handbags. There are times when I’m pounding them that I believe I really want them. But the truth is I don’t. I feel lonely when I’m with them and
you’re never alone with a Granny. She is with you in the way a Wrap can never be. Decades of fucking, fantasy and frustration bring her to you complete: a woman who has lived, loved and lost;
who has given everything to her children; who dotes on her grandchildren and who is trapped in a bubble of resentment and regret that only age can bring. She looks enviously at the Wraps, wanting
one more, just one more, reminder of what it is to be young, to be
wanted
. Wraps have biology and fertility on their side but I would sacrifice all the Wraps I have ever fucked for a month
locked in a hotel room with a Granny over seventy. A Granny like Ella. She says she is seventy-four, but I guess she’s a few years north of seventy-five. Maynard says:
—But why waste your time with her?
—There’s nothing like it.
He looks at me. The look a man might give his best friend when, after years of friendship, he discovers his friend is from another planet and they cannot understand each other. Esurio says:
—I love your appetites, Lincoln. They’re deliciously perverse.
When I was barely a teenager I used to read a magazine called
Filthy Fifties.
It had a section called ‘Vera’s Veg Patch’ where Vera would stuff an allotment of
vegetables up her arse. Carrots, cucumbers, squashes, marrows – she got them all up there. Then I went to London on a school trip. To the Natural History Museum. While the other children
looked at fossils I disappeared to Soho. It took me weeks to plan my trip to a sex shop
.
It was a feast my young senses could barely take in. The magazines I really wanted were on shelves I
struggled to reach yet, as I raised my hands in hope, the magazines dropped down gently into my arms. Occasionally I saw the ghostly outline of some black gloves with only the wrist visible or the
faint outline of a bowler hat. Sometimes a whisper:
—Enjoy it, Lincoln. You’re young and everything you will ever want is waiting for you.
I didn’t really understand what the whisper meant or where it was coming from. When I got to the counter a man said:
—You’re too young, son. I can’t serve you.
Then those spooky gloves and a smell of aniseed. The man looked confused. He said:
—OK, take them, piss off and don’t come back again. You’ll cost me my licence.
As I walked out of the shop, I heard the voice again:
—One day, Lincoln, one day we’ll be best friends, you and I. The bestest of friends.
My Mum caught me wanking. All the time. She didn’t mind the wanking. She did mind the
Gorgeous Grannies.
She said:
—It’s not normal.
I didn’t care. And I don’t care what Maynard or any of the other boys say. A man who has never fucked an old woman has never lived. They say men want youth and beauty. I say:
—That’s fucking fantastic! That leaves all the grey hair and saggy tits for me.
10 p.m. The Townhouse. Dean Street.
I can’t keep my eyes off her. Maynard sees me looking.
—Quite nice, isn’t she?
I’m puzzled.
—I didn’t think you were into older women.
—You’re not looking at the old one, are you? Please tell me you’re not.
Of course I am. I noticed her as soon as I walked in. Even through the booze and the gear I couldn’t miss her. I assume the woman with her, too old to be a Wrap, but still young, maybe
mid-forties, is her daughter. The old woman gets up off her chair with the help of her daughter. I say to Maynard:
—Sixties or seventies?
—Seventies, I’d say. Early seventies.
—Yeah, I’d agree with that.
I catch her eye as she walks towards me. She knows, and because she knows, she presses her daughter’s hand. She says:
—Maybe time for one more?
Her daughter pushes her cheeks out and exhales years of resentment. This is an old woman with attitude – the demanding, relentless kind who will outlive her
you’re never alone with a Granny. She is with you in the way a Wrap can never be. Decades of fucking, fantasy and frustration bring her to you complete: a woman who has lived, loved and lost;
who has given everything to her children; who dotes on her grandchildren and who is trapped in a bubble of resentment and regret that only age can bring. She looks enviously at the Wraps, wanting
one more, just one more, reminder of what it is to be young, to be
wanted
. Wraps have biology and fertility on their side but I would sacrifice all the Wraps I have ever fucked for a month
locked in a hotel room with a Granny over seventy. A Granny like Ella. She says she is seventy-four, but I guess she’s a few years north of seventy-five. Maynard says:
—But why waste your time with her?
—There’s nothing like it.
He looks at me. The look a man might give his best friend when, after years of friendship, he discovers his friend is from another planet and they cannot understand each other. Esurio says:
—I love your appetites, Lincoln. They’re deliciously perverse.
When I was barely a teenager I used to read a magazine called
Filthy Fifties.
It had a section called ‘Vera’s Veg Patch’ where Vera would stuff an allotment of
vegetables up her arse. Carrots, cucumbers, squashes, marrows – she got them all up there. Then I went to London on a school trip. To the Natural History Museum. While the other children
looked at fossils I disappeared to Soho. It took me weeks to plan my trip to a sex shop
.
It was a feast my young senses could barely take in. The magazines I really wanted were on shelves I
struggled to reach yet, as I raised my hands in hope, the magazines dropped down gently into my arms. Occasionally I saw the ghostly outline of some black gloves with only the wrist visible or the
faint outline of a bowler hat. Sometimes a whisper:
—Enjoy it, Lincoln. You’re young and everything you will ever want is waiting for you.
I didn’t really understand what the whisper meant or where it was coming from. When I got to the counter a man said:
—You’re too young, son. I can’t serve you.
Then those spooky gloves and a smell of aniseed. The man looked confused. He said:
—OK, take them, piss off and don’t come back again. You’ll cost me my licence.
As I walked out of the shop, I heard the voice again:
—One day, Lincoln, one day we’ll be best friends, you and I. The bestest of friends.
My Mum caught me wanking. All the time. She didn’t mind the wanking. She did mind the
Gorgeous Grannies.
She said:
—It’s not normal.
I didn’t care. And I don’t care what Maynard or any of the other boys say. A man who has never fucked an old woman has never lived. They say men want youth and beauty. I say:
—That’s fucking fantastic! That leaves all the grey hair and saggy tits for me.
10 p.m. The Townhouse. Dean Street.
I can’t keep my eyes off her. Maynard sees me looking.
—Quite nice, isn’t she?
I’m puzzled.
—I didn’t think you were into older women.
—You’re not looking at the old one, are you? Please tell me you’re not.
Of course I am. I noticed her as soon as I walked in. Even through the booze and the gear I couldn’t miss her. I assume the woman with her, too old to be a Wrap, but still young, maybe
mid-forties, is her daughter. The old woman gets up off her chair with the help of her daughter. I say to Maynard:
—Sixties or seventies?
—Seventies, I’d say. Early seventies.
—Yeah, I’d agree with that.
I catch her eye as she walks towards me. She knows, and because she knows, she presses her daughter’s hand. She says:
—Maybe time for one more?
Her daughter pushes her cheeks out and exhales years of resentment. This is an old woman with attitude – the demanding, relentless kind who will outlive her
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