I’m not going to lie. Things have been sufficiently uncomfortable this year for me to have reached the point now where I wouldn’t dismiss marrying an old woman close to the end of her life, with a view to inheriting a tidy sum. There. I said it. A staggering volte-face giving my previous stance of not dating anyone over 35.
I could do this. My parents are no longer around. I wouldn’t have to endure that awkward moment of having to wheel in my new wife to meet in-laws that were ten years younger than her.
The brilliant and in my opinion, peerless, American comedian Bill Burr does this routine where he says that any man having to pleasure a much older wife simply needs to visualise what he stands to inherit as he’s doing he’s doing his elderly wife from behind. Such visual exercises don’t often work for me, but you know something, in this instance, I’m prepared to give it a try.
Yeah, it would be difficult. I’m under no illusions. Feeling old hands that have pulled off men long since dead on my body wouldn’t be an enjoyable experience. Having never known her as a young beauty, I’d have no memories of her halcyon days to fall back on. There’d be no lasting love or affection for her to keep me there. I’d have only known her as this fragile woman with a name that went out of fashion half a century ago, like Doris or Fanny.
The likelihood is that a woman of that age would have a peculiar smell, essentially the smell of death edging closer. She’d have wispy-like hair too, and benign facial warts. Lots of warts. I think if you were in the same age bracket, the warts wouldn’t be an issue. You’d have your own skin growths and liver spots to compete with anything she can offer. Originally horrified by their appearance on your own face, you’d have familiarised yourself with their look and raisin-like feel. You’d have nothing to be scared of. But at half her age, it’s going to be a problem.
The key to ensuring I manage to get through such a scheme would be to ensure I have to spend as little time as possible in the marital bed.
As a kid, I had an elderly relative who had a number of such growths on her face. Kissing her used to put the fear of God into me. My mum used to have to bribe me with gifts to go through with the kisses. It was the main reason why I amassed such a large Subbuteo collection. Eventually, I knew where each of those relative’s warts were positioned, and depending on the angle of her kiss, was able to move accordingly to avoid it touching me. The way I would duck and weave as she came in for the double kiss, and manoeuvre myself into a position where I could place my own kiss on a wart free patch of skin, was something to behold. It was as if I’d been trained at Gladiator School, learning to avoid blows whilst mastering the art of landing my own. I’d lean heavily on that experience to get me through my-oh-so-wrong marriage.
The key to ensuring I manage to get through such a scheme would be to ensure I have to spend as little time as possible in the marital bed. I’d probably keep getting more rhinoplasty, even though I believe my fourth nose is as near perfect as a nose could be (its inability to take in air aside). The subsequent period with my nose in a bandage would buy me time away from the marital bed, at least a fortnight going by past experience.
In addition to the surgery, I’d probably feign terrible flashbacks, pretending to wake up in the middle of the night screaming about some made up incident, though I have plenty of real life ghosts to tap into should I want to go all Strasberg on this. Worrying for her weak heart, my old wife would fear that the shock of my next nocturnal scream would put her in the ground.
I wouldn’t want to become accustomed to such an arrangement because I’ll be at a loss as to what to do when she eventually expires.
If that didn’t work, I’d fake snoring issues, which would hopefully leave her deciding she only wants me in the marital bed when I need to put out for her. Knowing the chances are she could die in bed, I would draw upon every ruse I know to make certain I am hardly ever in that bed. I don’t want to wake up next to a corpse so it’d be imperative from my point of view that from very early on in the marriage, we established that I wasn’t expected to sleep with her every night. I would hit her with the unconventional argument that whilst most would feel they ought to spend the limited time they have left together sharing the same bed every night, I wouldn’t want to become accustomed to such an arrangement because I’ll be at a loss as to what to do when she eventually expires. Her passing will destroy me, and I need to get used to not having her around whilst she’s still alive.
I’m devious enough to pull this kind of sham marriage off. I’d actually convince myself I have a longstanding snoring problem. I’d fabricate a bogus history of how my snoring had affected the sleep of past girlfriends. Again, I’d even put myself forward for more surgery to correct a non-existent problem. I’d return home and continue snoring. My octogenarian wife would kick me out into one of the five spare bedrooms, and would then plunge some of her fortune into identifying surgeons on the other side of the world who might be able to help me. As she makes contact with them, I’d find myself in a massive spare bedroom with an en-suite bathroom, watching porn involving women half my partner’s age on an incredibly fast broadband connection, in possession of the type of super strength boner the wife hasn’t sampled since the mid-sixties.
Hopefully, I could stick out two or three years with an 80-year-old. By the time she pops her clogs, I’d still be in relatively good shape.
She’d be too frail to travel with me. I’d be flying out on my own, staying in good hotels, buying myself more time. The world’s leasing nasal surgeons would be baffled. They’d send me back home, unable to help me. They’d write papers on me as I returned home, hoping to notice some discernible difference in my wife’s appearance that suggested the end was near and that very soon, I would be South London’s most glamorous widower.
Hopefully, I could stick out two or three years with an 80-year-old. By the time she pops her clogs, I’d still be in relatively good shape and attractive to women. Obviously what concerns me is that if I meet someone else in future, how do I explain to them I was married to a woman twice my age? If I tell her I was in it for the money, I don’t look good. If I tell them it was genuinely for love, it’s going to come across as bizarre. It’s a no-win situation.
But I just can’t take any more of this basic cream of tomato soup for lunch. My life needs to be more comfortable. Better. It needs a substantial injection of wealth to ensure that my career ambitions and hopes for a reasonably long and pleasant life don’t fade to nothing.
It needs a new pair of jeans.
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