Hobbies: Fighting, dressing up, jolly japes.
Occupation: International man of mystery.
Favourite book: The Day of the Jackal.
Favourite movie: Unforgiven.
Favourite food: Chicken Nugget Happy Meal.
Dream date: I will call you on the phone and whisper promises of sweet seduction into your ear. You will meet me on a seat in a tree-lined boulevard, not knowing who or what to expect.
I will come to you suddenly like a whirlwind, in disguise, but willing to risk exposure for a night of sensual romance.
I will take you to a little diner down the road where the chef serves the most breathtaking dish combining beef, cheese, gherkin and a fresh bun. He calls it his Big Mac. When we have devoured our dishes we will gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, still hungry and desperate for more. Not even the endless refill Sprites will satisfy your urgent needs. You know you must have me. But here? No, it can’t be here! But where?
When at last the meal is over we will fall into a taxi, giddy with delight and drunk with artificial sweetener. I will whisper sweet nothings to you as the driver takes us to my house. There I will treat you to a true cinematic experience. Is there anything more romantic in the world than Casablanca? You will slide into my arms as we watch the film together, and when the closing credits finally roll our lips will touch and we will know no restraint.I will give you everything: not one, not two, but three strikes!
At last we will fall into a blissful sleep, and then I will wake you urgently just before dawn, because my wife has just come home even though she was supposed to be staying with family for the entire weekend. I will stuff you madly into the wardrobe in the desperate hope that my wife won’t find you there, flinging you among dresses, shoes and assorted trousers, and you will remain there for several hours until my wife goes out to do some shopping. When I open the door you will again collapse in my arms, but only because your legs have given up. Your bladder will have given out long ago, and we will both be repulsed by the stink of urine all over your clothes. You will be hysterical, screaming at my callousness, shrieking that I am a revolting man who is lousy in bed, while I shove you out of the house and hope none of my busybody neighbours saw you leave.
You will go home and scrub yourself clean, but no matter how long you stay under the shower the one thing you won’t be able to cleanse is your memory. In the days to come you will have horrid visions, flashbacks of me on top of you, chewing your ear, the appalling scent of me, and it will make you physically ill every time. As the months pass the horror of what you allowed yourself to do will infect your work, your friendships, and your relationships with other men. You will eventually end up heavily medicated, in a padded room, convinced you are Marie Antoinette.
Lady, you will be my queen.