/ Chat /
I have more than one talent. One I’ve become extra fond of, proud of, as I’ve aged to be coming up on eighty is the inventiveness of my flirting. I love to flirt, and I love to tell women I love about current examples. I believe Jan genuinely enjoys my flirtation stories. One or two have found their way to K.: but till now, not by habit. Now I’ll jot examples here and maybe make a menu for past examples.
Yesterday in Aldi I loaded my groceries from the cart to the conveyor, and, as the cashier readied herself to handle this new customer I leaned over close to her ear and said, “I deliberately chose the longer line, just to be able to flirt with you”.
She looked startled, registered what I’d said, digested for a moment, refocused, and said, “I’ll take that as a compliment”. She was clearly pleased. Very pleased.
The more so I believe because here she was, what? 30? And here I was 76, about to be 77, and looking every hour of it. I was just in sandles, and shorts, a bit grubby. My pocket tee shirt is riddled with holes. (No, not moths, and not wear either: exposure to Jan’s lake shore where wade-gardening I always shred my clothes from chemical veggie action. And I’d already shown her that I was paying with food stamps!) So: broke, old, tattered: and flirting, to beat the band, with the confidence of an ancient master.
The checker made some additional I-am-pleased sound: I decided to go on:
“Actually”, I said, “what it is: earlier I saw you go hollering after some guy in a wheel chair to help him reach for something, and I thought to myself, Not only is her hair nicely long, a little full, a little reddish, but she goes out of her way to help people: she’s something else!”
At that she was extra pleased and murmured that the world was full of nice people.
I tell a long time favorite example in Reggae Islands. That’s another example of a conspicuously old man getting away with flirting with a markedly young woman.
I hope I tell there adequately how I’d deliberately pinned that beautiful island girl against a counter full of ghastly fat women: rubbing it in, pretending they weren’t there: double compliment, double insult.
Let me add: in the 1990s I was fifty-something, and my beloved friend Catherine was eighty-something and headed for ninety-six very fast. Catherine had been crippled since age two, and was blind and deaf. I wasn’t the only one who loved her to pieces.
I’d take her shopping. I didn’t have a handicapped parked pass: I offered to get one for Catherine’s sake. She rejected it. She could walk from the back of the parking lot, didn’t want privilege. (See part of why I loved her?) Inside the store fat thirty year olds in powered shopping carts expected the right of way: Catherine and I gave it to them, relishing the utter lack of awareness: of the damned!!
Anyway: in the parking lot I’d help Catherine out of the car, lock up, offer her my arm. She’d take it.
Fine. That was common. But more than once, well-more than once, some beautiful young woman would see us: and would light up! like the sky! approving, crimson with female privilege.
That’s a form of flirtation, isn’t it? to try to make yourself attractive? It doesn’t always work, but sometimes it does.
Apropos, here’s a backfire: it occurred in the supermarket, again, Aldi as a matter of fact. And again dancing gets mentioned: not too surprising, if it’s me, and ideas of attractiveness. I’m shopping. There’s a stunning blond: not too young, certainly not old. I march up to her, I lean close, I say, We dance at the American Legion in Lake Placid, Wednesday, Friday, Sun …”
She picks it right up. She starts to say something to the effect of “We dance at the Moose, Fridays …”
But stupid me, I plowed right on: me, me, me. I’d rehearsed in my head an aria; she was ready for a duet. I bulled onto the wrong path.
Having ignited instantly, she was now cooling, rapidly.
Oh well, at least I was spared having to explain my girl friend to her. Most important I was spared having to explain this woman to my girlfriend!
Just before coming here to launch this module I told of a recent flirtation: in Hyper-Reading. That was neat: I made the much younger nurse want to hug me, and be hugged by me. And she had some pair of knockers on offer to sweeten the deal.
As a dancer, a good dancer, I get a lot of practice. Flirting. Often with much younger women.
More: Tilly & Tease
Valentine’s Goose: Reverse Flirtation
2016 02 15 Last night I attended the Valentine’s dance at the American Legion dance alone, while Jan remained at home, sick in bed. Something unique happened. I danced with a dozen or more women: that’s not unique. Several were beautful; that’s not unique either. Several were busom, in the extreme; and neither is that. But this was: dancing a lindy with Judy I felt something brush delicately between my buttocks. That’s some improbability, if accidental. I ignored it. A moment later it happened again. And again. I turned, and there was the woman I mistakenly identified as Patty prancing away and grinning. I turned Judy toward her, and whispered to Judy what I thought had happened. Judy confonted “Patty”: said, “Did you just goose Paul?”
“Yes!” chortled this tall gal in a bosom fitting pullover with the denim knee-length skirt. I realized it wasn’t Patty: just similar height. Judy “explained” to me: I’ve know her for eighteen years: she just did that ’cause she thought you’re my boyfriend.” I told the whole story to Carole, my best friend not counting Jan. Carole said, “No. That woman is from South Bend, she’s never been here before.”
Hmm, and I thought she was Patty. I was wrong: and at least one other person was wrong too.
My dear Judy is sick. She just pulled her boyfriend Roy out of a terminal bumping illness, now she’s sick, maybe terminal.
Carole’s been told she was terminal for three years now. Thank goodness she still looks and dances great. I recently had the privilege of scanning a photo of her taken by Life Magazine in 1953. She never followed up on that opportunity for fame and fortune, but we can see what the world didn’t.
2017 02 27 The other day I was pedaling no-handed on my mountain bike when a woman was coming down from her porch carrying a deposit for the garbage can. “Very good”, she called out, nodding. “VERY good!”
I just kept pedaling, an idjeot.
Of course I’m “married”, in my mind, to my beloved Jan. Jan knows I flirt with other women all the time. In fact I couldn’t wait to tell Jan this story, the latest in a series: she accompanies me to the dances, she sees me attacked on the dance floor. (At the same time she sees, we all see, other widows shy away from my friendliness: still pretending they’re virgins.
whoops, speak of the devil, i’ll be back