FiFi Jo's Romantic Holiday Hell - Part III

Last we left FiFi Jo she had a blonde Station Master in the closet of her wilderness hut and a man claiming to be her website date, ‘Pumped69’, in the lounge room. No, this is not a metaphor for anything….what will she do?!

Being a naturally very forgiving and unselfish person, I accept ‘Pumped69’ at face value. His value in this circumstance being the crate of top shelf vodka he brings for our enjoyment, and not the fact he lied profusely about his age, height, looks and hair line. Damning the day I stopped using an intravenous drip for such occasions, I proceed to allow ‘Pumped69’ entry and full use of the kitchen, a room I know nothing about and could not manoeuvre around if I tried. Whilst he is pre-occupied with certain unnecessariness like ice, lime and glassware, I decide to check on Blondie in the boudoir. Thought I had heard a sexy murmuring earlier. Perhaps he is lying languidly on the bed awaiting my agile and youthful company.

Unfortunately, no such luck. Not only is there not a Blonde God on the bed winking at me suggestively, but there is no unconscious body in the closet either! I check all the nooks and crannies of the bedroom, but alas! My shining blonde knight has escaped! He is on the lam…from me! Why on earth would he not hang around after all I’ve done for him?! I turn to close the shutters on the open window and wonder - how did he escape? Cannot fathom some people’s attitudes to a good time, but let him go as a lost cause.

Return to the lounge room to find a raging wood fire blazing in the hearth, with a delectable picnic of cold meat treats and delicacies spread out in front of it. Well, there is something to be said for the middle aged men of this world over the young. They do know their way into a woman’s heart, with fire, dead beast and male company being my three main guilty pleasures. With a large plastic cup of vodka adding to the icing on the noticeably absent cake, I decide to relax into ‘Pumped69’s obvious wooing technique. I may have been wrong all these years. Choosing men with the body of a lumberjack but all the charm of a tree over men with a working knowledge of a woman’s mind and body may be the way to go. Their bulging hip pockets and gold credit cards can’t hurt either ladies! Well, what would you do?

FiFi Jo's Romantic Holiday Hell - Part II

“Just a minute!” I loudly call as I hear banging on the front door of my pre-booked love nest. My romantic wilderness mini break is so far proving unsuccessful in the romance department. However, the ‘cottage’ is definitely nest-like. Everything about it, and contained in it, is made of wood.

My blonde hero, the Station Master from the little country town I have had the misfortune to be rudely abandoned in, was now lying in a closet in the bedroom. I had pulled him there earlier by his perfectly formed, muscular, tattooed arms. He had unfortunately not gained consciousness after falling on the floor in a swoon at my obvious charm and beauty. Of course, my Thai courting ritual moves may have had something to do with it as well. I had only ever practiced them on inflatable men so could never be truly sure of the effect. To awaken my sleeping prince I performed my customary love dance where I twirl, booby shake, bunny hop and jazz hands with grace and flair. I even ended in the upside down prairie dog pose, but to no avail. So you can imagine my anger at the disturbing knock at the door whilst my knight in shining armoire is snoring happily away in the boudoir, awaiting an awakening kiss from me.

The knock came again with more urgency and a shout of “Hornbag4U, are you in there? Let me in!”

Oh no! It’s ‘Pumped69’, my date from the singles website that was to meet me at the Dungaree railway station. Bellowed by a sexy, young and drunk lumberjack, my screen name did not sound as provocative as I had hoped it might. Damn, now he shows up! I let him in, slowly opening the door to a middle-aged balding man holding a pot plant. Hmmm.

He starts to explain that he may not look exactly as he described or indeed at all like his profile picture. Can’t say I’m surprised really. Decide to give him the ‘ol Heave-Ho’ (quite the opposite to the ‘ol Gung-Ho’), when ‘Pumped69’ produces a case of my favourite vodka. He is saved from my wrath. For now.

To Be Continued….

FiFi Jo's Romantic Holiday Hell - Part I

I have decided I need a tree change. Apparently it is the latest craze. I read all about it in the February 1986 issue of ‘Woman’s Day’, and they should know. I found it the other day at my local Chinese Restaurant whilst awaiting my take away order of spring rolls and fried rice (minus the sauce, flavouring and any artificial colours, therefore ending up with boiled rice and grated carrot). Of course, I cannot abide the country for longer than a day, so I intend on making this a mini weekend escape. Oh, how exciting! Now, if only I can find someone with a mansion in the wilderness and a penchant for daiquiris, fur rugs and nakedness to accompany me.  

Have one of my many brilliant ideas. Go online and search for dating websites. Every second man on these things claims to enjoy ‘outdoor activities’. Do a quick search using my preferred age group (young and dumb please), suburb (any but mine), and build (lumberjack please). This brings up one match, ‘Pumped69’, and he’s online now! Send him my most provocative and touched up photo and ask him if he likes beer, horror movies and sports as much as I do. He replies immediately in the affirmative. Ten minutes later and we are fixed on a wilderness experience date this weekend. It is truly that easy dear reader.

Saturday afternoon my three suitcases are packed full, and I’m only running five hours late. ‘Pumped69’ is meeting me at the Dungaree train station. Apparently, Dungaree is the newest up and coming country town, brimming with cafes and a hundred and one identical knick knack stores and antique shops. To really give it the stamp of approval, it is frequented by the gay community. Couples meander the pretty streets hand in hand, paying exorbitant prices for old biscuit tins. With five pubs and no competition for my newest beau’s attentions, Dungaree will be the perfect place for my romantic tree change getaway.

I make it to the train station before dark, expecting a bustling little railway scene. Unfortunately, there is no one in sight. Not a young, pumped lumberjack-type lingering on the platform to whisk me away. Not a middle aged man carrying a potted plant. Not even a frail elderly gent with a toothpick. This is not a good sign. Could he not wait a few hours for me?  Although I guess I should be a little lenient. I’ve had marriages that have lasted less than five hours.

With hurt feelings, I saunter over to the Station Master’s window and bash at the little bell for immediate assistance. Thinking all Station Masters look like the wizard Dumbledore, am pleasantly surprised when I am served a complete dish!  My newest friend is a gorgeous male specimen with blonde hair that falls teasingly into his green eyes, skin screaming out to have honey licked from it and a grin that could melt a gentler soul’s heart than mine. Luckily I have petulance in abundance and am not moved by his obvious charm.

I explain the ridiculous situation I have been left in and demand a lift to my pre-booked love nest. He obliges as expected and I am promptly delivered to a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. He explains that the main town is approximately twenty kilometres down the highway in the opposite direction. My anger knows no bounds but I am too tired to scream banshee style as would be my usual custom. He shows me to my door and when I find it is unlocked, I motion for him to enter in before me. Mostly so I can ensure there are no bogeymen inside waiting to suck the blood of an angel (me, of course!). Also so that I may repay him in the best way I know how.

Ensure we are alone and ‘Pumped69’ is not at home. Excellent. Before blondie knows what’s hit him, I use a Thai trick I learnt in Bangkok called the ‘ol Gung–Ho’, and whip down his pants with nothing but my teeth. Caught unawares, he stumbles back and into a position I like to call ‘Cat and Mouse’. Now he is caught under the spell of my world-renowned beauty. Either that or he has hit his head on the floor. Oh well, he doesn’t have to be awake for what I have planned for him…

To be continued….