1) I’d rather drive around in my little compact car that I worked hard to pay for, than have to make love to a wrinkled old pervert who drives a Mazerati. Yes, even if it’s a convertible, and even if he’s a good-looking man for his age.
2) Being the submissive one in a relationship is sometimes deeply satisfying.
3)Forno Cultura remains the single-best bakery in the GTA. I will take my Sunday coffee beside the lake with one of their biscotti with grappa soaked currents. Thank you Forno Cultura for teaching me about taste-bud orgasm. Miss Manners said it best….
4)Latin jazz can make a cool summer day sizzle, and, I’ve been too long without a holiday. Jazz 91.1 makes it simple on Saturdays…check it out!
5) Really, really great sex is totally worth having to do the laundry.
6) Only other artists can inspire you to lose the anxiety that insecurity smothers us with.
7) Bathing suits for women with large breasts should be designed by structural engineers and styled by Victoria’s Secret. If you find a combination of the two in a suit, buy it regardless of cost. The best place locally (by far!!!) is Susan’s Lingerie.
8) Consciously honouring your spirit should be done on a regular basis. God bless Wonderworks. They are having an open house next weekend, and if your spirit, creative self, or worn out shell-of-a-self needs some lovin’, that’s where you’ll get what you need.
9) I still don’t understand men, and I suck at communicating anything remotely romantic. Our heads and hearts often disagree, but we need both of them to lead a rich, fulfilling life.
If you are a close, personal friend of mine, you’ll know that stories like the one I’m about to tell are all too common when it comes to my dating escapades.
After reading a Huffington Post article written from a male perspective about the advantages of asking a woman on a ‘date’, instead of the vague, ‘let’s go for coffee’, I knew I had to share my latest man-tale with you.
If you are not a close personal friend of mine, trust me when I tell you never to take a good guy for granted, especially as you get older.
Like good women, good men become tired of dealing with games and players and craziness.
As 2013 rolled into 2014, I was somewhere downtown grooving my new little silver studded flats into some grimy linoleum. Thanks to a designated driver, a favourite band, my best man-pal, lots of wine, and a little help from my pal Pablo, the evening was fun, relaxing and happy.
When I settle in at a bar, I have bat-like radar when it comes to bad boys. ‘With such keen radar I have been introduced to pilots, rugby players, writers and all sorts of lovely men. Before I’d even taken off my coat or ordered my first drink, a little hottie with a tattooed forearm caught my eye.
“Bad news,” is not what my inner voice said. Nope. Not even after all of these years of experience. What my inner voice jubilantly rattled off like a school girl’s song was, “Ding dong, bring it on!”
As luck would have it ladies, Mr.Badass Tattoo Boy swung me around the dance floor a few times, told me a little bit about himself, and took my number. Nice…
Long story short, not only have I been around the block a few times, I helped design the neighbourhood. After a few text messages, sexy tattoo man basically revealed himself as a classic male-gold-digger;
It’s me, your new dance partner – I hope you got home safely. Can’t wait to see you again xo……I have a really great job, but was just laid off. I may have to look out west for work, unless I have something to stick around here for…. You seem like such a nice woman….I had to move out of my apartment and have nowhere to live…..
Ok, first of all, homelessness is not sexy. It’s sad, and if you think this sugar-momma is going to tuck your boots under her bed while you sit on your cute, tight, buns all day while she’s at work, you’re wrong. Although I do keep my home rather warm, perhaps I could get him to do a little housework sans shirt….just a thought. It is cold outside after all.
For gentlemen confused by my abrupt turn to glaciel-ice-bitch, please refer to my previous post for amorous menfolk.
I figured the guy was a player of the worst kind, and cut him loose. He ranks right up there with the guy who asked me to pay for dinner, and then a bit of a cash advance, “just until payday”. Seriously. What the hell?!
However….all was not lost. Just the day before I had been very gallantly escorted to my vehicle and asked to dinner. When I said, “Sure, I’ll go for a drink with you,” he said, “No. Not a drink. I want to take you out for dinner.”
Now gentlemen, that’s how you ask a lady out. On a date. You do not ask, Wanna do something? Wanna hang out? Wanna go for coffee? Wanna….ah…let me think potential man-cake…no. No I don’t ‘wanna’ anything. I would however, be delighted to be picked up at 7:30 after having been asked to accompany you to dinner at the restaurant of your choosing.
Being vague with, ‘do you wanna’s’, is nothing more than a layer of emotional armor that women of a certain age really just aren’t willing to wonder about. We know what we want and what we don’t. We don’t want indecisive men who are lukewarm about our luscious charms.
Another man who can’t commit? How very refreshing (sarcasm font). Another man who has no direction, but a good eye for a hard-working woman? No thank you sir. A date? Sure, why not? See you at 7:30.
Journal Entry April 16, 2012…in a sun stroked, Havana libre analgesia haze, I wrote my final thoughts.
Today, I serendipitously made the acquaintance of a much older Canadian gentleman. We met poolside as the sun began to climb in the Cuban sky, turning it a brilliant blend of amber, mauve and pink.
This gentleman had been out for his morning run, and I was getting ready for mine. In an effort not to go back and wake his wife too early, he engaged me in conversation.
Sizing him up quickly before our conversation started I assumed he was athletic, married, and well-employed. I was right on those three counts. I had not, however, pegged him as the stereotypical pig who travels to poor, foreign countries to take advantage of their women. As it turned out, he was married to a woman my age (he was old enough to be my grandfather).
As he spoke, I had a flashback. A few years ago I stood agog on a street in Camaguay, witnessing the scene of a newly married couple. It was a very young woman having been wed to another, much older Canadian gentleman. The bride was weeping, while her mother shoved her off to a classic Cuban car, and her new husband groped under her bright dress. Ugh.
As it turns out, the gentleman I was speaking to was in the December of his life and had married his May bride three years earlier. He had not since managed to import his souvenir/care-giver/housekeeper into Canada and as a result travelled to visit every six months.
I let him ramble on and on about the reasons why he chose to marry a Cuban woman. He said that she understood him because of the politics of their native countries (originally he was from a communist country). As a result, she had been well-educated in a communist system and was a wonderful and intelligent companion. “And,” I wanted to say, ” a much better fuck than an eighty year old“.
Later on today, as I painted my toes, taking shelter in the shade of my porch, I caught sight of their backs, walking up the hill from my gazebo. From that vantage point, they were fairly unremarkable. Benign. But later tonight, the truth was told from a different doorway.
As I munched away on fresh-from-the-sea lobster , in walked a very overdressed woman in a form-fitting black satin cocktail dress. The dress had rosettes along the entire length of each wide, shoulder strap and had been paired with stiletto heels. “Satin,” I thought to myself, “in this heat? Is she loco?”.
She was looking down one side of the restaurant as if she were lost. It wasn’t just that she was over-dressed that made me take a second look, it was because, although she wasn’t thin by any stretch of the imagination, the dress fit perfectly and flattered every curve. It was not a cheap item of clothing that she was wearing, nor were her shoes.
This woman’s hair was twisted in a small knot on the top of her head, and she had applied enough make-up to make my pores weep just thinking about it. She was Cuban, and likely looking for the wedding party that had come through and was settled in the courtyard, I thought to myself as I nodded to the waiter who was pouring more wine into our glasses.
Wrong again. On queue, in walks Mr. Canadian Pervert. He was wearing a white and black short-sleeved shirt with a yoked collar. His shoes were actually short boots with a heel. You know, the kind that went the way of Saturday Night Fever and unprotected sex. His pants were black and tight enough that I had an unwelcome image in my mind of how thick his 80-year-old trouser snake might be. I drank deeply from my wine glass hoping the booze would soothe my traumatized imagination.
The old pervert placed his gnarled, arthritic hand on the black-dressed-beauty’s back, looked around to see who was watching him claim his property, caught my eye, winked, and then guided his wife (hand still on her back) to their table. I squirmed thinking of how uncomfortable the weight of that hand must have felt against the sweaty satin. I took another drink and motioned the waiter back for a top-up.
Flashback to earlier this morning; Mr.Canadian Pervert had really worked at convincing me of his status as a respectable gentleman. Was it his fault that I had made assumptions about his personal integrity? Should I have been alerted to his perversion by the trifecta mention of how exercise increases testosterone levels and how important testosterone is to maintain as a man ages?
Perhaps I should adjust my judgement of the matrimonial transaction that has taken place between these two consenting adults.
Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe they are really in love, or maybe they’re just both realistic about the benefits and drawbacks of the currency they offer one another.
Perhaps this marriage left me feeling like it was a lop-sided bargain in favour of the man. Or maybe, in my heart of hearts I really wish that I could meet an intelligent, fit, man who could protect me as I made my way to a table in a restaurant, wearing fine clothing that he had chosen and paid for?
Nope. Not my style. But I felt terrible judging this other woman who I didn’t even know. Hell, maybe she could tolerate his sweaty old body pumping away on hers for a few nights a year in exchange for regular injections of money into her Cuban purse. I hope for her sake that she has a real lover somewhere out there in this humid and sensual country, keeping romancesex love alive for her.
As I sat at my table, enjoying the company of my age-appropriate and companion, eating the food that I paid for and ordered for myself , I knew, from the inside out, from the root of who I am, that I will never be anything but the gale, nor do I want to be any other way.
Journal Entry April 21, 2012; As I portered my own bags at the airport, I watched Mr. Canadian Pervert usher his bride of three years into a cab, with bag upon bag of clothing and shoes and other ‘stuff’ he had purchased for her.
At the airport, I sidled up to Mr. Canadian Pervert, slid my hand way up his saggy thigh, brushed my soft lips across the wrinkled skin behind his ear and cooed about a Michael Kors dress that had my name all over it. Not.