Wendy Salisbury - The Toyboy Diaries

This expos is a sixtieth birthday present to myself, written with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek or, whenever possible, somebody elses. Its an homage (or possibly fromage) to my past life, a memoir for my future. When Im slumped drooling in some Senior Sundown comfy chair, someone can read it to me and I can marvel with my last remaining marble that I did all that.

Some may find my voice crowing, arrogant and egotistical. They may wish me to fall flat on my face, and in the privacy of my bedroom, I often have. Some may find my adventures hard to swallow, but they are retold exactly as they happened. A woman whose clock is ticking would be a fool not to use her looks, cleavage and well-turned ankle to her full advantage.

When I say Im sixty, you might get a picture of a little old lady with a tight grey perm queuing up for her pension in the local Post Office. Delete that image immediately! Think Helen Mirren, Susan Sarandon, Catherine Deneuve, Goldie Hawn, Diane Keaton, Judi Dench, Joanna Lumley sexy sirens one and all.

I grew up in London in the Swinging Sixties. My father was a physical man who wanted a son but, undeterred by my gender, he taught me to play football, do DIY, read a balance sheet and deal with life like a man. To offset this, my mother sewed relentless little dresses of taffeta and tulle. Confusion reigned and to an extent still does.

At eighteen, I journeyed south to Andaluca to work as an interpreter on the biography of El Cordobs, the world-famous bullfighter. He helped himself to my virginity one hot and sultry Cordovan night a heady springboard into adulthood.

Twenty years on two weddings, two divorces and two daughters later Life begins at forty became my reality and I embraced my single status with a backstage pass that read: Excess All Areas.

My d.o.b. is inescapable, but I laugh in its face and treat it as an aberration on my birth certificate. Like many older people, I still feel like a twenty-year-old. Not every night but once a week would do nicely. Time is a thief but Ive fought it tooth and manicured nail with a dedicated beauty routine and the blessing of good genes from my RussianJewish ancestors. My grandmother died at ninety-four, generously legating me her smooth skin and peachy cheekbones. My mother at eighty-six is determined and acerbic still, frustrated even now if a day passes without achievement. The female work ethic rates highly in my family. Aforementioned grandma, widowed at twenty-nine with nothing to eat but two toddlers, taught herself millinery. She became the quintessential matriarch, pushing everyone in her path on to greater accomplishments than her own. When I was fourteen, my Dad got me a job in a restaurant so I could pay for my summer holiday and I have worked almost continuously ever since (though never again as a waitress!). Today, my business is antiques; but although I deal in antiques, I never sleep with them!

My figure is maintained by carb control and yoga, and Im one of the lucky breed of 21st century femmes dun certain ge whove been there, done that and still look good in the t-shirt.

Like many vital, vibrant women of my generation, I may have another thirty years of love life left. The chances are the best is not yet to come and one has to ask oneself: is the pursuit of happiness dependent upon the pursuit of a penis? Is it still possible to flirt, flourish and fornicate into your fifties and beyond? Can you remove your grandchildrens nappies one minute and your lovers Calvins the next? Computer says YES! If, as theorised, men reach their sexual peak at nineteen and women at thirty-five, it follows that at twenty-nine and forty-five they are equally compatible.

So if fifty-five is the new forty-five you do the maths.

Not very long ago, you didnt get many firsts after fifty except perhaps fittings for false teeth or a hot flush in the Fuller Figure department. But now, with such variety in society, single sirens are free to celebrate their sexual freedom in whichever way they choose. My personal leaning has always been towards fit young men. Sometimes Ive leaned so far, Ive actually lost my balance and fallen over. According to current statistics, Im not alone in my penchant. The Noughties man of choice is a younger man the tempting tang of testosterone barely suggested above the lingering scent of mothers milk. And for those playful puppies, the allures of an older woman are manifold: lusty bodies, carnal experience, worldly wisdom, financial security, maternal nurturing and abandoned sensuality. And a toyboy relationship will never grow old its unlikely to last that long.

My age-inappropriate adventures have enriched my life and flattered the very soul of me, even if some of the little buggers failed to turn up when they said they would. Sometimes, in the dark of night, as I lie single in my double bed, I release the catch on my memory bank and tot up my investments. My sex count shows a healthy credit.

My toyboy diet is a recipe for delight or disaster, a Russian roulette of a repast for the sexually carnivorous. But ladies, if you plan to follow my regime, heed this warning:

By all means have your legs in the air, but for Gods sake keep your feet on the ground and do not fall in love for that way madness lies

AND T HE F OUNTAIN OF Y OUTH

Not long after my second divorce, I set off with my sixteen-year-old daughter, Poppy, on a ski trip to the Alps. We flew to Geneva, connected with expedient efficiency to the Swiss railway system and arrived in the village of Villars just as the sun was beginning to set. We checked into our chalet apartment halfway up the slopes, dumped our bags, and stepped out onto the balcony. The piste sparkled crispy-white beneath us, like crushed ice spilt from a giant Margarita. Poppy sniffed, shivered and went back inside to unpack. I stayed outside breathing deeply, filling my lungs with cleansing mountain air.

After a few moments, my ears picked up the sound of English voices from the apartment next door. Craning my neck around the frosted-glass divider, I saw two young men lying on their beds and a girl sitting at the dressing-table drying her hair. One of the guys got up, walked over to the terrace door, slid it open and stepped out onto his balcony. I jumped back not wishing to appear the nosy neighbour, but hed spotted me.

Hi! he said, looking round from his side of the screen. You English? Just got here?

Yes, I replied. You?

Arrived on Tuesday. You alone?

No. Im with my He was extremely fit. Tall, dark, tanned and well-built. What was I going to say? Sister?

daughter. I continued: Er we were wondering where to go for dinner? Anywhere nearby you could recommend?

We usually go for a pizza. Youre welcome if you want to join us? Im Ricky, by the way, and he reached his hand across to shake mine.

Hi! I smiled, wincing slightly at the firmness of his grip, though theres nothing worse than a soggy handshake.

Well knock on your door around seven, he went on, and before I could object, he disappeared back inside.

Ive pulled! I said to Poppy as I stepped back into the studio room.

Youve WHAT? she demanded, like Id just told her Id given her Cabbage Patch Kid to the rag n bone man.

For you, silly! I explained. Gorgeous English guy in the flat next door!

M-u-u-um!! she groaned, throwing her eyes skywards. Then she turned away and continued shoving underwear into the bedside drawer.