Negronis, No Strings & Nearly Orgasms
Since I’ve been travelling around Thailand, and now Vietnam, I’ve been on several dates. Dating while travelling can be fun, provided you go into it with no expectation other than to meet someone new and, ideally, not a husband. You both know, in the main, the time you will spend together is limited, has an end date, which I suspect makes it very appealing for certain avoidant types who prefer commitment-free relationships and women like me who don’t want anyone with a desire to watch endless reruns of “Suits”.
If I’m lucky, I meet someone with whom I may have a good time, a conversation that isn’t one-sided (not always the case), and discover a new place/neighbourhood. If I’m unlucky, I get a monologue about the price of property. I’ve been lucky in the past, finding interesting people no matter where I happen to find myself. In fact, my older son once said to me, “I don’t know why you bother trying to find anyone to date at home, in London, when you’re so good at it when you’re abroad.” He’s not wrong.
My dating record when I’m outside my home country is much, much better than in London. In London, most men I encounter want a pen pal. Abroad, they want to meet. There’s none of this back and forth, endless texting either. I like to meet people quickly or not at all. When I’m only in a place for a week or two, I’m not going to be wasting my time sending messages when I could be exploring a new location or ordering another cocktail.
Thailand and now Vietnam haven’t yielded the same crop of cool men as, say, New York - Greenwich Village still holds a special place in my libido - but when I reflect upon the two and a half months I’ve been away, I haven’t done too badly either. Considering I’m coming up to 65, I’m actually quite pleased at how many men I’ve managed to attract and engage with who, for the most part, have been interesting and attractive enough to warrant a second date, although there has never been the time for that. I blow in, I blow up their ego or them, and then I blow out of town.
Although I’m not massively into age-gap relationships like, for example, Cindy Gallop who is far more familiar with younger men than I am, I’ve had to acknowledge there’s a severe shortage of men of my own age group on the dating apps. Most of the guys I’ve met are in their late thirties, early forties, which I would dismiss at home as being far too young for me. I mean, I have shoes older than them, but in Southeast Asia, I’ve said yes because they looked fit and healthy and their profile pic and description suggested they would be fun for an evening’s entertainment. I’m not looking to raise them. I’m looking to enjoy them.
That’s not to say that the men I’ve met don’t come with baggage, some significantly more than others. At our age, baggage isn’t optional; it’s carry-on. One man I met recently in Bangkok, escaping a car crash of a marriage (as he put it), completely of his own making, down to his inability to keep his dick in his pants, seemed grateful to meet someone with whom he could offload his life story. I sat there over a very tasty Negroni, which I paid for as his ex had left him with little in the bank — nothing says “sexy” like insolvency — listening to his tale of woe, which included temporarily working as an escort.
With his colourful past, his interest in sex, and his admission that he was on the ‘large side,’ I decided to try out the equipment after he suggested he’d like to come home with me. I’m nothing if not thorough.
