He was tall, very tall for a Cuban - about 6'2" and his complexion was as unusual as his height - cool, Andy Warhol white, with plentiful but fine white hair and icy blue eyes. Most striking for sure! His build was large, but not sloppy, perhaps 200 lbs. His waist was trim and he had a classic v-shaped physique - a build made for Versace suits. I never saw him in anything other than a suit. Unlike most of the men in this Latin dance hall in the outskirts of Newark, New Jersey, he never wore jeans and was never without his jacket. Yes, he was quite an attraction in the club and he knew it...planned it...thrived on it and worked it. He was indeed - The Emperor of Lancers Ballroom.
Ok, it is not all that difficult to be an Emperor here in the Ironbound section of Newark where most of the men were longshoremen, factory workers or laborers. Many came to the club with their girfriends or wives for a night out. Where else were the entrance fees $5.00 for men, zero for women, with a free hot food buffet and tequila shots or Coronas for a buck.
The single men were, all but the fewest, short, muscle bound or plump and dressed in the ubiquitous jeans, advertising t-shirts and white sneakers. They were all great dancers moving easily from Merenque to Cumbia to Bachata to various other regional dances that were popular in these Latin clubs. They looked like they had been dancing all of their lives and likely had. It was rare to find one of these men that spoke more than a couple of words of English, but they didn't need to as all but the rarest woman spoke no English at all.
During this night I had danced with the little pudgy guy with the black tee shirt who kept moving his hands down onto my rear end, despite my removing them each time. He told me, in broken English that he wanted to "take me...(unintelligible)". I told him I was flattered (I know what you're thinking - Flattered! - did I really think he knew that word?) but that I had a boyfriend. He said "no care - I like to water flowers!" I'm still trying to figure out if he was trying to tell me he was a gardener, suggesting a Golden Shower or saying something else very disturbing to me.
I also danced with another guy who never took his eyes off of my cleavage. He seemed intent on following the crevice's every move. Eventually I found a way to flex my pecs in an attempt to hypnotise him right there on the dance floor and have him do my bidding...I'll try again next week after some practice here at home.
"Baila muy bien", the tall Cuban whispered, his breath warm against my ear. The music was very loud and hearing on the dance floor was generally hit or miss, so instead of asking him what he said, I just ignored him, making believe I didn't hear him at all.
"Baila muy bien. Cómo se llama usted?" He was not giving up. But then again I was new meat to him. Yes, I know he had noticed me for weeks, but he had been busy working the scantily clad, spiked heel redhead - determined to add her to the notches on his bedpost before moving on to me. Apparently, with that accomplished he now had set his sites on this new "Bachatera". Yes, he was on the prowl.
"Baila muy bien. Cómo se llama usted? he repeated a bit louder now and pulled back to look into my eyes. "English", I said. A smile spilled across his face. He seemed delighted, like a man about to taste a new cuisine. I could just see his mind moving to his "black book" which undoubtedly listed his conquests by name, nationality and cup size. Imagine a nice Jewish girl from New York City considered exotic! Only in Newark my friends, only in Newark.
"English,," his smile broadened further. "Where are you from?" "New York City - born and bred," I proclaimed. He laughed and said "Wow, what are you doing here? His English was excellent, perfect in fact. Not a hint of an accent. Besides his singular looks, his ability to bridge worlds was one in a million in Newark, New Jersey and surely it elevated him even further as a great catch.
"I love to dance, that's why I'm here. Just having a night out". He said nothing, just readjusted our bodies so that his head lightly rested on the top of mine, placed my right hand on his chest and with his right arm pulled me closer to him so that we had full body contact. I let it happen. We were dancing the Bachata. In its most sensual form it is more of a grind than a dance and the tall Cuban obviously used it to gauge the pliability of his prey. Those that let him "get to second base" were generally dismissed as too easy, unless he wanted to make it an early night. Those that violently pulled away were not worth the effort. But really, it was the women that gave him some latitude but did not respond in kind that truly excited him. And that's exactly what I did.
With the song over he asked if he could buy me a drink and with my nod he took me over to the bar and found a quiet table for two. He ordered me vodka on the rocks and tequila for himself. He talked congenially in Spanish to the bartender and I sat looking around from this new vantage point. The redhead I'd seen him courting the last few weeks looked over with a sneer as she and several of her friends gathered in a cluster talking and gesticulating.
His name was Jorge, never married (why was I not surprised?) and a drug salesman for Bristol Myers. He told me that he had come to this country at the age of 6 from Cuba and now lived in a high rise on the river in Jersey City. He was very good at this, a chameleon - a true salesman. No wonder these women, out to find a husband, fell all over themselves to "service" him. He was truly the king of the heap here - yes - The Emperor of Lancers Ballroom. What possessed a man with such good looks, skill and intelligence to exploit naive women? Boy, it is true, by the time we grow up we are certainly damaged - some of us worse than others.
I sipped my Vodka and he used his index finger to trace my hand. We were quiet. I was thinking about this man. What should I do and if I did it, how would it end? He was definitely not the "marrying kind", but then again - was I any more - was I ever? How long could I hold his interest before another redhead with a deep v-neck tee shirt and Wonderbra turned his head again? What on earth was I thinking? Well, I was thinking - could I beat him at his own game? That's what I was thinking -- well could I?
I felt his breath before I felt his lips graze my neck. He used his right hand to turn my head toward him and slide his lips over mine. I slowly pulled away. I didn't want him to think I was repulsed (I was not) just wanted to slow him down. After all, I wasn't the redhead - at least not tonight.
"You're just too fast for me", I said rising from the table. I leaned over, locked my eyes on his and brushed his cheek with my hand. "You certainly are a very bad boy - aren't you? Thanks for the drink, but thank you is all you're getting tonight."
I turned without waiting to see his reaction, just walked back toward the dance floor and my friends that I had left at a ringside table. I was happy to dance with the cleavage zombie and the chubby gardener for another hour or so. The last I saw of the Cuban that night, the redhead was sitting on his lap, finishing my vodka as he nuzzled her neck and beyond.
Hmmm -- another night perhaps, just not tonight.
See you next time.
To read the newest entry on 2-1 my grief blog. Click on the 2-1 link above and to the right.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Sex and the 60 - The Perfect Stranger
He leaned in close, his lips millimeters from my ear, his breath hot against me disturbing my hair. His hand rested lightly on my back very near where my bra strap sat under my tight spandex t-shirt. His fingers twitched. “I have to tell you that you are GORGEOUS” he whispered. I turned toward him, the perfect stranger – medium height, beautiful yet masculine, short brown curly hair, a great body, rock hard under the loose stone-washed t-shirt and body skimming jeans. He was young. Well, younger than I might be comfortable with. But vodka could be the great relaxer – now couldn’t it? And after all, I was GORGEOUS, in New Orleans, a bit tipsy and well….
My fantasy life took over for a brief moment and I reacted as I would have on film. I turned my head allowing his lips to brush against my ear and faced him. Letting my perfectly made-up hazel eyes meet his excited cool blue ones I tilted my head toward the right, moving closer to his sexy lips. I could feel my heart beating slightly faster, moving in closer, indicating that we were about to have one of those long, wet, seductive kisses that move you in all those ways you wanted to be moved. Closer and closer his lips came as I moved myself toward the edge of the bar stool preparing to stand and press my body against him.
WHOA! I caught myself. This was not a dream. NO, this was really happening? After the year I had with men…how could this really be happening? A young, attractive, total stranger so captivated by me that he was compelled to tell me and couldn’t keep his hands off of me in a bar filled with young women. What was going on?
This had been happening now for a few weeks. As I think back, I realize men have been looking at me differently, noticing me in places and at times when I knew I had been invisible before. There was the guy at the supermarket who seemed to be following me aisle to aisle trying to make eye contact. Then there were the men at the auction, several of them smiling at me as I brushed past to find a seat, their gaze following me. Every time I glanced up – there was one of them looking over at me and smiling and now, the most overt example - sitting at a bar on our first night in New Orleans. Miranda and I sated with oysters and smoked sausage and ready to fill our heads with the blues. And unlike the many times we sat at bars when no one seemed to notice me, this time, the barflies were all around us.
Franco, the filmmaker, had started the parade. A Kevin lookalike – in “the business”, chatting us up while ordering bottle after bottle of local beer and getting quite drunk. Then the guy who was the champion whistler whose name I cannot remember, then a few others made approaches and finally there was Travis…the perfect stranger. The fantasy maker.
So, it was happening again, just like it had in the old days. Men, so attracted to me that they had lurid and lascivious thoughts that they were compelled to tell me about…. But now, as an older woman I guess I commanded a bit more respect and the “dirty thoughts” were translated into words like GORGEOUS. The words were different but I could tell the sentiment was the same. Yes, apparently I was the pile of steaming manure and flies were EVERYWHERE.
Isn’t it strange? What had happened that changed me from invisible to irresistible? What could have changed? I had continued to be strict about my diet (well, most of the time), exercised, made sure my hair was well “serviced”, put on makeup everyday or at the very least, my sunglasses, dressed to highlight my highlights. But these were things I had done for a couple of years now as I reentered the dating game. On the surface there is nothing new…well, perhaps there is something significantly new that I haven’t mentioned to you…yes, and I have a theory.
OK, I’ll tell you. I am seeing someone I think is special. Now, I’m not prepared to provide details (too new, too private, hell, none of your business!) But perhaps, just perhaps, I am carrying myself differently, more confidently. Maybe there is something in my eyes or a slight smile on my face or something, something that is subtle but different that has shifted gravity towards me. It’s possible that the connection has set off a powerful spray of pheromones, making me a man-magnet. Whatever it is, it is quite obvious, and shamelessly I will say – quite welcome for its self-perpetuating consequences – more confidence, more attraction, more confidence.... It is so nice to be seen as a woman again. I don’t know how I lived without it but grief makes you lose your “taste” for just about everything. I am definitely full-flavored again and loving it!
So back to Travis…the perfect stranger. Hmmm, what should I do? It turned out that he was one of the bartenders, not working that night. He was persistent, first showing me the liquor closet in the back of the bar, trying to close the door behind us before I slipped out and telling me about his apartment right behind the bar, up the creaky wooden steps. Taking pictures of us together with my camera so I’d never forget. Laid out before me was the fantasy we all dream about. Boy, it was tempting…A lost night in New Orleans with a sexy, younger, unknown stranger. What would you do? What did I do? Guess! -- but I’ll never tell.
See you next time.
My fantasy life took over for a brief moment and I reacted as I would have on film. I turned my head allowing his lips to brush against my ear and faced him. Letting my perfectly made-up hazel eyes meet his excited cool blue ones I tilted my head toward the right, moving closer to his sexy lips. I could feel my heart beating slightly faster, moving in closer, indicating that we were about to have one of those long, wet, seductive kisses that move you in all those ways you wanted to be moved. Closer and closer his lips came as I moved myself toward the edge of the bar stool preparing to stand and press my body against him.
WHOA! I caught myself. This was not a dream. NO, this was really happening? After the year I had with men…how could this really be happening? A young, attractive, total stranger so captivated by me that he was compelled to tell me and couldn’t keep his hands off of me in a bar filled with young women. What was going on?
This had been happening now for a few weeks. As I think back, I realize men have been looking at me differently, noticing me in places and at times when I knew I had been invisible before. There was the guy at the supermarket who seemed to be following me aisle to aisle trying to make eye contact. Then there were the men at the auction, several of them smiling at me as I brushed past to find a seat, their gaze following me. Every time I glanced up – there was one of them looking over at me and smiling and now, the most overt example - sitting at a bar on our first night in New Orleans. Miranda and I sated with oysters and smoked sausage and ready to fill our heads with the blues. And unlike the many times we sat at bars when no one seemed to notice me, this time, the barflies were all around us.
Franco, the filmmaker, had started the parade. A Kevin lookalike – in “the business”, chatting us up while ordering bottle after bottle of local beer and getting quite drunk. Then the guy who was the champion whistler whose name I cannot remember, then a few others made approaches and finally there was Travis…the perfect stranger. The fantasy maker.
So, it was happening again, just like it had in the old days. Men, so attracted to me that they had lurid and lascivious thoughts that they were compelled to tell me about…. But now, as an older woman I guess I commanded a bit more respect and the “dirty thoughts” were translated into words like GORGEOUS. The words were different but I could tell the sentiment was the same. Yes, apparently I was the pile of steaming manure and flies were EVERYWHERE.
Isn’t it strange? What had happened that changed me from invisible to irresistible? What could have changed? I had continued to be strict about my diet (well, most of the time), exercised, made sure my hair was well “serviced”, put on makeup everyday or at the very least, my sunglasses, dressed to highlight my highlights. But these were things I had done for a couple of years now as I reentered the dating game. On the surface there is nothing new…well, perhaps there is something significantly new that I haven’t mentioned to you…yes, and I have a theory.
OK, I’ll tell you. I am seeing someone I think is special. Now, I’m not prepared to provide details (too new, too private, hell, none of your business!) But perhaps, just perhaps, I am carrying myself differently, more confidently. Maybe there is something in my eyes or a slight smile on my face or something, something that is subtle but different that has shifted gravity towards me. It’s possible that the connection has set off a powerful spray of pheromones, making me a man-magnet. Whatever it is, it is quite obvious, and shamelessly I will say – quite welcome for its self-perpetuating consequences – more confidence, more attraction, more confidence.... It is so nice to be seen as a woman again. I don’t know how I lived without it but grief makes you lose your “taste” for just about everything. I am definitely full-flavored again and loving it!
So back to Travis…the perfect stranger. Hmmm, what should I do? It turned out that he was one of the bartenders, not working that night. He was persistent, first showing me the liquor closet in the back of the bar, trying to close the door behind us before I slipped out and telling me about his apartment right behind the bar, up the creaky wooden steps. Taking pictures of us together with my camera so I’d never forget. Laid out before me was the fantasy we all dream about. Boy, it was tempting…A lost night in New Orleans with a sexy, younger, unknown stranger. What would you do? What did I do? Guess! -- but I’ll never tell.
See you next time.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sex and the 60 – When did things get so complicated?
Do you think there is any truth to “if you build it he will come”? It worked for Kevin Costner. You know how people say “open yourself to the possibilities and the cosmos will fill the space you create” Yeah sure…Oh, I mean Yeah – I believe. So in the interest of science and testing the cosmos’ reaction I am preparing – preparing for passion. No there is no imminent danger of losing my virginity right this minute but prepared I will be.
Passion. Easy to remember what it was like but certainly difficult to imagine with someone new but…open and prepared I am determined to be. So I made a pilgrimage to the mall to buy enticing items – items made to build on the low light fantasy I would create with crooning music, candles and dimmer switches. Now, with a bag full of frothy goodies I send vibes to the universe --- but have not taken the tags off yet. Hey you think these things are cheap?! I don’t want them yellowing in my drawer.
But wait, there is one more thing that I haven’t had to think about for a very long time. In fact, I never had to think about it because the last time I was single it was “sex, drugs and rock and roll”. No one worried about STDs or HIV. The only way sex could kill you was in a good way-- as in Killer Sex! But I remember the year after Kevin died. “Do I have to have the ‘sex conversation” with you?” My GYN asked sternly. “Do you know about protection?” “Yes, of course I do”, I breezily said. Not really listening or imagining that I would ever really want to know about any of this ever again. Besides how complicated could it be? A latex balloon, after all, that's man’s work now that birth control is no longer my responsibility thanks to the ravages of time!
But the other day, as I moved through the pharmacy aisles at the supermarket looking for the toothpaste on sale, I passed the condom display. Fascinating. The display took up half of one whole aisle. I didn’t know there were so many of them. I paused, thinking well I’m here and they’re here so perhaps the universe is telling me something. I probably should get a couple to have in a bedside drawer, just in case. I mean does it matter if he brings one or I have one? Will his be better than mine? Mine better than his?
So I bent down and took a package off the display – a 5-pack. I was about to throw it into my cart when I noticed it said “vibrating ring”!! What? Do you know that condoms have vibrating rings now? I was actually a bit mesmerized by the image on the back of the box – a drawing of a vibrating ring with little sparks coming off of it….that seems dangerous if you ask me. I squirmed, slipped it back on the hook and took another from the other end of the display. This one glowed in the dark and had deep grooves in it. Another had tiny “fingers” and there were lambskin, sheepskin, goat skin, sensitive, insensitive, polyurethane, durex, latex, with spermicidal chemicals or without and something very intimidating called Fire and Ice! Oh, and I forgot – how about the flavored ones! Hmmm…body parts that taste like dessert…huh – what will they think of next?
My head was spinning. When did this get so complex? I just want the condom that covers the ya’ know – Thingy and keeps his stuff away from my stuff thus protecting us both from bad stuff. Why do we need hundreds of kinds? Where’s the condom that they give out at the free clinic? Yeah, where’s the condom that the Pope approved for gay men? That’s all I want. I just want one of those – just one would do for that one time that I might really need it. I don’t need a sex toy – I need a condom! Who thought up all these different types, shapes, sizes and flavors? If you haven’t been to the aisle lately (and I’ll bet 99% of you haven’t) behold the disease preventatives dressed up as party favors!
I left empty-handed that day. Although I do think I’ll go back for the Tiramisu flavored one with inside, outside ribs and fingers, a vibrating tip, video camera, audio recorder and built in apology for having to leave without spending the night. I think that one would come in very handy!
See you next time. Next Year! And a Happy and Healthy One it should be for all of you.
Passion. Easy to remember what it was like but certainly difficult to imagine with someone new but…open and prepared I am determined to be. So I made a pilgrimage to the mall to buy enticing items – items made to build on the low light fantasy I would create with crooning music, candles and dimmer switches. Now, with a bag full of frothy goodies I send vibes to the universe --- but have not taken the tags off yet. Hey you think these things are cheap?! I don’t want them yellowing in my drawer.
But wait, there is one more thing that I haven’t had to think about for a very long time. In fact, I never had to think about it because the last time I was single it was “sex, drugs and rock and roll”. No one worried about STDs or HIV. The only way sex could kill you was in a good way-- as in Killer Sex! But I remember the year after Kevin died. “Do I have to have the ‘sex conversation” with you?” My GYN asked sternly. “Do you know about protection?” “Yes, of course I do”, I breezily said. Not really listening or imagining that I would ever really want to know about any of this ever again. Besides how complicated could it be? A latex balloon, after all, that's man’s work now that birth control is no longer my responsibility thanks to the ravages of time!
But the other day, as I moved through the pharmacy aisles at the supermarket looking for the toothpaste on sale, I passed the condom display. Fascinating. The display took up half of one whole aisle. I didn’t know there were so many of them. I paused, thinking well I’m here and they’re here so perhaps the universe is telling me something. I probably should get a couple to have in a bedside drawer, just in case. I mean does it matter if he brings one or I have one? Will his be better than mine? Mine better than his?
So I bent down and took a package off the display – a 5-pack. I was about to throw it into my cart when I noticed it said “vibrating ring”!! What? Do you know that condoms have vibrating rings now? I was actually a bit mesmerized by the image on the back of the box – a drawing of a vibrating ring with little sparks coming off of it….that seems dangerous if you ask me. I squirmed, slipped it back on the hook and took another from the other end of the display. This one glowed in the dark and had deep grooves in it. Another had tiny “fingers” and there were lambskin, sheepskin, goat skin, sensitive, insensitive, polyurethane, durex, latex, with spermicidal chemicals or without and something very intimidating called Fire and Ice! Oh, and I forgot – how about the flavored ones! Hmmm…body parts that taste like dessert…huh – what will they think of next?
My head was spinning. When did this get so complex? I just want the condom that covers the ya’ know – Thingy and keeps his stuff away from my stuff thus protecting us both from bad stuff. Why do we need hundreds of kinds? Where’s the condom that they give out at the free clinic? Yeah, where’s the condom that the Pope approved for gay men? That’s all I want. I just want one of those – just one would do for that one time that I might really need it. I don’t need a sex toy – I need a condom! Who thought up all these different types, shapes, sizes and flavors? If you haven’t been to the aisle lately (and I’ll bet 99% of you haven’t) behold the disease preventatives dressed up as party favors!
I left empty-handed that day. Although I do think I’ll go back for the Tiramisu flavored one with inside, outside ribs and fingers, a vibrating tip, video camera, audio recorder and built in apology for having to leave without spending the night. I think that one would come in very handy!
See you next time. Next Year! And a Happy and Healthy One it should be for all of you.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Sex and the 60 - Well….she’s back!
Yes, I’ve completed the H & R Block course and I am now officially sanctioned to destroy America as we know it. Think about moving your money to an off-shore account and whatever you do stay away from the Rte 1 Block office!
So, with time on my hands and most of what I learned now a distant memory (it’ll come back when I need it – won’t it?) I can get back to my most important mission in life ---- hunting through the haystacks of plump, short, boring, illiterate, barely breathing, unwashed and updatable masses to find the singular prize. Good Luck!
Some things never change. Well, let me qualify that. I’ve changed. This time I have written a decisive and instructive profile that lays out the kind of men who should not ever, no never contact me. These are the men who think dating is dinner and a movie – week after week after week, or those that want a laundress and housekeeper, or the ones who think an interesting day is looking through the supermarket circular and then stocking up on cottage cheese. And then there are those whose bodies are not tended to. Tended to means trim weight, under control facial hair and clean and clipped nails (oh just the thought of it is making me queasy.) And finally, I’ve firmly stated that the word widow is not a synonym for “desperate and horny woman ready to give it up for a glass of wine, a quick grope and a promise to install a new furnace filter.”
So it was late at night when I tweaked my profile, prepped the picture and posted. In a second there was a hit….”Hi, are you lonely? Want to chat?” Hmmmm, not a great opener, but who knows he might be the answer. He turned out to be the question - How lonely am I? Not lonely enough to take up with a 72-year-old wearing an argyle sweater, plaid pants and holding a tiny shaved and sculpted Toy Poodle. It is clear…Mick – that was his name - took no time to read my profile. Why bother…what does what I want matter? I figured Mick was the lonely one fishing the pond for newbies who were intimidated by the process and desperate to “get it over with!” Heck, you could always take him to Jos. A Banks and re-wardrobe him but…rehabilitation is just not my thing.
Seconds later, hit number two arrives. His screen name is ‘Born to Please’, sounds promising already. I click his profile. Yikes, he’s a 23-year-old guy, shirtless, with abs like “The Situation”. His message says: “Wow, you’re hot, can you keep up?” Keep up indeed. I was leading the pack when this guy’s parents were in diapers! So I write back…”Look ahead of you baby….I just whizzed past you…and now go to your room.”
Hit number three was downright serious: Listen to this!
“Hi, you’r beautiful. The only thing I want is the Love of a woman....To be able to share her most intimate thoughts and feelings, with complete trust....A bond so strong ...It will continue for all eternite!!!A touch so electric It will shine brite through the darkest night...A warmth, so satisfying A continual calm and peace will bestow us ..And beautiful thoughts of each other that will transcend time. What do you think should we enjoy what GOD has intented for us ...A Pure an ever-lasting love”(sic).
NO, please say he is not God’s intention for me. Please! I need a stiff drink!
So don’t you think that’s enough Internet dating excitement for the first night? How much joy can one woman take? It was an inauspicious start but who knows I might finish strong. If nothing else I will keep you amused.
Good to be back….See you next time.
So, with time on my hands and most of what I learned now a distant memory (it’ll come back when I need it – won’t it?) I can get back to my most important mission in life ---- hunting through the haystacks of plump, short, boring, illiterate, barely breathing, unwashed and updatable masses to find the singular prize. Good Luck!
Some things never change. Well, let me qualify that. I’ve changed. This time I have written a decisive and instructive profile that lays out the kind of men who should not ever, no never contact me. These are the men who think dating is dinner and a movie – week after week after week, or those that want a laundress and housekeeper, or the ones who think an interesting day is looking through the supermarket circular and then stocking up on cottage cheese. And then there are those whose bodies are not tended to. Tended to means trim weight, under control facial hair and clean and clipped nails (oh just the thought of it is making me queasy.) And finally, I’ve firmly stated that the word widow is not a synonym for “desperate and horny woman ready to give it up for a glass of wine, a quick grope and a promise to install a new furnace filter.”
So it was late at night when I tweaked my profile, prepped the picture and posted. In a second there was a hit….”Hi, are you lonely? Want to chat?” Hmmmm, not a great opener, but who knows he might be the answer. He turned out to be the question - How lonely am I? Not lonely enough to take up with a 72-year-old wearing an argyle sweater, plaid pants and holding a tiny shaved and sculpted Toy Poodle. It is clear…Mick – that was his name - took no time to read my profile. Why bother…what does what I want matter? I figured Mick was the lonely one fishing the pond for newbies who were intimidated by the process and desperate to “get it over with!” Heck, you could always take him to Jos. A Banks and re-wardrobe him but…rehabilitation is just not my thing.
Seconds later, hit number two arrives. His screen name is ‘Born to Please’, sounds promising already. I click his profile. Yikes, he’s a 23-year-old guy, shirtless, with abs like “The Situation”. His message says: “Wow, you’re hot, can you keep up?” Keep up indeed. I was leading the pack when this guy’s parents were in diapers! So I write back…”Look ahead of you baby….I just whizzed past you…and now go to your room.”
Hit number three was downright serious: Listen to this!
“Hi, you’r beautiful. The only thing I want is the Love of a woman....To be able to share her most intimate thoughts and feelings, with complete trust....A bond so strong ...It will continue for all eternite!!!A touch so electric It will shine brite through the darkest night...A warmth, so satisfying A continual calm and peace will bestow us ..And beautiful thoughts of each other that will transcend time. What do you think should we enjoy what GOD has intented for us ...A Pure an ever-lasting love”(sic).
NO, please say he is not God’s intention for me. Please! I need a stiff drink!
So don’t you think that’s enough Internet dating excitement for the first night? How much joy can one woman take? It was an inauspicious start but who knows I might finish strong. If nothing else I will keep you amused.
Good to be back….See you next time.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Sex and the 60 - My New Man
So here’s the thing…I have a new man in my life – Yes, a new man. He is big, famous and very, very, very smart, making money from one of the two certainties we can count on in our lives – death & taxes. He is very demanding and has been monopolizing my time. I see him 3 times a week and then am required to do his bidding about 15 hours more a week. He is always on my mind. I often dream about him too – a fevered sleep it is!
I have forsaken my search for a true love, even though I know that this new man is not my soul mate (HARDLY!). In fact, he is so opposite my natural inclinations I find myself questioning my sanity during and after each session with him. But, you see, a widow has to eat and a widow has to pay her mortgage and I am not above prostituting myself to continue to live in the manner in which I’ve become accustomed. He has made many promises to me but the most compelling is that if I spend just 3 ½ months a year in his “embrace” I will be paid royally and he will not bother me for the other 8 ½ months a year.
So, all that to say that I have taken a bit more time away from the exciting Sex and the 60 dating scene. You know how rewarding it has been so far, so you know how difficult a decision this is for me. I will be back soon – as soon as I can get him under control and stop his demand for obsessive devotion. If only I were a natural…. So please stay tuned. I’ll let you know when I’ve rejoined the gay and enchanting world of online dating – I can’t wait.
Oh, you want to know who he is. H&R Block, of course! I’m taking his tax preparer’s course for the next few months….Yes, I know, be afraid, be very afraid – the U.S. Treasury relying on me. If my father were alive he would not be able to stop laughing!
See you next time…
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sex and the 60 – Cougar or Pretender?
OK….vacation is nearly over. I can stretch it for a week or two more, but like everyone else, it’s time to go back to the grueling schedule, the unpleasant tasks, the big build-ups for the great let-downs and the less than profitable paydays. Yes, it’s time to reactivate my online dating profiles and get back to the business of shifting through the grimy haystack to meet Mr. Good-enough”.
So, over the past few weeks as I reviewed the year of fruitless dating I wondered what I could do differently that might allow for a different outcome. Should I be more mysterious, more transparent, more youthful, more mature, more wise, more light-hearted or less droll, less experienced, less New York, well….Less Me? Is it a mistake to put it all out there in the profile? Was I being dismissed by the very target audience I craved because of my profile, my picture, my age? How could I change things up to improve my odds of meeting men who had a pulse and were more interested in the world outside than fantasy football? How could I be the magnet destined to attract the needle in all that hay?
The other night, late, late at night I was watching a show call Strange Sex. Now look, it was on the Learning Channel, so how freaky could it be. Actually, it wasn’t that strange, it was about physical sexual anomalies and odd fetishes. One segment was about a 77 year-old woman who dated only younger men. What’s so strange about that? I was intrigued. Her name was Hattie and most men alive would be younger than she was. But Hattie had a thing for men under 40. You go girl! Hattie was a beautiful woman with a magnificent face (especially for her age). She had never had nor did she need plastic surgery. Having been a dancer her body is slim and athletic, but hey, at 77 you know, your skin sags and your wardrobe should not consist of tube tops. She had a great personality though – funny and fun-loving, well-educated, active and charming. Hattie was married for 25 years when she finally divorced her philandering husband. She was so mad that she had “wasted her youth” on him that she was determined to act like a 25 year-old, much to her now 50 year-old son’s chagrin. Her notebook chronicles the 1300 or so dates she’s had thus far with men in their 20s and 30s. When asked why she didn’t date men of a more appropriate age she discreetly explained that men of appropriate age were “dead from the waist down”…and she wanted a MAN. She didn’t sleep with every one of these men but when she did she thoroughly enjoyed them and thought they too took full advantage of what she had to offer – years of love-making experience and athletic talent! I really admired this woman who did not let her age detract from her ability to live life to its fullest.
So I began to think….should I try to be a Cougar? Could I pull it off? I know I have more in common with younger men than the older ones, at least the ones I’ve met so far. But, could I really attract a younger man? Hell, if Hattie could date men whose mothers were young enough to be her daughters, then I should be able to go down a generation or two. Well, not down into the 30s, but what about late 40s or early 50s….I know I’m not Demi Moore, or Kim Catrell (at least not until I find the perfect surgeon and a lay-away plan!), but…should I try it? Would it be too risky emotionally? physically? financially?
On the other hand, I was thinking about (God forgive me!) lying about my age! The word is that desirable men don’t ever look at women over 59 on the internet. Some even say 55. And, I’ve been told I don’t look my age. What about shaving off about 5 years – so I’m, hmmm, let’s say, 56. Would that separate me from the image of a 60+ year-old woman - remember Aunt Bea from Mayberry? How old do you think she was supposed to be, huh? 61? Let’s face it, men in their late 50s or early 60s generally are looking for a woman younger than they are. When I look at men whose looks don’t make me gag, they are all in their 50s and just a few in their early 60s but their profile says they are searching for women 45 – 57. Since they never get a chance to see me or read about me --- isn’t that a shame, for both of us?
So, you see, I need your help. I’ve posted a survey at the upper right corner of this blog. Please vote (anonymously!) for which direction I should go in.
What should this year’s blog feature?
Cougar - Me with a gorgeous younger man struggling to gracefully get my full-body Spanks off while he nibbles my ear and I moan “Oh, yes, Spanks me, Spanks me!”, or
Pretender - Me on rollerblades in Central Park holding hands with my very junior boyfriend while listening to the latest Lady GaGa release on my I-Pod Nano?
Please fill out this simple survey and let me know which way you think I should go. If you have any words of wisdom please leave a comment (you can do that anonymously too). Time is running out…I must decide. Regardless, I suspect you will be the winners; whichever way you steer me, the encounters will no doubt amuse and I will continue to have fodder for my stories.
Awaiting your guidance, don’t disappoint!
There is a new entry on my grief blog - 2-1. Click on the link to the right
There is a new entry on my grief blog - 2-1. Click on the link to the right
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sex and the 60 - Intervention
“Just today, I’ll just look today,” the little devil on my shoulder said with a sly smile.
“NO, DROP THE MOUSE AND MOVE AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER,” the logical me screamed.
“Oh, what’s the harm, a quick look, a couple of emails, you never know…,” the devil was so persistent.
“Stop it, stop it. I don’t need to do this.” I had promised I could have a vacation, a time to refresh, a few weeks of just putting everything in perspective, regaining my sense of humor.
The devil crooned, “But you know you love it, need it, just a little taste, just load it up in case you decide to take a peek. They’re there, He’s there, and He’s waiting for you, searching for you….”
OH MY GOD, I think I am addicted to the internet dating sites! Remember I said I was taking a break? I quit Match, got out of the fish pond and ducked those Cupid’s arrows” (ridiculous!). I was giving myself until after Labor Day, kind of a dating retreat without the vow of silence. But two weeks into this vacation I find myself wondering why things are so quiet. No winks, no emails, no bad phone conversations leading to the ubiquitous ‘snoozeathon’ date and followed by the creative writing test of making the kiss-off sound like you are just not worthy of him. I know I was exhausted by it, but now, now….I just miss it! It is beckoning me.
“OK, you asked for it,” logical me spat. “Let’s remember some of the most memorable shall we? The Munchkin, Sludge, The Screecher!
“Oh, come on, they weren’t so bad, just not ‘my type’.” I could see I needed an intervention.
“Oh yeah what about ---- The Shuffler.” …..OH!…the Shuffler….the shuffler….the shuf.
Have you ever wondered how perfectly good-looking, agile and energetic men become the feeble, bent over, hobbled guys you see in the supermarket? OK, OK, I know I’m not being kind here. I’m sure these are fine men, they’re good to children and animals and cry at sappy movies, but we’re not talking about their values or worth as people, we are talking about their physical suitability to date ME!
Ah, the Shuffler. He was separated when he first contacted me but I rebuffed him and told him to make contact when he was divorced - never expecting to hear from him again. But months later he did make contact. His divorce was final and we met at a nice “white table cloth” restaurant. He was already seated, not a great conversationalist, but looked good (at least seated) and brought a great bottle of wine. These days that is considered a home run!
I remember he was behind me all the way to my car when we left the restaurant and I didn’t see him walk that night. I just remember the peck on the lips, promise to call and him swiveling to get into his Beemer.
Date two was to a comedy club. Well, this was nice for a change. A man with multiple interests that did not include the Phillies! It was pouring rain. He picked me up - I was waiting on the porch (no need to get him wet – ahhhh, she’s so sweet!) And he, in kind, dropped me off at the club. I found a small table and before I knew it he was standing next to me – never saw him enter the room. The comedians were pretty good and after the show he suggested we stop at the disco for a night cap and a few dances.
Wow, I think I could fall for this guy….dinner, a show and now dancing. Now this was the kind of date I was expecting when I first signed up for Internet dating. Oh boy, I think I found the needle in that haystack. (OK, we are overlooking a few things, like he didn’t crack a smile during the comedy show – no laugh, not even a giggle – but said he thought the show was very funny – huh? Or that I had to fill the silence with patter as he seemed to have nothing to say – went nowhere, did nothing…how did he spend his days? Hey, I’ve met worse, much worse.)
So back to the date, I leave to go to the restroom and say I’ll meet him outside the disco which was in the same building. I get there first. Turning back toward the restrooms I saw him. He was shuffling toward me. Yes, you knew this was coming. He was shuffling like his ankles were shackled; taking tiny little steps as if he could not keep his balance without both feet on the ground. He was using his arms like a tightrope walker uses a pole to keep his balance. Yikes….and we are going dancing! He takes my arm and I help him into the club.
Intervention --- Successful – at least for now. But, see you next time.
“NO, DROP THE MOUSE AND MOVE AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER,” the logical me screamed.
“Oh, what’s the harm, a quick look, a couple of emails, you never know…,” the devil was so persistent.
“Stop it, stop it. I don’t need to do this.” I had promised I could have a vacation, a time to refresh, a few weeks of just putting everything in perspective, regaining my sense of humor.
The devil crooned, “But you know you love it, need it, just a little taste, just load it up in case you decide to take a peek. They’re there, He’s there, and He’s waiting for you, searching for you….”
OH MY GOD, I think I am addicted to the internet dating sites! Remember I said I was taking a break? I quit Match, got out of the fish pond and ducked those Cupid’s arrows” (ridiculous!). I was giving myself until after Labor Day, kind of a dating retreat without the vow of silence. But two weeks into this vacation I find myself wondering why things are so quiet. No winks, no emails, no bad phone conversations leading to the ubiquitous ‘snoozeathon’ date and followed by the creative writing test of making the kiss-off sound like you are just not worthy of him. I know I was exhausted by it, but now, now….I just miss it! It is beckoning me.
“OK, you asked for it,” logical me spat. “Let’s remember some of the most memorable shall we? The Munchkin, Sludge, The Screecher!
“Oh, come on, they weren’t so bad, just not ‘my type’.” I could see I needed an intervention.
“Oh yeah what about ---- The Shuffler.” …..OH!…the Shuffler….the shuffler….the shuf.
Have you ever wondered how perfectly good-looking, agile and energetic men become the feeble, bent over, hobbled guys you see in the supermarket? OK, OK, I know I’m not being kind here. I’m sure these are fine men, they’re good to children and animals and cry at sappy movies, but we’re not talking about their values or worth as people, we are talking about their physical suitability to date ME!
Ah, the Shuffler. He was separated when he first contacted me but I rebuffed him and told him to make contact when he was divorced - never expecting to hear from him again. But months later he did make contact. His divorce was final and we met at a nice “white table cloth” restaurant. He was already seated, not a great conversationalist, but looked good (at least seated) and brought a great bottle of wine. These days that is considered a home run!
I remember he was behind me all the way to my car when we left the restaurant and I didn’t see him walk that night. I just remember the peck on the lips, promise to call and him swiveling to get into his Beemer.
Date two was to a comedy club. Well, this was nice for a change. A man with multiple interests that did not include the Phillies! It was pouring rain. He picked me up - I was waiting on the porch (no need to get him wet – ahhhh, she’s so sweet!) And he, in kind, dropped me off at the club. I found a small table and before I knew it he was standing next to me – never saw him enter the room. The comedians were pretty good and after the show he suggested we stop at the disco for a night cap and a few dances.
Wow, I think I could fall for this guy….dinner, a show and now dancing. Now this was the kind of date I was expecting when I first signed up for Internet dating. Oh boy, I think I found the needle in that haystack. (OK, we are overlooking a few things, like he didn’t crack a smile during the comedy show – no laugh, not even a giggle – but said he thought the show was very funny – huh? Or that I had to fill the silence with patter as he seemed to have nothing to say – went nowhere, did nothing…how did he spend his days? Hey, I’ve met worse, much worse.)
So back to the date, I leave to go to the restroom and say I’ll meet him outside the disco which was in the same building. I get there first. Turning back toward the restrooms I saw him. He was shuffling toward me. Yes, you knew this was coming. He was shuffling like his ankles were shackled; taking tiny little steps as if he could not keep his balance without both feet on the ground. He was using his arms like a tightrope walker uses a pole to keep his balance. Yikes….and we are going dancing! He takes my arm and I help him into the club.
I probed a little to find out if he had recently sustained an injury….but alas no he said he was in fine health and, in fact, exercised everyday by walking 3 miles (well now we know what he does all day!) At the disco I did find one thing he could do really, really well – the Shuffle!
Epilogue: I asked around to those in the know – “What would make a man of 60 shuffle along like that?” Here are a few theories:
- Parkinson’s disease
- Traumatic brain injury
- Congenital malformation
- The tertiary stage of Syphilis (yeah, well look it up! It’s true!)
- Wearing a panty girdle
Intervention --- Successful – at least for now. But, see you next time.
There is a new post on my grief blog: 2-1 - click on the link to the right if you'd like to read it.
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