7. The Other Ooh La La Trousers
SEVEN
The Other Ooh La La Trousers
Tuesday, 12 February, 9.30am
I’m ready to leave for the airport, and no longer feeling frustrated. No siree. Last night I was about to get ready for bed (with my pink toy) when there was a knock followed by, ‘Room service’. I opened the door to tell them it must be a mistake, but it was The Barman with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘We celebrate your dance performance tonight?’ he asked with a cheeky grin.
Hello! Last chance for a hot Cuban night, I thought, as I invited him in. His pert bottom filled his Ooh La La Trousers so well, his open-neck turquoise shirt revealed a smooth chest like polished mahogany, and he had the cutest smile. He came in, put the tray on the table and made to open the wine, all the time not taking his eyes off me.
‘Oh, I forget, what you call it, corky screw? I must go get.’ So adorable.
‘No, wait. I have a trick,’ I said. He was here and I wasn’t about to let him leave. I fished in my bag for a lipstick. I took the bottle and rammed the lipstick into it. A little too enthusiastically. As the cork thrust into the bottle, white wine squirted out all over us. I’m a bit out of practice with that trick. I froze, but he laughed and tasted some of it from my lips. I stroked his wet chest and licked him back. Then he poured the wine and, after a sip, asked me to show him my dance moves. We wrapped around each other, his hand warm and firm around my waist as we danced a sultry slow bolero, bodies swaying in unison. I hoped he couldn’t feel any wobbly bits. He was hot and taut, and smelt fresh like apples and limes. Our heads were touching, breaths mingling, and hips were weaving in sync to the rhythm of the music. As the track ended, he gazed into my eyes with such passion I thought I would melt.
‘Eres la leche,’ he whispered into my ear. I had no idea what it meant but it sounded hot. ‘It means, you are the milk.’
‘Thank you.’ Maybe it was lost in translation.
‘Eres mi media naranja,’ he breathed into my temple. I knew ‘naranja’ means orange. Was he reciting his shopping list?
‘It means you are my other half.’ Google translate will be required for this later.
Enough talking, I thought, as the track ended. We stood drinking each other in for a few seconds, then he went down on his knees and his dark amber eyes looked up at me. That was more like it. My boobs would look perter from that angle, but he’d be up close and personal with orange peel thighs. Thank goodness for the soft hotel room lighting. He lifted the hem of my dress, his lips planting soft kisses on my skin as he worked his way up to where I was tingling, before slipping the dress off over my head. I undid his shirt buttons, one by one, stroked his abs and the smooth torso I’d admired from afar. When it got to ‘those’ trousers, I could wait no longer.
‘Take them off,’ I ordered him, and he obeyed.
While I watched his magnificence, he put on more music and swaggered over to the bed, crawling towards me and growling like a hungry panther ready to pounce. I think I might have purred. Our bodies came together to the slow sway of bolero, revved up to an acrobatic salsa and finished in an ecstatic final flourish. His lovemaking, like his dance lead, was expert, confident and inventive, and when the time came, I screamed, ‘Ooh La La’.
Chilling in bed afterwards, ‘You are my cream,’ I whispered into his mouth. ‘You are my half peach,’ I simpered in his ear with a playful slap of his bottom.
This morning, I’ve been strutting around with a swing in my hip and a spring in my step. It was pure invigorating hot sex, and I want more of it. As I sit waiting for our airport transfer, still trembling with exhilaration, I’m allowing myself to admit I’m ravenous for passion that would make me feel gloriously alive. Since The Traitor, I’ve been too cautious, hiding my desires behind faux indifference. When was the last time I ignored my fears and followed my cravings? It’s time to rekindle that adventurous spirit before it sputters, and to rediscover how delicious it feels to be wanted.
I’ve decided to resume the dating challenge with renewed enthusiasm. Will the men in London seem too cold after Cuban men? They should make British men do a sort of ‘Wooing Women National Service’ in Cuba. So, I’m leaving today with passion in my heart and an open mind, looking forward to all the dates awaiting me at home. I may be sixty, but I’m not done with romance and sex yet.
I’m a baby boomer, and still booming
Sexually speaking, I’m still grooving
They say you lose your libido in your sixties
But I’ll carry on for as long as I can bend my knees
I want a man who’s still erect
A man who can still eject
I want the deliciousness of feeling groiny
I want to get heated and act horny
I want flirtatious sexy conversation
I don’t want sex to be just an aspiration
Gods of love, please can I keep my libido?
And have lots of sex with hombres bonito?
My eyesight may be fading but I’m still full of passions
Please God, can I have many more orgasms?
Eat your heart out, Carol Ann Duffy.
Last news bulletin on The Lobster Family. After a week of roasting in oil in the sun, they are now The Walnut Family.
Goodbye and farewell Cuba. You were fabulous.