Senior Sex(less) and the City: #21

The Old Boyfriend
The name was so familiar, it didn’t seem at all out of place in my inbox. Yet when I thought about it, I realized I haven’t seen that name in—could it be?—thirty years?! And when you figure how long I’ve known him, we go back even further than that.

He lived on the other side of my neighborhood, so we were practically children together. A friend of Joe’s, I think. What was I—15, 16 when we first met? I know I thought he was cute. But he had a girlfriend. Later, after they’d broken up, we dated off and on for years.

And now here he was emailing me. Did I remember him? Ha. To me, he looks exactly the same, right down to that scar I loved because it somehow added a slightly rugged defiance to those almost-too-pretty features. And how I loved his conspiratorial grin, the way he leaned in as if we alone got the joke….

What I remember most for some reason is the time he picked me up for a date and I asked him what he’d done all day. He told me he’d been mowing lawns after work. I guess I asked him if it was a job. His mother was widowed and I knew he mowed his own family’s grass. He answered that he always mowed his neighbors’, too. Wasn’t that a job, I asked? I still remember the way he said it. “No,” he shrugged. “They’re old.” As if that explained it. And it did. I believe I fell in love with him just a little bit at that moment.

After we emailed a few times, I sent him my number so we could catch up. He is recently divorced. Although neither of us is from this city, we both live surprisingly close now. And I could no longer use the excuse that I’m not ready to date someone new. Technically this isn’t someone new, is it?

It was really nice when I started to explain a situation with someone we both used to know…and I didn’t have to explain. Not only does he already know the people involved, but he went through something similar himself. He understood my feelings exactly, and from more than one perspective. It’s a situation not many people understand. He’s experienced his own losses, and they’ve given him depth and character. Wisdom.

Once again, it’s the scars I’m drawn to. What an unexpected comfort it is, this intimacy, like something we alone get. I believe I fell in love with him just a little bit. All over again.

My friends are my estate. ~Emily Dickinson

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #20

Joe Cool
Joe is cool. He’s so cool, in fact, that all he has to do is say what his job is. Then he leans back and awaits the praise. I.T. Joe is IT.

I ask him about his job. I’m not intending to pry; it’s just all I have to go on, and Joe and I are sort of isolated on one end of a table with no one else to talk to. Joe’s response is to give me a “look” to tell me how stupid I am. Joe’s job is so cool, I should know all about it.

A woman sits down next to us and Joe is too cool for her, too. So we talk to each other. She is a child psychologist and very nice. But when she goes to the bathroom, I sneak a look at Joe’s face because there just isn’t much else to do. Joe has a goatee that doesn’t go. It might go on some people, but it gives Joe the look of an aging evil genie. Joe’s goatee makes me wonder if the word “goatee” has something to do with goats. To me Joe’s cool goatee looks a little like pube art sprouting on his evil genie face.

Joe is popular. He’s so popular, in fact, that he texts his friends at the table during the middle of dinner. Don’t you have a phone, Cool Joe asks?

I have to stifle a giggle while addressing Joe’s facial pubes. “I yell at my children when they do that,” I say, indicating the texting at the table. He rolls his eyes to show how very uncool I am.

I yell at my children when they do that, too.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: More Single Women!

Chatty Cathy
I got stuck next to her during a single’s event where very few people showed up. Thing I learned : don‘t ever, ever sit on the end at a single’s event where you know no one, because on the end, you might only have one person seated next to you, and then you’re trapped.

“…cousin, who’s friend is a professional hairdresser….”
“…next house had only two bedrooms….”
“…was a drunk, and so was his brother….”
“…vet. So I picked up Fluffy….”
“…go, ‘No way!’ And she goes, ‘yuh huh,’ and….”
“…Wicked Witch of the West! No kidding…."

I kept zoning out and coming to, wondering things like how she breathed and so forth, so that I just heard fragments. It didn’t matter, because there wasn’t enough of a pause to allow me to respond, anyway:

“…shift starts at 9:00, but I always….”
“…from cirrhosis of the liver….”
“…houses down? Or was it three….? Anyway, he goes….”
“…barked. It was the cutest thing! So….”

I finally got “sick” and had to leave. She probably still hasn’t noticed.

From Modern Family:

Phil [about their son, Luke]: He’s one of those kids you get him a gift and all he wants to do is play with the box.

Claire: One year we just got him a box, a really nice box.

Phil: And we made the mistake of putting it in a gift bag.

Claire: So he played with the gift bag.

Phil: We can’t get it right.

Senior Sex(less) and the City : #20 The Other Side : Single Women!

Witchy Woman
I first talked to her because she couldn’t really be as scary as she looks, right ? Silly me! I can’t say a word about this one because I am scared of her. In fact, I suspect she is lurking somewhere, shaking chicken blood on mysterious little symbols. Shh…I don’t want one of them to be my name!

***
I used a short one because I have a favor to ask. I can’t tell you how flattered I am that some of you seem to think I should compile my Sex(less) in the City segments into…something. My question is, what do you think that “something” should be? It’s way too big for an essay. A chapbook? Chapter or section of a larger book—possibly a divorce guide for older women?

Or should I try to come up with more on the single women I’ve met and make it for all divorced people? Or should it somehow not be about divorce at all?

Thank you so, so much in advance. Needless to say, if this somehow makes it into print, this is my "Acknowledgements" page in the making!

Sometimes our light goes out but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light. ~Albert Schweitzer

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #19

The Gargoyle
I had just walked into a single’s dance. At a church, no less. I bet I hadn’t been sitting for two minutes when he swooped in, lurking beside me. “You’re new,” he accused, hunkering down into the chair next to me, uninvited. He was petite and creepily serious. And he fired off a lot of questions, but not the polite kind. Where had I come from? Why was I there at a single’s dance?

He started babbling, and for some reason he blurted out that he used to have dogs, but he didn’t have room for them anymore, so he had to have them all put to sleep. Four of them. He was really upset about it of course! I stared in open-mouthed horror, too many responses warring in my head, and all of them so angry that I finally just turned my back on him. It didn’t keep him from talking, though.

He would dance with me, he said, but he couldn’t. He had filed a worker’s compensation lawsuit for an injury. If he danced, they might take pictures to use against him in court. They send out spies like that.

I’d better watch it, he told me. There were people there who’d take advantage of me. He just wanted to warn me! Some men—not him, of course, because he was just looking out for me—some of those men might pounce right on me. I looked around. My friends were all dancing when I’d come in. He was the only one who even seemed to have noticed my presence. He had a peculiar intensity about him. Why, they might just look at me as another notch on the old belt!

So, why was I there, he demanded again. I tried to look as innocent as a person over 40 can look. Oh, just looking for another notch on the old belt, I shrugged. You know. But not him, of course! I would NEVER take advantage of him, so no worries there! And his injury and all. He was perfectly safe from me for sure!

Then I got up and went to the bathroom because, besides wanting to get away from him, I had to giggle. The look on his face before he retreated into the corners of the room was enough to send me back into the bathroom several times to get the laughter out of my system. Fortunately our table filled up and there was nowhere for him to perch from then on. But I could see him hovering most of the night in the shadows….

Next week: Mr. Name Dropper

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #18

Cute Guy
“Guess who likes you?” my friend asked me. “Who?” I asked. I wrinkled my nose out of habit.

For Valentine’s Day, I got a card from a friend. Two little girls were on the front. “Johnny likes you,” says one.

“Paste-Eating Johnny, or Booger-Eating Johnny?” asks the other. I wish I could find what I did with it, because I can’t remember the punch line. Something about enjoying my options, I think. But the point is, that’s how I feel. Amazingly, it was neither Paste-Eating Johnny nor Booger-Eating Johnny. It was…could it be??!!!

Cute Guy.

I squealed. “Really!?! Are you sure?! Did he tell you, or do you just think so? Does he like me, or does he LIKE me like me??!!” I made her repeat every single word that passed between them on the subject. Twice. Then of course I made her add in any facial nuances he may have used to convey the message. Then I giggled and danced around a bit.

Cute Guy is more than cute. He is smooth. He has chunky-but-clean man hands and a warm handshake and a winning smile. He smells good. Not good as in too-much-aftershave-good, but good as in his personal scent is good. Not that sharp, I-can’t-walk-up-a-hill-so-I’m-turning-red-and-emitting-sour-sweat personal scent. But a clean skin smell. That one. Oooh….

Then she mentioned his age. Oh. Oh crap. He is quite a bit younger than I’d hoped. I told my friend my age. Maybe it’s that she’s only seen me in darkened rooms, or maybe the fat distracted her from the wrinkles or something, but she thought I was younger. Oh, she says. Oh. She knows it, too—it’s too much of an age difference. And truthfully, I don’t blame him a bit. I wouldn’t date someone that much older than I am. I don't think I want to date someone that much younger than I am, either.  Some people can do it. I can’t. I want someone my own age.

Still. I’m unaccountably happy. Like the birthday card, I do have some pretty fun options. And age? I’m still giggling like a twelve-year-old.

Cute Guy liked me!



Welcome and thank you to new blog follower Dorothy Evans!

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #17

Mellow Dude
I met Mellow Dude at a Valentine party called the Red and Black Party. If you felt optimistic about love, you were supposed to wear red. If not…well, you get it. My sweater was red and black. Mellow Dude drifted along the shore of the sea of red and black sweaters wearing…a blue, beach-style, summer shirt. “Gets hot dancing,” he later told me.

The party was held at a wild casino bar. The music was hard rock and loud. People either went home early or wandered off to gamble. I looked around, and the only person left was Mellow Dude. He didn’t ask me to dance so much as he cocked his head at the dance floor and shrugged. I shrugged back. What the hey.

Hours and hours later, we closed down the place with a reluctant, sweat-soaked farewell to the band. My feet would ache for days, but it was worth it. During the breaks, Mellow had told me a little about himself. Doesn’t drink much. Never danced in his life until he discovered recently that it’s a nice form of exercise. Likes dogs. Is close to his children. Likes reading books on spirituality. He shrugged again. It fascinates him. Go figure. He didn’t talk too much. Asked a few questions—but not so many that it was prying—and listened to the answers.

Hard to pinpoint, this Mellow Dude. Not a hippie. Not an aging surfer. Not really rural. Not urban. But he didn’t seem controlling, needy, dramatic, insecure, patronizing, or immature. On the dance floor, he wasn’t a swooper, a flailer, a showoff-er, a pretend dance instructor, a St. Vitus Dancer, a bowl-people-over-er, a spin-you-like-a-topper, or a cop-a-feeler. Just smiled dreamily and danced. Not a bad thing, this mellowness. In fact, it was a little like relaxing on a beach after you’ve been through a hurricane.

The next day, I got a better look at the sweater I’d been wearing. And I discovered in the light of day that it wasn’t red and black, after all. It was really red and navy.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Dating…Then vs. Now

Then: Do I look okay?
Now: Would my picture appear on “People of WalMart?”

Then: Does this make my rear end look big?
Now: Good thing I don’t have to look at myself from behind!

Then: Does my hair look perfect?
Now: Uh oh—the back of my hair looks awful. Good thing I don’t have to look at myself from behind! Also, does the skunk stripe from where the gray is growing back in look too obvious?

Then: Uh oh, my clothes are wrinkled! I’d better iron!
Now: Uh oh, my clothes are wrinkled! Maybe people will think that either, A.) the wrinkles appeared in my car on the way over, or B.) this is a crinkled fabric that’s supposed to look like this.

Then: Is my outfit brand new and perfectly coordinated?
Now: Will a little spit get the toothpaste blobs out of the outfit that I’ve worn all day? Because I don’t want to have to do more laundry than I have to.

Then: Ooh, he’s really cute!
Now: Ooh, he sounds sane!

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #16

The Cowboy
We’d met once about a year earlier, so we hugged warmly. Old friends in singles group world. We were eating at a restaurant where the fare was a bit tricky. My buddy—a somewhat solicitous man—asked me if I’d like some help with it. I asked him about something he was eating. Here, he said, try some. I couldn’t eat my potatoes; did he want them? We exchanged. Later, a friend asked me something about my date. Date? I assured her that I barely knew the guy. But it made me realize how easily I’d fallen into that old-married-couple interaction with this man. Odd how emotionally attracted I am to that calm, masculine energy, that ruggedness, yang to my yin. A cowboy quality.

I was reared in Nebraska. Reared in the city, but still, a part of me knew this man, knew that he knew horses and dust and how to cup a cigarette in callused fingers, flicking the ash like a small gunshot. I knew he could mend a fence and casually lean on it as he pulled the hat down to shade his squinting eyes. I could feel without touching the dryness of his hands and the stubble on his chin.

And he sensed, in turn, that I have learned to sniff the air around people, easy to spook. He knew to move smoothly, self-assuredly, not too suddenly, so I don’t bolt. He quickly had me—a separate species, really—eating out of his hand.

But helpful very quickly seemed to turn…patronizing. Is there a time in life when condescension is ever truly appropriate? I can’t think of one. Even my father was never patronizing, bless him, as the truly great never are. Those little digs cut like spurs.

Snort. Gallop.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: a Final Word...Um, Okay, Maybe a Whole Lot of Them

Lest you think I’ve been mean talking about the odd men I’ve met, be assured that I have left out a lot. For example, I have it on good authority that one of the ones I poked fun of a bit has had two restraining orders placed against him by old girlfriends. Scary. But I leave out a lot of other stuff as well…like the good ones. Fortunately they are everywhere, but they are simply not that funny. And even if a guy is great, it doesn’t automatically mean I’m attracted to him. Or him to me, certainly. And sad to say, there very well could be some man writing about me somewhere. I’m sure I would fall under several undesirable lists.

I did briefly think about writing about some of the single women I’ve observed. And although there are definitely the clingy types and the man-haters and the sort of scary ones, the bottom line is that it forced me to think about which categories I would fit into. And that is just not fun at all.

One happy discovery I’ve made is that, contrary to what those infamous dating ads suggest, all men of a certain age do not necessarily want younger women. In fact, I’ve met a surprising number of men who don’t seem to mind older women at all and one who actually prefers his women on the mature side. Really.

I also met a man who was funny and witty and handsome and oh my the air around him felt right and he just smelled good. But our meeting was far too brief. Since then I haven’t run into him again. Sure hope I do in the future.

Here are a few others I’ve left out. When I complained about my deck falling in (it was structurally unsound in the first place, and now it’s literally crashing in), one very nice man offered to come over and fix it. Several times. I haven’t felt right taking him up on the offer, but people like him make me feel happy about humanity.

When another one heard that a woman’s ex husband broke in and hit her, he was there to help her and drive her to the hospital. He bought groceries for a woman who couldn’t afford them (because it is absolutely shocking how impoverished Missouri law leaves some women in divorce cases). He then got her in touch with the correct social service agencies to help her get future meals and medical care. Whenever a woman shows up in his single’s group looking devastated, he goes out of his way to make her feel at home. Oh, I suppose some might call him a rescuer, but he is always a gentleman of the finest order and truly a good human being whom I admire a great deal. Here is a real-life Superman in a world that desperately needs heroes.

I started to write about another I called Down in the Dumped Dude, who said he’d had two spouses run off with other men (presumably not the same one). What made me ache was that I witnessed him telling all of this to a woman who may well have run off from a few spouses herself. I started to wax on about how affairs are no more about sex than brownies are about hunger for a lot of people; they are often about self esteem. In many cases, it’s not so much the sex that the dedicated non-monogamous lust after, but the sexy—that is, the need to feel sexually validated by as many people as possible. And I still think that’s true for many serial cheaters, just as it’s absolutely necessary to be an accomplished liar in order to cheat successfully. But I also know that adultery is a roiling stew with far too many complex ingredients for me to tackle with just a taste. So…forget that one. Besides, I’m happy to report that “Down” seems to have found someone who is perfect for him, and he seems neither down…nor likely to be dumped.

I wanted to write about bad hair. Bad hair is funny. But fortunately toupees no longer look like a piece of greasy black road kill that decided to expire on the side of a bald guy’s head. And although I did see a dye job that was apparently done on Pandora and glowed with a radioactive half-life (it was an odd yet vibrant color), the worst hair I can think of is Donald Trump’s. For pete’s sake, can’t the man buy new hair? But I also get quite a shock when I get a look at my own. Oops. No more hair jokes, people! That’s just mean!

And I couldn’t bring myself to write about a man I met who has an obvious mental illness. I’ve been close to someone with a mental illness—I find that an awful lot of women who write have—and that kind of illness is no more funny than diabetes. Okay, maybe this particular guy’s was just a little. BUT I’d take an obvious imbalance of brain chemicals any day over their truly dangerous counterpart who’s not nearly so easy to spot: the sociopath.

But I’ll save that one for another day. Suffice it to say that every single man I’ve mentioned here is worth far, far more than one of those—with the possible exception of those I suspect could very well be sociopaths themselves.

Fortunately for me, I am genuinely blessed with wonderful children and friends. Although society seems to dictate that we are somehow incomplete without a spouse, I simply don’t agree. Whether I meet someone and fall in love again or not doesn’t bother me too much, honestly. I am having far more fun than I had twenty-five years ago. Again, really. Why? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go back, but go back knowing everything you know now?

Yup. It might be in a much older, fatter, and wrinklier package, but…I’m back.

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy.  What a caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly. ~Richard Bach, Illusions.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #15

Attila the Hunk
He’s a huge, Viking of a man who is only missing the hat with the horns. He laughs with gusto; it is a laugh I would imagine booming from Poseidon’s mouth while stirring up a tsunami. What’s wrong with this guy? Other than the fact that I suspect his home is decorated with animal carcasses?*  I have no idea. I scared him off before I had a chance to find out.

I had just met him at a single’s event at an outdoor concert. We were having a nice talk in the line to buy water. And then…. Okay, in my defense, it really sounded like Attila said, “I’ll get yours, too.” I said, “Oh…uh…thank you.” When he looked briefly confused, I realized with horror that he may have said, “I think I’ll get two.” Did I just trick a total stranger into buying my water? Oh my gosh oh my gosh! How embarrassing! Was there a way to fix this?!

So I plunged ahead with my standby, good ol’ honesty. “Wait,” I blubbered. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear well over the music. What did you just say?” This did not improve the situation any. In fact, it was a little like saying a stupid thing, and then holding up a giant flashing neon sign that says, “I JUST SAID A STUPID THING!” Now Attila was embarrassed, too, and I could sense he was trying to figure out a way to extract himself from this weird woman who was making such an issue of a bottle of water.

Attila ordered THREE waters and sort of tossed one to me. “Here,” he mumbled to the ground. “Thanks,” I mumbled back, also to the ground.

Poor Attila. He could conquer the tsunami, but he sure ran from that strange woman begging for water in line at the festival!

*I know this sounds like a stereotype. It isn’t. I later overheard him talk about deer hunting. The gist of the conversation was: Antlers are desirable.

Next Week: (Probably) The Ones I Left Out

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #14

Moob Man
He’s slim. He’s athletic looking. Yet his ex-pecs have drooped into moobs. These B-cups could get him hired at Hooters if only they were a tad less pendulous. And why is it that men with moobs wear clingy knit tops? In this case it’s unfortunate that he’s tall, because any short woman who slow danced with him would end up with a face full of man-mammaries. He also appeared to have had a face lift. Forgive me for saying it: wrong choice of cosmetic surgeries, Mr. Man-mams!

Next week: Summary One More

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #13

I’m-Not-Drunk Dude
The good news is that he is not a mean drunk. In fact, he’s a great guy, everyone’s friend—who can down half his weight in alcohol and not seem terribly drunk at all. He is proud of this accomplishment, and no wonder—he’s worked for years to build such tolerance. He thinks he’s no fun unless he’s drinking, so he finds an excuse to imbibe no matter where he is. He has the uncanny ability to sniff out a bar anywhere—even along a wilderness hiking trail. At an afternoon festival, he makes a beeline for the only booth he cares about—the beer garden. Whether it’s after a morning at the gym, at an afternoon charity event, or at the church picnic, every outing somehow involves alcohol. He frequently swears it off—say, for Lent—because if he can give it up for a few weeks, he’s sure that means it’s not a problem. Then he decides that God wouldn’t have put St. Patrick’s Day in the middle of Lent if people weren’t supposed to drink, and besides, he made his point. And since God said, it would practically be sacrilege NOT to! So drink up—he’s buying!

Next week: Episode #14 (? Send men! I need fresh ones!)

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #12

Mr. Pick Up
I met Mr. Pick Up on a hot summer night. The excitement at the outdoor concert was almost electrical, the band, electrifying. He was tall, muscular, handsome. Considerably younger than I am. Was it that it was so dark out or that he just didn’t care? He slid an arm around my waist and I let him. Newly divorced, he said. Yes, it was obvious what he was after, but let’s face it, after forty-five a bad reputation is quirky at worst, almost admirable at best. Heck, cougars are practically a good thing! But…the bottom line is another one of those sad ironies of life. Respect matters at my age. And the question isn’t whether they respect me, but whether I respect them. Mr. Pick Up tucked his card into my hand. “Call,” he whispered. Months later, I still have the card. But I know I keep it only so I can say: What’s wrong with me?! I could have had a hot guy!

Next week: Episode #13, The I’m-Not-Drunk-Dude

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #11

Karma Chameleon
Karma Chameleon was slick, I’ll give him that. He was funny, witty, and interesting. There was something unbelievably familiar about him. He had an easy laugh. He had served in a public office, same party as my very political parents. Even though it’s not my party, I was astounded at how drawn I was toward this man. I later looked him up; he was telling the truth about his political background. But what I liked most was his incredibly diverse interests. Psych and journalism major. Right now he’s a counselor. My ears perked up. Writer? Counselor? At that point on, it was clear that his passions are writing and counseling. And—could it get more amazing?—when I mentioned I teach, it turns out he’s crazy about children, too. Still…it bothered me that he was trying so hard to impress me. And he later let something slip that led me to believe he still wasn’t over his divorce. Unhealed means not ready for a new relationship, and a counselor should have known that. But worse was the feeling I couldn’t shake that all of those interests and occupations were merely lines he was casting to see where the nibbles were. Something didn’t feel quite right. I decided to give him time and see what he did. The next time we met, I watched him hit on every woman in the room, one by one. When I passed him one time, I couldn’t help but overhear that he was a business owner. With another, he was in sales. Sales? Diversity is wonderful, but this felt way too much like a con. Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon, you come and go. But…just go, ‘kay? 

Next week: Episode #12, Mr. Pick Up

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #10

Bucket List Boy
This is the opposite of The Health Nut. He isn’t just embracing his mortality; he is hurtling himself toward it at the speed of a high-pitched scream. He has a list and he’s not afraid to plunge headlong into it…usually hanging on by something that looks a little like a large elastic ponytail holder. His midlife crisis is so out of control that the list usually involves too little oxygen and way too much gravity. He’s like an adolescent with plenty of money and no mom to yell at him.

Bucket List Boy asked me to jump out of an airplane with him. Amazingly, there was a time in my life when I actually wanted to do this. Now I have a child still at home whom I don’t want to leave homeless. But even if all that depended on me was my plumerias, I still couldn’t do it. As I age, I find that scary thrills like that lose their thrilling aspects—leaving behind just the scary part. I chickened out of the Mr. Freeze roller coaster at Six Flags and had to walk the long Loser Walk past the crowds of bubble gum-chewing tweens watching me with a combination of pity and adolescent superiority. It was the fact that they had you remove your earrings that got me. Anything that sucks the jewelry out of your body is just too much suckage. Serious, scary suckage. Besides, things already hurt at my age; do I really want to risk adding injuries? If I survive? Right now my idea of risky behavior is using a lower SPF sunscreen or skipping a year of mammograms. Worse—and this is a true confession—I am genuinely afraid that sheer terror would make me lose control of my bodily functions. And let’s face it—it’s just not cool at any age to poop on your date.

No question about it, though—Bucket List Boy is fun. He is a wild man who does everything with gusto. He has recreational vehicles galore. He loves to travel. Oh, the places you could go with Bucket List Boy! The question is, would you return?

Next week: Episode #11, Karma Chameleon

Senior Sex(less) Supplement: 10 More Things!

It’s baaaaaaack! Inspired by “The Health Nut” and his fetching pickup lines, here are:

10 REALLY BAD Pickup Lines for Middle Aged Folks

1. Darlin’, you put the grr in girdle.

2. Shake it, don’t break it.

3. I’d like to run my fingers through your…scalp.

4. Come on, Honey, let’s get horizontal. ‘Cause I’ve been standing too long and my knees are stiff and my back hurts.

5. I’ve always liked a woman with curves. Everywhere. Like on your knees and upper back.

6. Oh my darling, let me tilt your delicate little chin…ah, neck…ah, 45 degree angle where your chin and neck have melted into each other and become one body part, thereby making it look as if your head is sprouting out of a really fleshy turtle neck sweater….

7. What’s cookin’, good lookin’? Let me put my glasses on to gaze upon…Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry. Pardon me.

8. Okay, then, can I grope your back fat?

9. Let’s play “the Tickle Game.” Go put on your Depends.

10. And the one that inspired this: Hey baby, you put the “hot” in hot flash!

P.S. I had a Viagra one, but I took it out. You’re welcome. Feel free to suggest any of your own!!!

Bleeker's mom was possibly attractive once, but now she looks like a Hobbit. You know, the fat one that was in the Goonies. ~from the movie, “Juno”

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #9

The Health Nut
We all have to face the fact that we are mortal creatures, and yes, more so at my age. But The Health Nut goes to ϋber-extremes. He is not just watching his cholesterol, but watching every particle in the environment which may or may not contribute to his demise, including toxic tooth fillings and evil air particles. True, he is slim and healthy looking, but this guy raises an eyebrow at certain organic products, even. Yet it wasn’t his diet that scared me off. What did it was the line about certain products “alleviating the symptoms of menopause.” Did I say anything about menopause? NO. Why? Because I’m not an idiot, that’s why. I don’t care how old I am, how natural it is or whether I am standing in a puddle created by my own hot-flash-induced sweat, if you’re male and not currently wearing a white coat and holding a speculum (I’m just immature enough that I can’t type that without adding: eww), that’s another fact of life you’d better avoid more carefully than your own eventual demise. My first thought was that he was trying to get rid of me (a technique which used to be known in high school as “The Gross-Out”), but it later became clear that he was just being obsessed with health and aging. I’ll take those tips when you’re ready for me to suggest that you need Viagra, testosterone supplements and male enhancement products, ‘kay, Bran Boy?

Next week: Episode #10, Bucket List Boy

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #8

Martian Man
Remember Big Boy restaurants? Martian Man looked like Big Boy, but much more grave. He was grave on account of the Martians. It’s not for me to say whether he really did have a close encounter with a U.F.O. 30 years ago. But using that as his opening line didn’t overwhelm me with the excitement of his life. Even under the assumption that it did happen, if it was 30 years ago and that’s still all he’s talking about, it’s time to take the lawn chairs out to that hillside to stake out the firmament again. Oh, wait, he does that. So maybe time for a new kind of hobby. Or therapist.

Next week: Episode #9, The Health Nut

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #7

Twinkly
“Twinkly” is a silly, sweet, wonderful man with eyes that light up a room and a soul that lights up the people in the room. He is a big person on the inside, spiritual without being remotely preachy, smart but fun. He gets along with everyone and seems to have an interest in everything. He is respectful of women, chivalrous, and kind. Whenever there’s an awkward situation, Twinkly comes to the rescue. Or if a party is lagging, Twinkly livens it up. When I was stuck next to a braggart, Twinkly came up and whispered, “I haven’t heard you say a word in ages. Is it because you can’t?” And then, eyes twinkling, he asked for my help elsewhere. Twinkly shines. If I were more ready for a relationship, I would want to be more than the friends that we are. But I’m not, and alas, Twinkly deserves someone who is. Still…I’m lucky to call Twinkly my friend.

Next week: Episode #8: Martian Man