‘Yeah . . . I’m s’posed to be on a fishin’ trip with me mates, not on a cougar cruise with MILFs.’

‘A mother you’d like to fuck – is that what I am?’ I asked, huskily, in full Mrs Robinson mode, caressing him once more with confident strokes.

‘Well . . .’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You’re more of an MP.’

‘An MP?’

‘Mature pussy.’

Now it was my turn to feel all desire deflate. I fell back onto the pillow. It seemed that when he’d pulled my hair back tightly it wasn’t part of a take-me-roughly Poldark fantasy at all. He was obviously just trying to iron out my wrinkles to make me look younger – a ‘Fairfield face lift’, we used to call it. ‘If you’re in love with your girlfriend then why did you come on a cruise like this?’ I asked, curtly.

‘Well, all me mates were comin’ for the free holiday and, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a country boy. If it’s got a hole and a heartbeat, we fuck it then count the legs afterwards.’

Unless it has pubic hair, apparently. ‘How poetic,’ I muttered. ‘The post of poet laureate clearly beckons.’

‘I see no problem divin’ and munchin’ when needed, either. It’s just the “Me-Tarzan-You-Jane” jungle look kinda threw me, ya know?’

‘You’re plagiarising Shakespeare again, aren’t you,’ I said, facetiously.

‘Who?’

‘Oh, lord. William Shakes . . . never mind.’

I felt the chasm of the generation gap yawning between us across the sheets. ‘Body hair is sensual and essential. It captures your pheromones, which are nature’s invisible perfume . . . All those girls waxing to make themselves more attractive to men, they’re basically losing their secret weapon. Bring back bush, I say. A woman should only wax lyrical . . . Hasn’t your mother explained these things to you? I’m sure your Mum doesn’t wax. And she’s probably about the same age as . . .’

I tried to claw back the words as they left my mouth, but it was too late. A look of repugnance crossed the boy’s smooth countenance. This whole encounter was turning out to be a disaster on par with the Hindenburg. What had I been thinking? The short answer was I hadn’t been thinking, I’d been drinking. And it was all Emerald’s fault, the fact that I was now lying here with a tumesced toy boy, totally unbegotten.