Lovers And Players?

“Afternoon Tanya, how’s the festive season treating you?” The Tinder message flashes up. It’s from a Bright Young Thing – a blond twenty-six year old barrister. We were in touch over the summer: he last made contact in August then disappeared. Probably been dating a lithe young creature.
“It’s a reverse-fat-camp round here. Being force-fed. You?” I reply.
“Drink in the New Year?” He asks.
“Definitely. That is ages though!” I say. It’s completely possible that we’ll both be dead by then, I think.
“Well I think I’m in Sussex now until then,” he says.
He wrestles my phone number from me so now we are connected on What’s App. So now have a drink with him to look forward to next year. Which is nice. He does look ever so young in his photos: tanned bare chest and so on. Lovely smile though.

ChessBoy messages: “What kind of things do you write. Send me something of you. I would love to read it.”
Must find something that isn’t about my mental disorder or any of my other illnesses to send him. There is a piece that’s quite harmless about a girl swimming. Will send him that one.

And another chap from earlier in the year has surfaced. He describes himself as a “reformed tennis player. Now selling drugs in Kensington.” He is 41 – very grown-up. Looks lovely: 6 foot 3, dark brown hair, green eyes. He’s playing tennis in one of his photos and just looking very attractive in the others.

Even if they’re all just suddenly at a loose end now it’s Christmas, it’s good to have some irons in the fire…

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