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.

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.

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…

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

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.

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

So our dates ended there. She’s sooooo shallow. Well, yes I am. You know, if I can’t have it all…I’ll have none of it. What would you have done?

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.

Sex and the 60 - Taking a break!

I woke up this morning feeling great! I’m somehow lighter, more buoyant and there was a new spring in my step. In the old days that would have meant I was in love, or in lust with a new, interesting, challenging man and it was “batter up.” But this morning it was the complete opposite. There is no new man in my life. No phone calls to wait for, no second guessing what he meant, what he said, why he said it and when will he say it again. No closet marathons finding something that doesn’t show the newest lump, bump or bulge that seemingly has appeared overnight. No tweezing, shaving, exfoliating, pumice-stoning. No, this morning Life is Good!

I admit it. I just can’t take it. It’s too much trouble. Too much work for too little return. I need a break and you know what….I deserve one. I’ve entertained and regaled you with stories of ridiculous encounters, unbelievable dialogues, absurd characters wearing preposterous outfits; men who could put Ambien out of business with just a few minutes of conversation. Men who are trying to be their sons but are coming off more like their fathers. From the geriatric players with their exotic sports cars and $10,000 watches who have turkey necks and hairlines that end at the nape of their necks looking for 30-year-old eye candy, to the sweetest guys who have never had an interesting experience in their 60 odd years and think you’re fascinating when you say you drive yourself into New York City.

I’m exhausted, I’m numb, and I’ve moved through all the emotions of Hope, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. If you see a similarity in these stages to those of death and dying….well there is good reason for that. Often, on a date, I would prefer to be dead!

So you ask – What happened? What could have finally caused her to run, screaming from the internet and shut all the windows? Well, the straw that broke the camel's back happened…and so, I will amuse you with this story and when you are done reading I want you to email me your permission to Take a Break!

He called himself a Mensch. Now for the record, Jewish men and I do not make a good couple. I was raised in a Jewish home and perhaps, just perhaps, I know too much! Yes, I did try it more than once and I even married a nice Jewish boy, but you know…it just doesn’t work - not for me not for he. But, because I have been coached to “be more open, experiment, don’t assume the past will repeat itself,” I decided to give it one last try. Oh yeah! Get me the Tums….I don’t want to kvetch, but oy veh is mir - es brent mir ahfen hartz (I have heartburn)!

So after a brief conversation on the phone – yadda, yadda (you’ve heard all of this before!) we agree to meet at a bar restaurant in Princeton. I scheduled it to be convenient to my hairdresser appointment that was nearby and mentioned this to the Mensch. We talked about the little street my hairdresser’s shop was on and how it has changed over the years. I go to Casa Aziz (http://www.casa-aziz.com/), which is, by the way, the best salon in New Jersey! and Aziz works on my color - foils, thick purple and brown goop all over my head and eyebrows to match the “better than nature” hair parfait. Thankfully, this is all washed off and Aziz is starting to cut when I see a man come up behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror. OH MY GOD – it is the Mensch. He smiles a toothy grin and says: “So, this is what I’m getting?” Yes, ladies and gents, he thought that it would be a good way to meet for the very first time. What Chutpah. OK, in my head I hear my friends say….be nice. He is obviously socially inept – a schmendrik. Perhaps he was an orphan or his mother did not live long enough to tell him about the taboos of meeting a woman for the first time as a reflection in a salon mirror with her hair wet and evil artificial lighting!

So I usher him out of the salon and send him off to the restaurant. Once I arrived, he was nothing but complimentary. Already taking the liberty of stroking my bare arm and telling me how beautiful my eyes were.

I tried, I swear, I tried very hard, but No, no I couldn’t take it. He was wearing shorts and a tee shirt on our first date, he had skinny, hairless legs and tiny man-child hands and they were touching me – within 5 minutes of meeting. He talked about his two master’s degrees, his ex-girlfriend who called him Mr. Big – Oy Vey! And then began to tell me a story about his youth. I, on the other hand, put on a jacket so he could no longer pet my skin and began to order the most expensive items on the menu – in abundance too.

He tells me that when he was 22 he had a 19-year-old girlfriend. She was a virgin and it took him a while but he talked her into “letting me put it in just a little bit.” Nice, huh, nice conversation from a Jewish boy on a first date! He asked if he was embarrassing me talking about sex. I am still laughing!

So, anyway, he did indeed get to “stick it in a little bit” and he duh, got her pregnant. I interjected my amazement about his stupidity at the age of 22 back in the 60’s when everyone knew about condoms – heavens we used to make water balloons out of them – didn’t everyone? He ignored me and continued.

Well, the girl’s father refused to allow them to marry (this was one very smart daddy!) and after the birth and eventual adoption of the little boy baby, they lost contact. But Mensch did not forget and told his subsequent wife and then their resultant daughters about their half-brother who was somewhere on this earth….

Ahhhh, I know you saps are falling for this guy, aren’t you? Well, I ordered an after dinner drink, coffee and a piece of cake for dessert.

So….his eldest daughter is now in her 30s and she tells her father she wants to find her half-brother. All are in agreement and within days she has spoken with him and a family reunion is planned. Apparently the son is married with child and the entire family would greet the man who had made this all possible with just “a little bit.”

As he tells it, the doorbell rings and enters his long lost son, the son’s “husband” and their adopted baby boy. The Mensch’s eyes slowly meet mine. He looks ver klempt. He is looking for some sign of sympathy at the outcome of his immature tryst. The accident of birth that instead of producing a man’s man, brought him instead a faygala - what a shanda – he thinks.

I lean toward him at the table…a look of earnest concern on my face and place my hand over his. His eyes soften and he is ready for me to give him the compassion he craves. I say: “Mensch (or whatever his name was). The problem is you put it in only “a little bit.” If you had put it in all the way he would have been straight!”

I finished my after dinner drink, checked my watch and made my excuses. I received his “kiss off” email when I got home. All I could think of was Mazel Tov.

So it’s not over….but I’m taking a rest. Don’t worry; I have enough stories to keep this blog going for years without any new blood…..so I will,

See you next time.

Note: I need your help. I am trying to interest a publisher or literary agent in my work and blog readership numbers are a major consideration. There are two ways you can help.

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I thank you for your readership from the bottom of my heart…..and that’s not bupkes.

Sex and the 60 – Men in Uniform

I was always a sucker for a man in uniform. You know – firemen, police, correction officers, soldiers, sailors – well you know.

So there I was in my local Stop and Shop supermarket perusing the fruits, vegetables and old guys tooling around leaning on their carts full of skim milk, bananas and bran flakes (oh, that’s a blog for another day!), when I saw him. He was in uniform!

I only saw him from the back but I could feel he was about 6o. He was tall, with dark hair (hmmm, now that’s a little Grecian Formula) and his uniform was sharply pressed. I love a man who prides himself in a knife crease and well polished shoes. So he did stop me in my tracks and I felt my heart thump a couple of times. Like a movie, he turned in slow motion and I got a full frontal – brown pants, yellow shirt and a brown vest – with the words STOP AND SHOP printed on the chest! I swooned!

Oh, come on, just because they’re older and can’t trip up a fleeing criminal with a well placed foot, or rush up 10 stories carrying 200 pounds of gear to break down a door with their big, bad axe, or lay down cover fire for an invading force, they still have an opportunity to thrill us. After all, these are the new career uniforms - the uniforms of part-timers. Men making supplemental incomes in a new way - how about those blue-vested Walmart cart distributors. You think it’s easy to be pleasant to every snot-nosed kid that walks into a store?

And what about crossing guards – it takes training, skill and practice to flip that stop sign in the right direction. Hey these guys weren’t baton twirlers when they were 8 years old you know! This IS a new trick! And not everyone could wear a white plastic sash. You have to have the right skin tone. Or school bus driver. What a turn-on. Like a long-haul trucker carrying eggs to market. And let’s not forget the fishnet safety orange uniforms at Home Depot. Does everyone look good in fishnets? Well think back! Not so easy, is it?

Some of my other favorites are gas station attendant. Looking at him makes me a little light headed – or is that the smell of the ethanol? Or the museum guard. Be still my heart - blue blazers and square badges and some even with ear buds in their ears just like the Secret Service. Hmmm, unless that’s their hearing aid, of course.

How many more are there, these uniforms of the seasoned man? Who needs dress blues, Scott air packs or the ubiquitous executive blue suit, white shirt and red tie? Those were the uniforms of their youth when life was racing by. When they had no time to smell the flowers, watch the sun set or steep in a tub awaiting the pill to kick in. No, now it’s making sure their few strands of hair are well combed over and there’s no dandruff on their black tee shirt as they take tickets from the hordes of pushing and shoving kids rushing to see Shrek Forever – in 3D!

Alas, I don’t think I will ever find the maroon vests at Lowes as exciting as an ankle holster, but I’ll work on it. Just one question - would you consider a hospital gown a uniform?

See you next time.

Sex and the 60 - The Land of Enchantment

“Look over there, over your right shoulder. Oh my he’s….”

“No to your right, the one in the booth, look….”

“Wait, wait, turn around, see the one in the cowboy hat and…”

“Oh my God Miranda, pinch me, pinch me. Are we dead? This place is heaven.”

Miranda and I had taken a quick trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I needed to breath the clean, clear air, have a couple of days of letting my eyes stare off into the distance and settle on the purples, blues, oranges and reds of the desert. I needed to eat everything hot and spicy, moon over the Indian rugs I couldn’t afford and hear some down home country music – not to mention the excuse for drinking too many Coronas! And so now Miranda and I were sitting in a bar restaurant down by the railroad tracks dizzy from swiveling our heads to the left, to the right, to the left.

I truly don’t know why I never noticed it before. We had just been to Santa Fe a couple of years ago and I don’t remember seeing these wondrous sights. Perhaps I was still blind with grief because Miranda assures me that this is nothing new. Apparently this is the place, the vortex, the magnetic center. This place is the reason that all other parts of the United States are bereft of good looking older men. Yes, this is truly the Land of Enchantment. But more importantly, it is -- the Land of Gorgeous Older Men.

The room was full of men. There were a few young men but the majority were in their 50’s and early 60’s. Just at the age when a man can still be ‘all things to a woman’ while having learned enough not to screw around and ruin everything. These men had seen hard times, had had their hearts broken, had raised daughters, had experienced unrequited love, and had learned about a woman’s heart. These men looked like --- gay men……

“Oh no….Miranda! Stop, stop. They’re gay! It’s not possible for a man to look this good, keep himself this fit, have all his hair, dress this well and have such great teeth unless they’re GAY.” I collapsed on the table in grief. I knew it was too good to be true.

“No, Samantha, these are men’s men. You know, like the Marlboro Man without the cigarettes. You are so cynical. Look, that one is with a woman”. Indeed, the one with the close cropped more-salt-than-pepper hair in the shorts and sandals, with the great legs was with a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, reed-thin 40ish year old. Hmmm and he was cuddling up to her in the booth - his hand lightly on her thigh under the table.

“Oh, thank god, I thought I’d lose my mind if they were all gay. I just have never experienced a nirvana like this.”

I redirected my attention to Miranda whose eyes were trained on the courtyard entrance to the restaurant. Her mouth was slightly agape and I could see she was mesmerized. I followed her gaze and there stood a gorgeous American Indian. He was about 6’2” with a rock hard body, rust red skin, chiseled cheekbones, black eyes, dusty cowboy boots, worn (in all the right places) jeans and a checkered shirt. His fine black hair was threaded with white strands and it was pulled back in a loose single braid tucked under a 10 gallon hat. Hello Tonto!

“Miranda, Miranda,” to distract her I literally had to reach over and grab her arm. She jumped and squawked “What”, but her eyes never left him.

“Miranda, look away, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” but it was too late. I saw a smile spread across her face and I looked up at him. He was looking in our direction and there was a new twinkle in his eye. He walked directly over to our table, tipped his hat at Miranda and slipped past to the bar. Miranda looked like she had been touched by God.

I looked over at the bar and his back was to our table so I snapped my fingers in front of Miranda. “Snap out of it, will you! You’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh Lordy Samantha, I think I saw a living God”.

OK, ok, now calm down, now get a grip.” I picked up the menu and began to page through it. “Take a look at the menu. Don’t you think we have a great table? When the music starts we’ll have front row seats to see the band. Miranda? Are you listening to me?” But Miranda was on her feet and as she breezed past me she said…”You had Paris”. This I couldn’t deny.

The adorable 20 something waitress with the tattoos, hip hugger jeans and midriff blouse stopped by the booth to see if “my friend was coming back”. I ordered another Corona and turned to look at the bar. There I saw Miranda laughing with abandon and slugging back a shot of Tequila with a beer chaser. The crowd of men around her turned to look in my direction as she pointed to me. Then they all began to move toward the booth – the Indian, a short younger guy who was a bit bow-legged and two glorious gods in their 50’s all wearing the ubiquitous uniform of boots, jeans and checkered shirts, topped with cowboy hats. Ok, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I was buckling my seatbelt and taking the ride.

Their names were Rory, Chip, Jesse and Miranda’s dreamboat, Ty. They all squeezed into the booth with Miranda nearly sitting on Ty’s lap.

“Samantha, these fine boys are from Texas and they’re here with -- the Rodeo!” Her eyes were glistening. THE RODEO! Was I dreaming? Come on, I couldn’t have written a story this good (could I?).

The barbecue ribs, fried chicken and beers kept coming. We heard stories of trussed calves, bucking broncos, broken bones, dislocated hips and chipped teeth. Miranda swooned and leaned back against her Indian. Then the band began to play and I found out Rory could do a mean Texas 2-step. I danced with Rory, Chip and Jesse. And Miranda – well, Miranda made out with her Indian – on the dance floor, in the booth, under a tree in the courtyard.

“I hate to break this up boys,” Rory announced, “but we ride tomorrow and it’s time for us to go. Chip, go tell Ty.”

“Can Ty and I walk you little ladies to your hotel?” Rory asked, as he took my hand. “That would be great, if we can peel Miranda and Ty off of each other.” And he laughed.

It was a short walk to our bed and breakfast; Rory took my hand again half way there and asked if I ever found myself in Texas.

“I might have to find myself in Texas.” I sensed this was a really nice guy, probably married, very respectful and oh, oh, oh, so sexy my head hurt!

I used my key to open the door and Rory leaned up against my back. I turned and we had a long, soulful kiss. A kiss that said, “oh, another life, another time.”

“Good night,” I whispered into his ear. “Thanks for making my trip to New Mexico so very special.”

“The pleasure was all mine. You take care now honey.” And he turned and was gone.

When I woke in the morning I saw Miranda asleep on her bed wearing nothing but a checkered shirt.

Oh, well…I had Paris.

See you next time.

Sex and the 60 - Of Beauty and Invisibility

Some of you who have seen me lately know that I have been asking this one question over and over again to whoever appears to be listening:

If you are in a place with beautiful people do you become beautiful? And conversely, when you are in a place with ugly people, are you ugly too?

If you are from the New York metropolitan area, take a walk around midtown Manhattan and look at the people. They are all like Sex and the City come to life. Everyone, old and young, looks stunning. Then take a trip down to the area around City Hall in Manhattan and look at those people. Are they a different species? Where did they come from – these lumpy-faced, slovenly, ill-coordinated, sorry specimens? How could it be that we have all ascended from the same apes? How can it be? Even if you don’t live in New York I’ll bet you can find the extremes in neighborhoods in your community. I suspect there is some “Planet of the Beautiful People” zone in your town and one – well, shall we say Ugly Planet?! Take a look.

So I’ve been thinking – I used to work on 57th Street and Fifth Avenue, and I lived in Tribeca – right next to City Hall. So was I beautiful when I got out of the #7 train and walked east on 57th Street and then was I ugly when I walked across City Hall Park to go to South Street Seaport? Could it be that we are chameleon-like and appear as the crowd does? If so, why would anyone want to go south of 49th Street? (Keeping Saks Fifth Avenue in the beautiful zone, of course.)

This winter I reconnected with a colleague from back in my 57th Street & Fifth Avenue days. I always thought she was striking – tall, with a great figure, angular features, amazing blue/grey eyes and a great complexion. I suggested we meet for lunch at the “ladies that lunch” premier destination – the restaurant on the seventh floor of Bergdorf Goodman on 57th & Fifth, of course! When I arrived she was already seated and she looked fantastic! She had let her hair go grey/white, cut it really short and spiky, was wearing purple – a fabulous color for her now. The new hair cut made her features sharper and her eyes gigantic and a more amazing color. In short, she looked Beautiful!

The minute she saw me she exclaimed that I looked fabulous. Now I didn’t dress any differently than I do in New Jersey nor change my hair, or my makeup. I protested but she was adamant proclaiming that my hair was a great color for me; my make-up looked professionally applied (“Did you stop at the make-up counter before you came upstairs?”) and had I lost 20 lbs? In short, she said I looked - Beautiful!

I looked around the room and all around me were the most beautiful people. Each and every one of them were finely dressed, hair impeccably coifed, with flawless features. Everyone was thin, tall and had the whitest teeth. The men – although there were fewer than women – the men, regardless of age, well, they were spectacular. It was like the one time I was in a movie studio cafeteria where everyone was perfect. And now, now that appeared to include me?

I sneaked a peek at the mirror on the wall to my right and what I saw was pure perfection – Me - pure perfection? Well yes, I was beautiful. I was stunned too. I hadn’t looked this good when I shut off the makeup mirror at home hours ago. Perhaps it was true. When you are with beautiful people you too look beautiful. When I brought this up to my lunch companion she said that as a rule she only eats in restaurants where people are beautiful. “You never get a bad meal when you eat among beautiful people; somehow they always gravitate to the best restaurants.” This seemed reasonable too….have you ever had a really fabulous meal at Red Lobster? Have you looked around at the people? I rest my case – she is absolutely right.

So we had a lovely lunch of scallops and arugula salad with cappuccino and tiny biscotti cookies for dessert. We hugged and promised to stay in touch (which we will) and left each beautiful other at the corner.

I walked south down Fifth Avenue checking myself in the store windows whenever I could to see if I still looked unusually beautiful….I did! I stopped by Rockefeller Center and walked around the skating rink. It was there that a beautiful middle-aged man brushed passed me and I heard him sing “…you must have been a beautiful baby…you must have been…” and then he was gone. I smiled. It had been a long, long time since I was whispered to on the street. Ah! I still had it. What a relief!

I stepped up to the windows at Sephora, as they had hundreds of tiny mirrors on display and I studied myself – every tiny facet in each and every one of them. I was glowing and perfect….maybe I was getting more beautiful every day. They say older women get better…so why not? I guess I just didn’t notice it.

As I neared a corner two men in their late 50s were coming toward me. Even though neither of them was attractive, I flipped my hair, knowing that my fabulousness would astonish them and they too would have to acknowledge my newly-realized beauty. They were deep in conversation, although both looked at me at one time or another as we approached each other. I smiled and then BANG, they both smashed into me nearly knocking me to the ground and one stepped on my foot. They appeared stunned, like they had walked into a brick wall.

“Oh, so sorry, are you alright? So sorry, I just didn’t see you,” the short fat one said.

"Yes, really sorry, but you came out of nowhere”, the bald one with the comb-over and red complexion added and they both moved on, already back in conversation, not giving me a second thought.

Huh, what just happened? Had I turned invisible? I rushed over to the nearest store window and what I saw was me, just me, the New Jersey me, the City Hall me, the normal me. What happened? I looked up at the street sign and realized I was on the corner of 34th Street and Fifth Avenue - totally outside of the Beautiful Zone. Does that answer my question?!

So here’s the thing. If you ever want to meet me in New York City, I only travel in the following grid – south of 71th Street, north of 49th Street, east of Sixth Avenue and west of Third Avenue. Hey, there are plenty of things to do there and besides, we can spend our time looking at ourselves in the store windows. It’s Beautiful!

See you next time!

Sex and the 60 - NO Sex in the 60

A few of you have commented on the fact that, save Paris, there has been no sex in Sex in the 60. Don’t I know it! In fact, nothing has been in the 60 for quite some time! The 60 is not happy about this. And the 60 has become quite curious about why the same guys who were saying lewd and lascivious things to her on the street 40 years ago don’t bother taking their seatbelt off when kissing her good night --- ON THE THIRD DATE!

Now you young ones might want to turn up the radio or leave the room because I am going to talk about something that I sure am glad I knew nothing about until now. If you don’t want your bubble burst….stop reading! These are things that your mama and papa never told you.

So here goes, there are three kinds of sex that a woman is likely to have in her life – if she is sexually active that is…

• Unforgettable Sex - I needn’t explain unforgettable to you, do I? If you have had unforgettable sex, well, it is just unforgettable and once you have had unforgettable sex then nothing else will do. Sometimes you think you are about to have unforgettable sex because you really, really care for the guy and think, yes, this is the “one”. I want to have his babies, buy a minivan, get a sitter and go to the movies every Friday night and buy a time share at Disney World…Yes - you get yourself all ready for Unforgettable Sex but what do you get? You get the second kind of sex… 

• Undetectable Sex – That’s the story of Max. A great guy I spent several dates falling in love with. He had everything, a burgeoning law career, great apartment, good taste in clothes, fast sports car for quick getaways to the Hamptons and he was oh so interested in me. Kissing, then necking, then petting came quick…and then the big night…his apartment, take-out Chinese, candles, the pop of a bottle of Champagne, jazz - the music of choice and black sheets on the bed! Black Sheets…it was so cliché I swooned. But, whoa there Nellie, the prelims were just ok and I began to suspect that he was in the minor leagues….what a pity that would be. As he took his place at bat…well actually, I wasn’t sure he was standing on the mound (if you know what I mean)….He was making all the right moves but there should have been some kind of ah -- friction, some heat, some --- well, feeling of fullness – if you don’t mind my bluntness, but alas, it was over before I could say…Cucumis anguria – yeah, well – Google it!

I heard he married a lovely young girl of 19 - her inexperience served them both well.

But now, now I have been introduced to the most terrifying kind of sex! Actually the problem is that it is not really sex at all. It is:

• Unerectable Sex – Yes, this is the sex that could have been, should have been, would have been, except….the “crane” does not deploy – ya know? So in my research I have read the following on Wikipedia…

Cranes, like all machines, obey the principle of conservation of energy. This means that the energy delivered to the load cannot exceed the energy put into the machine. For example, if a pulley system multiplies the applied force by ten, then the load moves only one tenth as far as the applied force. Since energy is proportional to force multiplied by distance, the output energy is kept roughly equal to the input energy (in practice slightly less, because some energy is lost to friction and other inefficiencies).

If that paragraph nearly put you to sleep you have experienced something similar to Unerectable Sex. You see! Big problem, big, big problem.

I know what you’re thinking. What about those pills. But the fact is those 40-year-olds with spray on grey hair are only simulating the problem. They don’t need to lay in a bathtub or dance their way into the bedroom. They can sweep everything off the kitchen counter and take you right there. No pill popping prep required. The guys I’m talking about cannot take the pill due to medical conditions or are some of the 24% - they don’t talk about those guys - who gain no effect from it at all. And for those there is yikes….the vacuum pump! Now that’s romantic. You know a girl likes to feel useful but turning a hand crank is not my idea of intimate interaction. Of course there is surgery, but imagine the price in nursing and babying you would have to pay if he got cut up just to please you!

So folks, what to do, what to do….there is always self-reliance, that might be somewhat satisfying, but likely forgettable and dinner and a movie is definitely no substitute for something hard against your back first thing in the morning. So, I’m working on my own personal solutions. Once I figure out what they are I’ll clue you in. Meanwhile, if you have any suggestions – other than sleeping with you – feel free to comment below. I am anxiously waiting.

See you next time.

Check out my new blog --- 2-1 -  new entry posted June 16...see link to the right.

Hi Sex and the 60 Fans,

Most of you know me and my story by now. My husband Kevin passed away going on three years ago and I have been attempting to pick up the pieces of my life and move on. Sex and the 60 chronicles that attempt and I hope has and will continue to amuse you as well as be provocative and thought-provoking. Yes, Sex and the 60 follows a significant part of my life – the part that is “moving on”, “getting over it”, “getting past it” and finding my way. But frankly there is another me – one that is equally valid and is as powerful in intent and meaning. That is the grieving me. I have not shared that part of me with many people but live with her everyday. She too needs an outlet - a place to deposit her thoughts.

It is for that reason that I have started a second blog. It is called 2-1. I warn you that it is not for everyone and I will not be hurt or disappointed if you cannot or don’t want to read it. It is painful to write and may be painful to read but it is what I and millions of others who have lost someone so dear to them live with. They, like I, no longer know their own life, their purpose and can no longer clearly imagine their future. There was a quote attributed to Colette (although I cannot find it on Google). It supposedly comes from a letter she wrote to her lover after his death. It is: “The kindest thing I ever did for you was to outlive you” …and truer words were never written.

So I will continue to regale you and myself with the misadventures of trying to find a new romantic connection at this ridiculous age and I will continue to try to move my life ahead to a happier, lighter place, but I am compelled to and will write of the endless yearning and bottomless grief I feel at the loss of my love – Kevin.

If you would like to read it you can find it at:
www.2-1melessyou.blogspot.com or click the link on my list of blogs at the right of this page.

Sex and the 60 – Things Like That Don’t Happen to Me

The strange events in Paris continue to perplex me weeks after returning. Whatever happened there – real or imagined - was just what the doctor ordered - at least for a while. Believing that dreams might come true is the way most people live their lives – or at least should…and I want to be like most people – when it comes to dreams anyway. But really how could something so romantic and apparently destined happen to me…things like that don’t happen to me.

Jump cut to 1969: I was a 20-year-old wild child who, with Carrie, was out three or four nights a week – dancing till dawn, having breakfast, then going to school and work. Wasn’t everyone? My on-again, off-again boyfriend was a big burly Irishman named Bernie, a mover by trade. Although he was not well educated and came from a very traditional family (bring on the virginal wives! – ooops too late!) He was self-taught and smart, a great kisser and despite being pigeon-toed, a good and willing dancer and best of all he treated me like I was made of precious metals. I walked all over him!

I remember the night, I was at our regular hangout, but that night I was standing outside crying because Bernie was mad at me for something or other. Actually, I was more posturing to get him over it. As I faked my tears I heard a voice “Got a cigarette?” I turned around and saw a fantastic looking man….blue jeans, white shirt with the sleeves rolled half up his forearms, dark curly hair, deep dark pools of liquid brown eyes and amazing eyelashes. He was a bit taller than me and his body was --- well --- hmmmm, his body. A perfect compact body – like the build of a man 6’2” but shrunken down to 5’10” – bite size – just the way I like ‘em…Hey guys, don’t think you have a corner on lusting after bodies.

I found my cigarettes and we sat on a stoop smoking and talking for a while. His name was Kevin. I may not have fallen in love that night or maybe I did, but I definitely fell in lust. He took my number and called the next day. Who the hell remembers what happened with Bernie.

So Kevin took me to a Richie Havens concert in Flushing Park. It was like a cliché - a clear, brilliant summer night and we lay on the grass looking up at the star-filled sky. I remember feeling so out of control that night. It was the first time I had ever felt overpowered by someone. Not in a physical way, but nonetheless my attraction to him was frightening – even to a wild child. I think I instinctively knew I had not yet experienced the real “wild” and wasn’t sure I was ready.

We had made plans to go to the beach the next day and met at Rockaway but the magic was gone. I suspect it was he who found me a bit too immature (six years older than me he was) and I believe he simply “shut off the light”. Willful or not he stopped exuding that sexual energy that had magnetized me. With that, the spark between us extinguished. We parted late that afternoon hardly remembering each other's names.

And a year goes by, Carrie and I are in one of our usual haunts – this place with no tables or chairs – you got your drink at the bar and sat on the floor. Once seated we scanned the room and that’s when I saw him - Kevin and it was like the room burst into flames! That was the start of a four year love affair…well it was really more like a Lust Affair in which sometimes we saw each other for who we were and liked those parts too, but the main event was Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll. Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby.

Now wild was definitely the right word – wild and unpredictable. For the sake of sanity I dated others but so did he and occasionally we would talk to each other about them. Sometime we would even talk to our respective others on the phone when in bed with each other. It was weird but freeing in a way. Those years with Kevin taught me one of the most important lessons I learned in my life – do not build your life around a man. He taught me that lesson by saying he would call on Wednesday and then a month later – on a Wednesday – he would call. There would be no little house with a white picket fence, 2.5 children, a dog and a station wagon in the cards for us. No, but oh baby, oh baby, oh baby.

Like the tortured artists of lore, so was Kevin – running from a sad childhood, finding solace in drink and drugs, he somehow functioned well on catnaps and Bennies with some Valium to “take the edge off”. But I needed sleep! I’d been at this wild child dating thing for four years, it was exhausting. Try as I could I couldn’t tame him, couldn’t fit him into my life – nor me into his. So, after four years we drifted apart – me toward my soon-to-be first husband – the sweetest man on earth. And Kevin toward a rich, troubled woman with multiple homes in exotic places. And that should have been that – right? That’s how things end in real life. Except now, in the 21st century, we would have found each other on Facebook.

But let’s jump cut to 1978: Divorced and having the affair with that married guy, career blazing and really quite happy with how things turned out – at least then, my phone rang. It was Carrie. “Hey, Samantha, you’ll never guess who I saw last night.” She didn’t wait for me to respond --- “Kevin – your Kevin.” Oh my God, I remember my whole body getting prickly. “He asked for your number but I wasn’t sure you’d want him to have it so I took his.”

Kevin never really left my mind over the years. For me he had no equal. He had set the bar so high no one else could ever reach it. But he was so complicated, so difficult – truly an “off road vehicle”. Although I was living an untraditional lifestyle, it was clearly much more traditional than his. So, I keep the number in my wallet for a while and then it must have fluttered out onto the streets of New York City one day when I went to pay for a bunch of lilacs.

Jump cut to November 25, 1981: The married affair over, career in a lull and pretty depressed and unhappy, my friend Annie says, “Come on Samantha, let’s go out to dinner.”

I had been hibernating, feeling sorry for myself and licking my wounds. “OK, but no singles bars, no men, nothing that can screw up my life any further than I’ve screwed it up myself.”

“Ok, ok”, she soothed, “We’ll just go to Oren and Aretsky, have a nice steak dinner and come home. You just need a night out. For heaven sake, wash your hair, wear something presentable and put on some makeup. You’ll see it’ll make you feel better.” I knew she was wrong but I didn’t have the will to fight her so…

I was paying the check, $24.80. I paid with my American Express Card and kept her cash – yes, I still have that receipt under a magnet on my file cabinet – why? Because as we rose to leave I looked up and there, walking down the middle of the restaurant aisle was Kevin! Our eyes locked on each other. I can’t remember if we spoke. I only remember him kissing me, in the middle the aisle, right there, like a movie and I remember the rest of the world disappearing, just like the movies.

We met one time, two times, three times! What are the chances in a city as large as New York that you would met by chance, for the third time your most memorable lover – the man who turned out to be the love of your life? And “just by chance” you would meet him for the third time three days after he returned from several years living in Australia. And that you would meet him, “just by chance” as he celebrated his birthday and that he would be celebrating it alone? What are the chances? And what are the chances that you would never leave each other again until you were forced to leave his coffin at the funeral home 26 years later? Oh, baby…

Romance, Destiny…Things like that don’t happen to me.

Next time!

Sex and the 60 – Paris - Ooh la la!

I pulled the newly purchased scarf closer and tightened my zipper around my neck. It was another cold and gloomy day and I wondered why I had agreed to this trip - a trip that had promised to get me out of my funk and put a different spin on being alone (still and always). My friend Miranda, the high-powered international executive was needed in Europe – specifically Paris. She was leaving in three days.

“Come with me Samantha! It’ll be fun. I’ll work during the day, you can sightsee then at night we can have great food and maybe, just maybe meet….?

“Don’t say it Miranda. I’m done with dating.... If I can’t find a match on Match, going 4000 miles to a foreign country won’t suddenly yield a different outcome. Besides, you’re leaving in 72 hours. I just couldn’t get it together by then.”

But Miranda was unrelenting. “Come on, you remember being impulsive - how about that trip to Aruba?” Miranda had been dredging up every spontaneous thing I had ever done from throwing the Spalding over the school yard fence when I couldn’t get to U in ‘A my name is…’ to this incident, one of the most impetuous things I had ever done.

But I did remember Aruba. My “eventually-to-be first husband” had cancelled on me 18 hours before we were to leave because of work obligations and I was so mad I just got on the plane not thinking that I might spend seven days in a tropical paradise alone. But I met the blonde Adonis on the plane going over. He was an American Airlines mechanic from California. He had a few days off and decided to take whatever flights connected to some place steamy. There he was, “Mr. whatever his name was”. I still have pictures of him in my secrets box... Hmmm, the idea began to grow on me. Take a break from Samantha and just be a mysterious American tourist in fabulous dresses and strappy sandals, studying the intricacies of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre and eating hunks of bread, piles of croissants, pain au chocolat and a myriad of other carbs I had forsaken to keep my thighs from rubbing together when I walked.

So, convinced, here I sat at 8:30 a.m. on day number three of my trip to Paris…the temperature had not gone above 58 degrees during the day and you could see your breath at night. My fleece jacket, jeans, socks, three layers of tee shirts and sneakers were the only things I had warm enough to wear while my new clothes, the one’s I rushed to buy the day before we left, hung forlornly in the hotel closet. “Un café, please” I ordered my fourth coffee of the morning. Today, overcast as usual, there was the addition of a wet mist that threatened to defeat my best hair efforts.

The café near the hotel was on a picturesque square with a Boulanger, Patisserie, a couple of Creperies and a Hagan Daz. It was a crossroads and at this hour local Parisians pass through on their way to the Metro. I stared ahead, sipping my coffee, thinking about what I had hoped May in Paris would be like. I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye but was too lazy to bring the image into focus. It crossed from right to left. Then it stopped and I raised my eyes toward it. There stood a picture-perfect man - late 50ish, salt and pepper cropped hair, about 6’2”. He wore dark slacks, with laced up Italian leather shoes, an overcoat, as long and lean as he was. It opened to a white shirt, leather belt with silver buckle, a loose tie around his neck and the ubiquitous Parisian scarf wrapped casually around. He was looking directly at me. I had the urge to look behind me to see who he was looking at but forced myself to appear aloof and uninterested. He had stopped in the middle of the square and when we made eye contact he cocked his head to the side and a smile slowly spread across his face. I was embarrassed, confused, suddenly shy and I quickly averted my eyes. He stood still for a few seconds then moved on across the square out of sight. What was that? I put it out of my head and spent the day pouring over every item in the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, keeping warm and dry.

The next day, again at my café, this time with a perfectly baked croissant and a cappuccino, leafing through my guidebook, my instincts told me to look up. There he was again. But today he continued walking, looking at me all the way until he was out of sight, smiling. I tracked him until he disappeared behind the corner of a building and just as I began to look away; he peeked around the building, gave me a brilliant smile and was gone. OMG, could this be happening? I looked down at my drab quilted jacket and scruffy sneakers…Nah! It was definitely not happening.

I didn’t mention the incident to Miranda. I knew she would blow off a meeting just to see what he looked like and she would be merciless in her “I told you so…”

“Where are you going?” Miranda asked as I put on one of my new dresses and buckled my heeled sandals the next morning. I was determined to show him my “assets” despite the weather. After all I only had four more days in Paris.

“I just thought I’d wear one of my outfits. After all, I brought them all the way here.”

Miranda laughed. “Oh, I know you Samantha, something is definitely up. Come on, tell me”.

“Miranda, there is nothing going on, just tired of wearing the same thing everyday….leave me alone!” But I couldn’t look her in the eye and she knew, she definitely knew - something was up.

Miranda took a call as I prepped my make-up. “Yes, OK, no it’s not convenient, but I’ll make it work” I heard her say before she abruptly hung up. “Damn, Samantha, I’m sorry, but I have to go to London. I’ll be back in 2 days. Then we’ll still have a couple of days before we head back to the states. I’d say you should come with me but I know the London office and this will be a very intensive couple of days and nights. You can if you want”.

Assessing myself in the mirror I really only had one thing on my mind – getting to the café on time to be sure I didn’t miss him. I brushed off Miranda’s invitation, “No, there are so many sites to see here, I think I’ll stay put and wait for you here – it is just two nights”.

“OK…Wow,” Miranda said as she appraised me “Jungle Red lipstick….something is definitely up!”

When I arrived at the café, freezing and thankful for the propane heaters that were installed under the awning I was jolted by the sight of him sitting at the table I had been at the day before. What should I do? Go up to him, say hello? I decided to be the mysterious American that I had fantasized about and sat two tables away, ordered a Café Crème and fought to look like my toes were not already frozen and turning blue.

Suddenly he was talking to me – “J'ai eu envie de vous parler”. I didn’t understand a word he said but his voice was like melted butter – He looked like his voice sounded. “Je ne parle pas français - je parle anglais”. That was nearly the extent of my French vocabulary. I had had to practice it for days to get it right too. “Je parle anglais un peu, mais pour vous je vais essayer.” I didn’t care what he was saying; I just wanted to hear him speak. “You be Américain?” “Yes, New York City,” I lied, but what the hey, I am a born and bred New Yorker. My coffee arrived and he said something to the waiter, handed him some Euros, obviously paying. He had also handed the waiter a card to give to me as he passed my table. “Merci” I said, looking quickly from the waiter to my “dream come true.” I looked down at the business card in my hand. Alain Moreau, Architect. I smiled and nodded my approval. We sat silently both sipping our coffee – his an espresso, of course. He checked his watch, “Je dois aller travailler, mais serez-vous demain?” Huh??? “Ouu, work”, he said as he stood to leave. He reached for my hand, held it in both of his and simply said “tomorrow?” “Oui”, I managed. Oh, oui! Yes, yes indeed oui, oui!

The next morning I found him already at a table playing with a hand-held device. I slid into the chair next to him as he politely rose half out of his chair. “Bonjour”, I said so proud of my command of the French language. “Good morning” he smiled that radiant smile. With coffee ordered, he showed me what he was holding. It was a portable translator. You typed in words in French and the English translations appeared on the screen and vice versa. He spent a minute or two typing in some sentences and then handed me the device. The screen said “I have to go to work today but can I see you tomorrow? Take you sightseeing in Paris? Please say yes.” I typed in – “Yes, I’d like that very much” “Oui, j'aimerais que beaucoup”. The translator filled in the details with us meeting at the café at 9 a.m. and he was gone. I spent the day buying some suitably sexy but warmer attire, having my nails and hair done and getting waxed all over!

Miranda called to say that it looked like she would not be getting back to Paris. She sounded so distraught leaving me on my own and again suggested I fly or take the train to London but I declined. The only thing she said before we hung up was “You’d better tell me all the details - every last one! I know something is up!” Oh yes, definitely something was up.

The next day was a whirlwind…First, the Eiffel Tower, then, Notre Dame, a lunch of fresh oysters and Muscadet at a tiny fish market on the right bank. In the afternoon we picked up his car – a BMW Z-4 - and went to Versailles. We didn’t talk much – but we didn’t need to. The translator allowed me to find out that he was born and bred just outside of Paris, separated from his wife of 34 years with 2 grown children. By afternoon we were holding hands and after stopping back at the hotel to allow me to change (he waited in the lobby) we had a late dinner at a trendy restaurant in the Latin Quarter before a midnight boat ride on the Seine. It was an amazing day – a real fantasy. Outside the door to my hotel room he kissed me with some urgency and I kissed him with equal fervor. I had already told him, using the translator, that tomorrow was my last full day and night in Paris and he asked if he could spend that last day with me. “Absolument” (Abso-freakin-lutely).

The following day started with a visit to one of Paris’ fabulous markets. The array of food was breathtaking. Everything was beautiful, fresh and the variety of cheeses, breads, smoked meats, fruits and vegetables was like something I had never seen. He made a careful selection to fill the lunch basket he had brought and I guessed we would be picnicking somewhere that afternoon.

Again in his car we made our way toward the Loire Valley, passing field after field of mustard – all in bloom – this amazing chartreuse color as far as the eye could see. Stopping at the Chateau de Chambord and picking up a couple of bottles of Chenin Blanc at a local winery before visiting the amazing Chenoceau castle which spans a river! We ate our picnic lunch and drank our first bottle of wine there. Yes, it almost happened there, on the blanket that he had spread under a 300 year old tree. But the sound of nearby children restrained us and frankly the anticipation which had been building for days now was as delicious as the French delicacies. Back to Paris we made plans for dinner and I showered and changed and met him at a café on St. Germaine. He looked fantastical in a charcoal wool suit, dark trench coat and paisley scarf – he seemed too good to be true!

So it was midnight in Paris, we stood on the Pont Neuf looking at the lights on Notre Dame, just steps from my hotel. It was a wonderland – a true fantasy - and he said “Puis-je vous faire l'amour”. I did not know what he said but I wanted to do it too. At the door to my hotel room, knowing that this was our last, our only night together, I handed him my room key and we slipped inside….

In the middle of the night I remember hearing him breathing softly next to me. I moved closer and he turned, wrapped his body around mine and I drifted back to sleep…

The techno music I have programmed on my cell phone alarm startled me awake. The moment I was fully awake I knew he was gone. You know how you can sense it without seeing it…the aloneness. But what was odd was there was absolutely no indication that he had ever been there. No dent in his pillow, the champagne glasses were washed and back on the shelf, my clothes were not strewn about where I had shed them, but neatly hung up. I quickly got up and walked into the bathroom. Everything was neat, the towels lined up, the shower stall dry as a bone – had we really showered together? On the bedside table sat the only thing I now had from him….that business card he had given me three days ago. But, the sexy strip-tease, the strawberries, the champagne, the mind-blowing sex? Had it happened? Was it real? Could I have imagined it all….Could I?

See you next time.

Sex and the 60 - The LOSERS!

Did you know that there are nearly 96 million singles over the age of 18 in the USA? This according to a US Census Bureau Report issued in 2009 at the start of last year’s Single’s Week. Oh boy, what a celebration we had last year --- remember? Huh? I just found out that Single’s Week is September 15 – 21. Ironically that is the week that Kevin deteriorated and died in 2007 and I became one of the single statistics. Do you think they developed the “holiday” so that I could celebrate my new status every year? Nah…just one of those creepy coincidences.

Anyway, just so you are well informed --- there are just under 1.2 single women for every man in the USA. Hmm, ok not terrible odds but wait, it gets worse - and drastically! There are 3.2 single women for every man over 65 in the US. Yikes…I better hurry; they appear to be dropping like flies, particularly between the ages of 60 – 65! But why, why, why is it so difficult? I have a good body for a 60-year-old, I don’t look my age, I am ALIVE, spirited, interesting and interested. Why are the guys online in this age group so….well, soooooo… let’s be blunt – they are LOSERS. I detailed some of them in my last Blog – The Dream. No I did not make those things up. I met men with those nightmarish traits – just not all in one night. Carrie and I have been talking about this – disagreeing in fact.

“No, they are not all losers, Samantha. I met some very nice men – they were just not right for me.” Carrie said with a hint of annoyance. She hated when I generalized and I always generalize, because well, in general I am always right!

“Carrie, each of your nice men had something wrong with them – yes they did – they were LOSERS.” I sniped back. “One wore a white turtleneck with a blue blazer and khaki pants. If that isn’t loser attire I don’t know what is! And how about the one that wouldn’t buy you lunch because you chose the place instead of agreeing to his suggestion? Or the one that brought you home in that terrible rainstorm and couldn’t get out of your driveway fast enough when you said you hoped you didn’t have water in your basement? These are not losers?”

“Well, yes, all that happened and maybe some of them were losers but…most of them were nice and interesting, just not for me,” she stubbornly declared.

“And how about my men – there was the Munchkin, The Sludge Engineer, the Black and White Man…oh and many, many others I have not yet released for publication!” I was screaming now. “They are the definition of LOSER!!”

So what’s the problem? These are the same men who were my age when I was in my 20s and 30s. Did something happen to them in the 30 – 40 intervening years? Why, why, why are they so unappealing now? I had to figure this out….what was the common denominator in all of them. AHA! They are all divorced. Now, let me walk you through this….they are divorced and why do men divorce their wives? Here I go generalizing again, for another woman, of course, a younger woman, a more interested woman, a more agile woman. So, if these men are divorced where is their “other woman”? AHA, they don’t have one. If they left for another woman they would not be on line looking at me! These guys have been the object of the divorce. They have been DIVORCED BY. Now, stay with me. Why do women divorce men – in general? They cheat, they are abusive, they gamble, they do drugs, drink, are boring and uninteresting, in other words – they are (all together now!) LOSERS!

So, you see, except for the widowed and the few needle in the haystack good guys who just couldn’t take their LOSER wives any longer. The preponderance of men on online dating sites are – YES, LOSERS. Suddenly it all made sense. These are the guys I wouldn’t date in my 20s and 30s so of course I cannot find a match. As I always say: “One woman’s garbage is another woman’s – garbage.” We’re not stupid!

So let’s go back to statistics. (Do we have to?) According to www.divorcereform.org 36% of men over 60 are divorced. An AARP magazine article (A House Divided by Elizabeth Enright in 2004) reported that 66% of divorces over the age of 50 are initiated by the woman – you go girl! So what does this all mean? Well to me it means that there is no end to the number of women trying to attract the one non-loser guy among the hundreds of them on the internet….Oh, what’s the use - the average male life span in the USA is only 72 years!

I’m looking for an island to start a Geriatric Amazon Nation. The hell with it.

See you next time!

Sex and the 60 - The Dream

(OK, Dr. B. This one is for you. Now I expect to get my money’s worth when we meet again. Channel Freud.)

I guess dating is on my mind and finding just the right guy must be occupying my unconscious hours because I had a dream last night, oh boy. And this was a long dream, even interrupted by a few wakeful moments. But in it I met a cross-section of arresting characters – all in one night, all without moving my fingers or my feet. It was just like those effortless days back in the 70’s (well not really!).

It started in a roadside bar. As was the routine, Carrie and I were sitting at the bar. The bartender was in love with Carrie – they all were – and was giving us free shots of Tequila. As was also the routine, Carrie and I, from our vantage point, scanned the room while chatting with each other. We talked but always looked like we were accessible. It was a skill honed through years of experience. If a guy came by that we did not want to talk to we just locked eyes on each other and made believe we were having an intense conversation. Generally they moved on; only the stupid or drunk ignored the signal and did not move along. Those few were dealt with a hard stare and “excuse me but we are having a conversation here.” Once they were clear, the room sweeping began anew.

The first character sidled up to us. We both looked at him quickly and gave each other the signal that we would give him a few minutes to make his case. Now remember this is a dream so there is no logic to what happened from here on out. He looked into my eyes and said. “It is not the roses that I bring you, but the fact that I thought of you when I saw them. It is not the bath that I draw you, but the fact that serving you is my only desire.” I am mesmerized - he is the Man that Spoke in Platitudes. Then poof he was gone and in his place was a younger man; he looked about 35 and definitely in his prime. Oh lord, I remember him. In the dream I started to turn my head to look in the bar mirror but somehow I knew it might scare me awake so I stopped, but when I looked around again, he was gone – the Hunk was gone. He was replaced by an old man, who started talking in mid sentence. …”and we live very close to one another. I looked at the map. I visit friends, go to the supermarket and collect S & H Green Stamps. Do you know …?” Oh, my god it was the Geriatric Guy. I quickly looked around for help from Carrie but saw that she was now in a deep conversation with a very tanned man with silver white hair. He spoke without moving a muscle in his face. Oh, yes, this was the Tanned and Tightened guy.

That is when I woke up, it was 3:58 a.m. and the 2 cats stirred as I sat up for a second to look around then rolled over and was immediately transported back to the roadhouse. But now all of the tables were gone, as was the bar. Now it was a senior singles dance. I scanned the room and saw several men wearing dickeys. Strangely they had no shirts on, just the dickeys and a suit jacket so that their bellies were bare. And all of them sported large round bellies that looked like they were about to explode. There were three men in polyester leisure suits – remember those, with the wide lapels and crazy colors and patterns? And around the room were several men in white unstructured sports jackets and jewel tone tee shirts – the Miami Vice guys. None of them looked like Don Johnson in his prime!

Then I was dancing – dancing with Carrie and she was laughing and saying “turn around, turn around.” I knew I didn’t want to but I did. There, not inches from me, was a man about 400 lbs, his flesh vibrating as he gyrated to the music and he moved even closer to me and began to do The Bump. Remember that dance? At first he bumped me lightly then more vigorously and then he Bumped me right across the room into a chair next to a man holding a baby in each arm. He asked me if I wanted to hold one – Oh no it was the Grandpa Man. I ran toward the now rematerialized bar and the safety of my chair next to Carrie. But I never made it, instead I was in the middle of a circle of men and spinning, spinning “Hi, little lady”, the Cowboy sang out. “No children? You had no children? What a pity”, the davening Rabbi whispered. “I just need $50k to open my restaurant” the unusually tall and handsome young man in kitchen whites pleaded. There was a guy on his knees, next to him a full laundry basket and in his hands a ring box, “please marry me, please, I have a new washer/dryer with a steam function and a Dyson vacuum.” I tried to break through the circle of men but was blocked and then they all began to chant – “Go Philly’s, Go Philly’s, Go Philly’s”. I sank to the ground…

Thankfully, that’s when I woke up. Exhausted, sweaty, heart palpitating and head pounding. I didn’t try to go back to sleep – I may never sleep again.

See you next time!

Sex and the 60 - Technicolor Girl in a Black and White World

There is a theme in my life. I am a round peg, trying to fit into a square hole. For some reason I just keep trying to hammer myself into the hole. I think if I twist here, or squeeze there I can make myself comfortable. But….try as I do – the fact remains I am a Technicolor Girl in a Black and White World.

OK look, I’m not tooting my own horn here or being a snob, I’m just telling it like it is. New Jersey is a Black and White World – that is to say drab, dull, boring, dreary, mind-numbing, lackluster, uninteresting and tedious. I’m not talking about the scenery, which in some places can be very beautiful and inspiring. I am, however, talking about the collection of the most one-dimensional men on the planet. They are so monochromatic that I look like a Technicolor dreamboat!

Now calm down you New Jersey guys reading this (that includes you girls who have settled down with Jersey guys). We all know there are exceptions to the rule and this case is no exception. There live in New Jersey many interesting men, but they do not appear to be eligible at this time….taken they are and thus not on Internet dating sites. If they are, they are so far and few between it would take me 100 years to meet a keeper in my “trading zone”.

So, what’s got her all riled up? Well, it’s been a busy, busy week. And to be honest I have begun to weigh the choice between being alone for the rest of my life and continuing to beat my head bloody on the Internet dating wall. There is a strong reason to continue - fodder for the blog, but although I love you is this too steep a price to pay for a little attention from you? Maybe! Yes, there were a flood of candidates this week. But in the interest of time and the need to “keep the funnel full” in case the black and white well runs dry (not likely!) let’s just take Grandpa shall we? He is representative of this week's crop.

So, I get his email. It is short and sweet. He’s a widower, I’m a widow. He likes my picture, I like his, he read my profile and thinks we have much in common, and I read his two-sentence profile and get nothing – hmm...shades of grey. We speak briefly on the phone and the invitation for dinner is made. A girl’s gotta eat, right? Boring dates to the uncoupled are just like arguments to the coupled – inevitable and just part of life/love.

We meet at the restaurant. He is driving a white car with black interior, wearing black pants, a black turtleneck and a grey faux linen jacket – he brings white wine! Yes, it is a white tablecloth restaurant and the décor --- you guessed it – black granite and white marble. Now when I go on these dates I ramp myself up, tune myself up – goose myself up. When I get myself amped up, out pops the engaging smile, the interested and concerned expressions and more than anything, the humorous anecdotes and knife sharp wit that punctuates the evening. It is an old sales trick…and I shift into selling gear without any effort. I can talk about everything and anything (except the Phillies!). I can make them laugh, I can make them cry and I can regale them with stories of the past and dreams of the future and all the days in-between. I always leave them wanting more….yes, always…it never fails – I’m Technicolor.

But here’s what happens. When he talks everything is black and white --- the career as an accountant, the number of grandkids, the T-ball events, the little one’s recital, the tooth fairy, the daily grind of living alone. The future is unknown – “I want to live long enough to walk my granddaughter down the aisle”! The “I love the beach, movies, grilling and would like to try a cruise someday” and let’s not forget – “Go Phillies”. Everything is just black and white, black and white. Where is the color? Where is the person inside this man? Where is the loop that one can hook onto to find someone of depth…someone who can change your world? Rock your world? Show you something new? Where is the man that leaves you breathless and wanting more? How can he keep up with you? Well even if you want to slow down - really slow down - all you get from this is an offer to become a surrogate grandma to a tribe of children not even of your making. I don’t want to live my life through anyone’s grandchildren. I want to live whatever is left of mine fully and completely - for Me and for He if there ever is We!

I know this is not a funny blog…and I’m sorry, but sometimes you know, sometimes, this ridiculous endeavor is not funny at all. It is frustrating, disappointing and depressing and since you are all rubberneckers to the accident of my dating life – drive by slowly and thank God that it’s not you! Then step on the gas and get the hell outta here!

I’ll be back…yes, I’ll be back…and hopefully in a much better mood! See you next time

Sex and the 60 - The Other Side of the Story

So what is it like to be on the other side interacting with the likes of Carrie and Samantha and the thousands of other women of a “delicate” age back in the dating game. Oh, who cares -- only kidding. Yes, I guess it could be just as frustrating, depressing and seemingly endless to them as it is to us. So that’s why when I read this profile I just had to share it with you. And so, with his permission, I give you – The Other Side of the Story.


The Last First Date

After 3 years of internet dating this is my status: my bladder is shot from 1,246 cups of coffee. My eyesight must be a lot worse than I thought ‘cause almost no one looks like their picture. I'm not sure what a sense of humor is anymore because I seem to be the only one laughing. I have been kissed hello, kissed goodbye, kissed up to and kissed off. I have been shown real interest, fake interest, ignored, and led WAY down the garden path. I can't take any more. No more email, no more phone calls, no more museums, no more lunches or dinners or breakfasts. I am hereby declaring myself a COFFEE ESCORT- you can have me for the price of a coffee and a pecan braid at any Panera’s. Do what you want with me: talk into your Bluetooth, hold my hand without saying a word, argue about anything you like, throw water balloons at me, yell at the top of your lungs that you know I’m having an affair with your best friend, hide behind a magazine, have our picture taken together (send it to your kids to prove you’re trying or save it to make someone jealous). This is also a new version of ‘speed coffee’- half an hour and it’s over. So we both have to work fast. Here’s falling for you! Good luck….John

P.S. Sorry, no throwing food and if you stay longer you will have to sign an affidavit stating your intentions.

…what’s left to say but...see you next time.

Sex and the 60 - Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

...who’s the sexiest and most irresistible of them all?

My mother used to say that she felt like a 23-year-old well into her 70’s (probably well into her 80’s but she lost her mind to Alzheimer’s and literally became a 5-year-old!) Anyway, I used to look at her face, with its crepe paper skin and white hair and wonder how she could delude herself. Clearly she was an old, old woman and looked it…but somewhere along the way I’ve begun to understand. If I stay away from the mirror I am that 20-something-year-old. In my mind I still have that amazing body that made other women in the Loehmann’s dressing room (remember there were no booths and you had to undress in front of everyone?) all sneak looks at my reflection in their mirrors. I’m the girl who could have a milk shake for breakfast, chocolate cake at lunch and polish it all off with a Dove bar before bedtime snack and not gain an ounce. I never thought I was beautiful or that I had a great body, but once I met Kevin what I thought about me no longer mattered. The reflection in his eyes and camera lens were the proof that I was hot….very, very hot. And you know what? Damn, I still am.

The other day I was in Stop and Shop. Oh, my supermarket is filled with eligible men of appropriate age – some in wheelchairs, others with canes, most tooling around the aisle mid morning with bottles of prune juice in their wagons, more interested in squeezing the melons than, well - squeezing the melons – if you know what I mean. So I was really surprised when I spied a pretty great looking guy at the end of the aisle coming toward me, with no Metamucil in sight. It made me think of another encounter…

…back, back to the early 1970’s when Carrie and I shared a great apartment on 58th Street in NYC with a revolving third roommate. So here’s a telling fact - we had a two bedroom apartment but all slept in one of the bedrooms leaving the other for “COMPANY”. And there was COMPANY…lots of company, for a lot of years. It was during those years that I began to see an interesting pattern. Men would make it clear that they wanted to sleep with me. I’m talking about men with whom I had not even exchanged a word and they were generally not subtle about it. This never seemed to happen to Carrie. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to sleep with her – she was drop dead beautiful and had a great body (you know, most women in their 20’s did then – not like today where muffin tops and jelly bellies are common.) Anyway it was just that men never could bring themselves to be that overt with her. She was the kind they wanted to own while I was the kind they wanted to roll around with.

What was it about me that made perfectly gentlemanly men turn into pulsating animals? Carrie and I had many debates about it. I secretly didn’t care – I’d take the attention in whatever way I got it and good-looking guys hitting on me in broad daylight was definitely attention! We came to the conclusion that it must be the clothes I wore. Something about my wardrobe was turning guys on. And in the interest of science we set out to prove it. So, one day Carrie and I selected one of her outfits for me to wear. I wore it just as she did, shoes, stockings skirt, blouse – all exactly as she wore them and I went to work. At lunch I was on my way to the post office – walking toward 53rd Street and Third Avenue. I saw him half a block away and he was amazing looking. He was about 5’11”, dark brown curly hair, wearing a taupe suit, stripped shirt, a tie and brown Italian shoes. On any other day I would have been more than interested in making his acquaintance, but I was determined to keep the experiment pure. I shifted my gaze away from him not to sully the result. If he passed, and passed without approaching me then it would be settled – I would have to admit I wore a sluttish wardrobe. So that would be nice to know – not that I was interested in doing anything about it - just nice to know. I looked everywhere but at him and then he was right next to me. He leaned in toward me and said. “Hi baby, you are making me so hot I want to…..” Oh my God, even I blushed! In fact it was the most explicit and prurient thing I have ever heard spoken then and even now! Could Carrie’s wardrobe have been even more lurid than mine? Or was it pheromones. You know, the underlying scent we give off that attracts bees to flowers and bucks to does. Well, it was settled then - whatever it was about me would remain one of life’s exciting mysteries.

So back to the other day in Stop and Shop, I could see he noticed me. He was trying to look nonchalant but I could see he was getting a little nervous, perhaps thinking up a good opening line. Slowly our carts neared each other. His striking blue eyes searched my face for permission. I looked straight into them giving him license to approach. I even flipped my hair back with my hand (a gesture that I had read was a subliminal sign – something about the open palm of your hand having some primal affect or something). I stopped my cart by the salad dressing letting him build the courage to make his needs clear. He smiled…

“Excuse me”, I could feel his soft breath in my hair. It sent a little tickle down my spine, how close he got to me and how he whispered. I turned my face up to him smiling my most alluring smile and inviting the intimacy. He said, “I’ve seemed to forgotten…do you know what aisle the Depends are in?”

You see, men are still approaching me in broad daylight! I’ve still got it! I’ve still got it! I swear, I’ve still to it!

See you next time.

Sex and the 60 - SLUDGE

When it comes to being the adored or the adorer, of course I would prefer the latter. But you know, I don’t really like myself all that much as the adored. Somehow I get drunk with power and it brings out the tormenter in me. Perhaps it is because I didn’t have enough practice as the adored when I was “forming” and thus just don’t know how to be beneficent. Or, maybe the adorers are just asking for it!

And another thing, it is really hard to admit but I’m not like Demi Moore or the female equivalent of Harrison Ford. It is rare that a younger man contacts me. I’m told I made a very bad mistake by listing my real age. I should have listed 53 and once he fell hopeless in love, revealed my secret. Hey, it’s a woman’s prerogative not to talk about age – right. Kinda uncouth to even make us state an age at all – don’t you think? But dishonesty is a deal breaker for me so how can I be a hypocrite? Well, at least for now I’m 60. All bets are off in May when I turn 61 (Never!).

There are a few younger men who do venture into the older woman category and I must admit – some of them are adorers and thus ripe for the tormenter. One recently contacted me. Here are his vitals: 54, 5’9”, Slender and Athletic, Divorced with an 18 year old who lives away from home. He is an Engineer - a great looking guy pictured in what looked like the wilderness with shots of him by a fire pit, with animal skins and a hastily built lean to. Me, who thinks camping out is staying at a Holiday Inn chose not to focus on that – he was 54 and a rare encounter. I had to give it a try.

So several days later I painted on my skinny jeans, a casual tee, spiky heeled boots, and my hand knit sweater and drove to the strip mall Indian restaurant he had found. I could tell from the moment he set eyes on me he was smitten. He couldn’t stop smiling and began falling all over himself. I could feel the tormenter getting her game face on. I wanted to stop her, but it was so much fun to be her.

He had been carrying a large paper bag and out of it he pulled a gallon bottle of Gallo wine! A gallon! Gallo! The tormenter now stepped forward, pleased to have met him. “Are you going to try and get me drunk and have your way with me?” She asked sweetly while staring directly into his eyes. He blushed, broke stare and stammered…”No, no, I thought I’d bring the rest of it….” But the tormenter was already laughing.

I fought back into control and folded the tormenter into her box. I wanted to make him more comfortable so I asked him to order for us. I was sure I would like whatever he chose. I like everything. Well nearly everything and the one thing that I don’t particularly care for – besides Gallo wine, is goat. Guess what he ordered… Yep - serves the tormenter right. But now he made her mad. He shouldn’t have done that.

As the food began to arrive I asked what kind of engineering he did. “You don’t drive a train do you and wear those blue stripped overalls?” I joked. He stammered an answer, not getting it, “Ooh, no – not that kind of an engineer…I’m a solid waste engineer. I design sewage treatment plants”. At that exact moment the goat arrived in its grayish, brown, viscous sauce. Suddenly Gallo was my favorite drink. And I quickly downed my glass (why do they use such small wine glasses in strip mall Indian restaurants?)

I had given him a topic that he could really embrace and he launched into a detailed explanation on how sewage treatment plants work as I spooned some lumpy goat onto the bed of rice. I don’t know if you’ve ever had goat but it tends to be knurly, bony and difficult to eat (at least all the times I’ve had it) and the pieces are always more than a mouthful. It was not for the dainty, but I popped a piece into my mouth. That’s when he chose to ask me the question -- “Do you know what sludge is?” I nearly choked on the goat. Unfortunately, I was struck dumb by the goat knee or hip joint or whatever it was that was plugging up my mouth. All I could muster was a shake of my head, knowing that I would soon find out the answer to a question that should never, ever be asked especially in a strip mall Indian restaurant while your date has a mouthful of goat.

“Well – oh you’re going to love this!!” he gushed, (oh yeah I’m sure!) “Once the solid waste is consumed by the bacteria, many of the bacteria die.” I spit out the goat ball, but he barely noticed. “And the bodies – yes the very bodies of the dead bacteria become SLUDGE!” he announced triumphantly. I looked up at him. He was literally glistening with excitement. This guy was getting it up for Sludge! I tapped my glass for a refill, and then another and then gleefully let the tormentor loose.

She asked him about his pictures and he said he was “a survivalist” - went on 10 day excursions into the woods with only 3 matches and a compass. She asked “Did you survive?” He looked confused. He said he could start a fire with just 2 sticks and some dryer lint. She asked “where did you find a dryer in the woods?” He tried to explain that he brought the lint with him, but gave up mid course.

Then he gave the tormenter an opening she could really sink her teeth into. “You don’t look like your picture”, he smiled confident that he could gain his footing. “Oh, really and is that good?” the tormenter spat. “Yes, oh, yes,” he quickly added, “you are much more attractive…” “Oh, so are you saying my picture is unattractive” (What a bitch!)”. “No, no, it is really a nice picture; it’s just that you look much better in person.” he stuttered. “So, why did you contact me if I was a dog in my picture?” She was like a spider, enjoying wrapping him up in his own words. “Oh, no, no, you misunderstand…”, but it was fruitless, the tormenter was going to make him twist in the wind and she did while the leftovers were packed up (he would take them with the ½ empty bottle of Gallo) and coffee was served.

He was wise enough not to ask for another date as he walked me to my car. But he did write several times, letting me know about a wool festival in Pennsylvania (great lint I guess), a beginner course in fire making (boy he was intuitive) and finally a seminar on Facultative and Super Bacteria. That’s when I blocked him. He had finally Gotten My Goat!

See you next time…