It’s nice to be complimented by men, isn’t it? Unless you’re a straight man. Although don’t knock what you haven’t tried.
And I do get compliments. A twinkling smile and a charming “You look nice today!” or “I’d really like to bang you!” brightens up my day no end. Unfortunately, most of the men doing the complimenting are usually quite mature…
Oh, What A Lovely War
I was sitting at a bar hoping to catch the eye of the hot barman when an elderly gentleman sat next to me and ordered a Guinness. He seemed innocent enough. You know those old guys who can drink endless pints of Guinness and talk for hours about nothing? Well, he talked for hours about nothing. His false teeth were wearing down at an alarming rate. I smiled sympathetically, hoping he’d clear off so I could share some quality time with the barman.
But then the old devil dropped his killer chat-up line like a doodlebug on a bus queue. “My dear, you are the image of my first love… she died in the Blitz”. Oh nice. Did I look like her before or after the Blitz?
Then I felt a bony hand on my knee. Ever had one of those evenings?
The boozy company party was no better. I had invested my evening chatting up lovely Rick from Marketing only for him to slope away (well, flee) with some pathetic excuse about having to vomit in the washroom. His place was instantly filled by Charlie the janitor, who swooped on me like a gnarly old crow with a pacemaker.
Initially Charlie behaved like a perfect gentleman, bringing me Bacardi Breezers on demand and entertaining me with stories about the Korean War, garbage disposal systems and the number of dead pigeons he’d pulled from the water tank.
Then I saw that decrepit, garbage-stained hand reaching towards my knee. I decided to join Rick in the washroom.
Rockin’ the Joint
My latest wrinkly Romeo was a guitarist in a rock band that played at my local bar the other night (maybe I should stop going to bars). Under the impression he had the same rock star pulling power as Mick Jagger he slid up to me, flashed a smile and demanded the barman give me a beer. I’d prefer the barman gave me something else, but never mind.
This old rocker had obviously ingested many substances in his lifetime and he reeked of weed. There’s always room for another stoned, drunk man in my crush club! Rather than bore me senseless with tales of the road he just swigged his beer, put his skinny arm around me and asked if I wanted to go home with him. I wasn’t aware that seniors’ homes allowed visitors after midnight.
The barman was laughing too hard to help to this damsel in distress. Oh dear, I was having another one of those evenings.
I guess it’s nice to know there are men with breath in their body (just) that still find me attractive. That most of my suitors are either old, drunk, stoned or frequently all three is less flattering.
Let’s just hope they’re still interested when I hit 70…
They behave like perfect gentlemen until the lights go down over at Humor-Blogs.com