: Useless. Exhibit B: Useless. Exhibit C: Useless ... Exhibit W: Useless. What, I asked myself, did they all have in common? Then it hit me like a giant thundercloud on a hot summer's day. It wasn't that I was in any way so emotionally damaged I was invariably attracted to useless losers. It was that all men are useless. So, with a song in my heart and a throbbing in my vagina, I signed up to an internet dating site.
My first two encounters were not promising. Having posted a photo of myself as DropDeadMonica60, my only replies came from a lewd 55-year-old financial services salesman from Essex and a 84-year-old swarthy, tattooed Viking stevedore. I decided to be honest with them. "I have a youthful figure," I said, "with a flat stomach and toned limbs. You are both ugly and working class. But we can go on a date if you like." Neither bothered to reply. That's typical of the rudeness I found on many interweb sites.
After meeting several men with bad breath and erectile dysfunction, my fortunes improved when I changed my name to Raven. Soon I met NiceMan, who merely had bad breath. The sex was moderately accomplished, as long as he did not try to snog me. I can't say that Bonfire Night erupted down below, but there were one or two sparks. Maybe some more lubrication would have helped.
The dams first burst when I was contacted by a 23-year-old man with extremely muscular thighs from Clapham. "Cor! You're well fit for an older bird," he said romantically. "How now! You're a frisky pup," I retorted seductively. Thereafter, I always called him Pup. After kissing zealously, I suggested we had anal sex. Pup looked like the cat who had got all the cream. Though it was me who got all the cream – get it!
After having sex with most of the men in London under 30, I decided to let my sons, both in their 20s, know I was probably having sex with several of their friends. To my relief, they were delighted for me and not at all embarrassed that their mother's sex life was going to be all over the papers. Their only concern was that I might get Chlamydia. "Don't worry," I told them. "I have had Cleopatra and another dusky maiden – but I have decided my days of Sapphic frolicking are over."
After signing up to Tinder and sending a picture of myself half-naked to 20,000 of my closest acquaintances, my sex life became crazy. I sometimes found myself having to fit in four or five young men a night. It was always lovely to hear them say how much they appreciated the charms of an utterly gorgeous older woman, but it did get tiring trying to accommodate them all. Not that I said yes to everyone. I turned down any date who couldn't write proper English. Good writing has always mattered a great deal to me.
It would be wrong, though, to think I was merely dating younger men. I still entertained hopes of meeting a Mr Right who was nearer my age. Yet how cruelly my hopes were dashed as so many men appeared to be chartered surveyors from Pinner living with their mothers. I thought I had found gold with Charles and, as he was thrusting himself furiously into me as we lay abandoned on the bed, I whispered that I had trouble reaching an orgasm unless I used a vibrator continuously for 90 minutes. He said he would just nip out to get some more batteries. I never saw him again.
My year of internet dating ended rather abruptly when one of my exes phoned to say he had run out of money and was coming to live in my house. Obviously, I couldn't say no to that. But, although I've felt very horny ever since, I haven't had sex with him. A woman has to have her pride.
Digested read, digested: The swinging 60.
