Society
Now what? - Lauren Booth worries about over-age sex
Published 28 October 2002
My friend, at 85, is obsessed with getting as much sex as he can before he dies
''How much does a prostitute cost?" I've asked most of my male friends and colleagues this question in the past month and they are either clearly making up figures ("Oooh, anything from a fiver to five grand") or they're pretending to be "dirtier" than they are ("Well it varies as to where you go, Kings Cross is cheap, Mayfair expensive"). Well, duh! One old mate even began talking like a character from The Sopranos at the mention of paid-for-pleasure: "Well, y'see wid hookers it depends on whether you choose from the a la carte menu or whether you go straight for the old 'surf 'n' turf'."
The reason I'm asking is that a very aged friend has become obsessed with the idea of having sex as much as possible (or even just once) before he dies. This previously sedate widower of 85 has already lost his entire life-savings trying to buy affection off every haggard tart in the village where he lives.
I want to know some facts and figures to stop this lovely old guy dying in utter penury. I want to ask him: "Is it the chase, the risk or the disappointment you crave - because for 30K you could have sorted this obsession out a long time ago and still had enough change for a Caribbean cruise once a year with a really nice lady as well."
Despite the efforts of all his closest and frankly irritated friends, he is again being leeched off by a grisly tart promising (and not delivering) "favours" in return for his entire pension each and every week.
I took my family to visit him last weekend and, apart from smoking too much and seeming distracted, he was in good health. One night the phone rang. It was a woman, and I knew her type immediately.
"Hello?" she said, shocked that a woman answered.
"Who is this?"
"Errm, never mind, wrong number."
"No, it's not. Who are you trying to call?"
The old man perked up in his chair.
"No one." The phone went dead. I dialled 1471, but the number had been withheld.
My anger at his stupidity is only matched by my horror at how many women must be sitting right now in small hamlets across the UK just waiting for an old fool to appear and pay off their council tax and their booze debts. In just under two years, no fewer than four women have taken this man's money and then ritually humiliated him in front of his neighbours. He's been accused of stalking, owning a gun, and had his TV and video stolen over the Christmas holidays when one lady "friend" knew he would be at my house in London. He's a miserable shell of his former self. But is it his weakness or the blind greed of a certain sort of woman that's to blame?
On Monday morning, I hugged him and said a sad goodbye. At least I was secure in the knowledge that in the afternoon he would draw half his week's money at the post office and buy his beloved cigarettes.
That evening, I got a call from the friend who manages the little that remains of his funds.
"Look I know you didn't - but did you take £50 off our friend this afternoon?" As I'd spoken to her from the M6 just hours earlier I was confused - how could I be in two places at once?
"He's saying he's broke because you drove back to 'borrow' the money."
"Then how can I be at home in London now?"
When confronted, he quickly admitted that he'd lied about me in order to protect some mystery person who is stealing or blackmailing or begging money from him. I'm hurt and tired by the whole drama. You can't protect someone from themselves. The elderly aren't children either - you can't just send them to bed at a certain hour with a stern "Behave".
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