This particular story is one that I am particularly proud of – I’m not even going to lie about it.
When my boss asked if I wanted to go to a posh work event with my line manager in her place, I was definitely going to say yes. Particularly if it was an event at one of the most renowned and expensive hotels on London’s Park Lane, involved a 3 course dinner, free alcohol, post ball gowns and a dance. It was this type of event.
My line manager (let’s call her Lily) and I finished work slightly early so that we could get glammed up and in a taxi in time for the champagne reception. The event itself was being hosted by one of the agencies our organisation works with – because we spend a lot of money with them year-on-year they invite us to sit at their table. It’s really a celebration of the work that happens across the country to help young people, but it’s nice to get involved as someone in the national office.
This year our new account manager, Andy, extended the invitation to Lily and I. I’d never met Andy before, but he welcomed us with a warm handshake and showed us to our seats. He was a good looking man (can you see where this is going yet – I know, terrible aren’t I), slightly older than I would be interested in. And genuinely I wasn’t interested until the wine started flowing.
When we arrived at our table, I saw that Lily was seated next to a nice lady from another charity, and I next to Andy. I am not the best at making small talk, and as someone who works in advertising he certainly was. So a few bottles of wine later at the table, some enigmatic conversation about the travesty that is Brexit, I had relaxed a little and was beginning to feel much more comfortable. The topic of cooking came up, and I mentioned that I enjoy it but when you are cooking for one it’s not as fun. Subtle hint. To which he replies he knows the feeling, Tupperware dish is a saviour. We are both unattached.
With a slight turn of his chair as the entertainment comes on the stage, I found my leg suddenly no longer alone. He had made a very obvious move, to no one at the table but me, and he wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. Quite frankly I didn’t mind either. Even when I found out he was in his late 40s! The prospect of an older man was one that I suddenly found quite attractive. Never before had I considered venturing past 26, and now I’m flirting with a man 20 years their senior.
Wine after wine gets put on the company expense as our table disbands and moves to the dance floor. Lily is having a great time and dancing with us both, all the while noticing what is happening. As Andy goes to the bar for another round, she tells me to go for it, and shorty after an invitation back to his house is put out there. This is really happening. Man, I really do feel like a woman right now.
So we drink up, get in a taxi and travel 40 minutes to North London. Kissing him in the taxi is surprisingly nice. I’m kissing a man only slightly younger than my parents, and not hating it. (I would also like to point out here, that he is a good looking man for his age. I don’t want you getting any wrong ideas here – I still am extremely shallow).
Andy lives in a family home. A real family home, which immediately puts me on edge. Tell me he isn’t married. Is he divorced? Am I about to do something soul shatteringly terrible without realising? What can you do in this situation other than confront it?
He promises me he is in fact, no longer married, and no I am not doing anything awful. He promises me 3 times, at my request. I’m drunk. I am miles away from home. No-one else at that table, who all know him, said anything or tried to stop us. This has to be ok right? Don’t worry folks, I checked the next day. I didn’t wreck any homes – thank the Lord.
So anyway, back to the sex. We move upstairs, into the bedroom and actually it’s surprisingly fun. I mean, I do throw us off the bed a couple of times in my drunken state, but he finds me funny and let’s face it, we are both winning here. We end up having, not exciting but quite nice, sex twice and he falls asleep. Unable to rest I go downstairs, make myself a cup of tea and watch his TV until the early hours.
In the morning I sneak back into his bed, and we ‘wake up together’. Then it hits me. He is old enough to be my father. Made even more visible to me when he rests his spectacles on the end of his nose and opens up the newspaper next to his bed. He genuinely looks his age now, if not more, and I am suddenly aware that I am in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to wear but stilettos and a ball gown, on a Saturday morning. I am doing the walk of shame on a Saturday morning, through central London, with 3 train changes, in a ball gown. Isn’t life great.
I don’t regret that night one bit. In fact, as I said earlier, I am quite proud of it. I bagged an attractive older man, he bagged a 26 year old and both of us had a great time. We have both won!
Of course, no one can know at work, but hey a cheeky little secret can sometimes be fun.