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IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS AND HARDENS.
Though I don’t usually message guys first in online dating sites, I went in for smokin’ hot Francisco, 34, one of the best-looking guys I’d ever seen there, and far too fierce a conquest to leave to the whims of fate.
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IN WHICH I SIMULTANEOUSLY DECREASE AND INCREASE MY STANDARDS.
One day I was flipping through online dating profiles, hardly suppressing the involuntary yawns the lackluster candidates inspired.
Then, suddenly, there he was: brown-eyed, dark-haired, olive-skinned, 6’2” hunka hunka burnin’ love Francisco, 34. Photographer, New York.
IN WHICH I CONSIDER THE UNWELCOME DELIVERY OF A PACKAGE.
Sequence of Events:
1. Attractive man messages me in online dating site.
2. Attractive man and I chat amicably on dating site.
3. Attractive man and I move to exchanging cell numbers in order to text.
4. Attractive man, with connection made and a face-to-face date imminent, suddenly sends me a dick pic.
5. Unattractive man is summarily blocked by me, with or without a side dish of “Really?” or “Gross!” READ MORE
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IN WHICH THE DELICIOUS PROMISE OF TURKISH DELIGHT RETURNS.
Four weeks into my recovery from surgery, I was once again healthy enough to be reasonably erect — indeed, a nice erection was definitely on my mind, though in fact, not my own. I could easily find relief by thumbing through my little black book, my iPhone MENagerie, but I was craving the thrill that only having been in an involuntary nunnery — and a new conquest — could provide.
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IN WHICH I’M REMINDED, REGRETFULLY, I CAN’T UNSEE THAT.
How ugly can it get when it comes to online dating? Well, physically there’s truly no limit; but ugliness comes in other forms, too, and blatant crudeness often makes an unwelcome appearance.
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IN WHICH THE LOSERS TEACH ME A THING OR TWO ABOUT WASTE REMOVAL.
As I navigated the shoals of online dating, there was certainly many a wreck which amounted to nothing more than a blatant waste of energy; over time there was such a pattern of behavior, I became aware of these as types, then cut them off at their pathetic pass.
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IN WHICH I CONSIDER THE PLIGHT OF THE TONGUE-TIED.
On our way uptown, shortly after our disastrous first kiss, the cab pulled up to Jean-Claude’s corner and he got out. I was relieved to be alone so I could process, at last, the kiss I’d just “undergone,” like a root canal. But attempting to figure it out got me nowhere — there was no making sense of a kiss from a French guy which in no way resembled, in fact, a French kiss.
I reflected on the concept “French kiss” and its necessary involvement of the tongue. I recalled my close prep school friend from Monte Carlo, who viewed the American appellation of such kissing with amusement: Was there any other kind?
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IN WHICH I GET A GIANT HELPING OF CREEP SUZETTE.
At the end of dinner, my French date Jean-Claude and I were feeling pleasantly buzzed, when he proposed we continue our evening at an intimate liqueur bar a couple blocks away. We walked arm in arm to the low-lit, elegant establishment, a fitting end to our sophisticated evening.
With his arm around me, we snuggled on the low sofas and ordered drink after drink. By this time, I must admit, we’d finally run out of conversation — I didn’t want to hear about the tech world anymore, nor did I, in fact, want ANY intellectual stimulation — it was physical stimulation I craved, and the fact that I was with a French guy meant I was pretty much guaranteed an expert dose of, yes, hot French kissing.
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I RESIST THE URGE TO DINE AND DANCE, RIGHT OUT OF THERE.
As I languished, bored to tears on a date with an older man, self-absorbed Gerard finally quit talking about himself long enough to ask how many men I was “tormenting these days.” I demurred at the thought, honestly embarrassed, and retorted with a like question of him. At this, he rolled his eyes and protested with a snort, “No, I’m not tormenting any women,” a declaration with which, I could not, at this point, agree.
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GERARD SEEKS TO THAI ME UP.
As I walked down the street with Gerard, now enveloped in a cloud of smoke that would only add to his pungent presence, I had the impression I was on a date with Pig-Pen. Without being too obvious, I attempted to veer away: the dreaded aroma was sure to make a beeline for my long hair, and I had no desire to smell like an ashtray all night — I was now pretty positive I would be giving Gerard the heave ho after dinner, and heading to a club.
I'm a gorgeous goddess of a certain age who transformed from shot to hot, a feminist playa refusing to go into the sunset without a Mojito in one hand and a tumescent, throbbing ... well, you know what I mean ... in the other. Because sixty IS the new forty or even thirty I will not be dying with my boots on, but with my Jimmy Choo stilettos, thank you very much. I, a sexually liberated woman, stand defiantly against ageism and sexism, adamantly asserting not only is it possible to maintain and even enhance our sexual allure as we ripen, we women have the same right as men to romp in the hay with playmates decades younger.