Old Flirt

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org & Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / pk by Age / Aging /
@ K. 2005 09 06

Have I not yet mentioned my practice, commenced about age fifty, of blatant, out-loud flirting in public with stunning women? I try to do it so that there can be no mistaking my flattery for a pick-up attempt. I enjoy it most if a herd of the usual cows are there to witness it:
To whit, I was walking from a store-front postoffice to the car a decade, a decade-and-a-half ago when a jeep pulled into the spot next to me. A simply amazing young female stepped down from the notoriously high-carriaged jeep and strode into the junky laundromat just south of the stamp store. Holy Jesus God Almighty! I slipped after her. Here I am, an ex-dancer, an ex-miler, a biker, a skier, the guy with the legs, but I’m losing ground to this young filly who radiates the seedy dump with her youth and health. On open ground I never would have caught her, but she’s marched to her destination: the counter: where some old cow is ready to hear her requests. Other overweight women make myriad bumps in the grunge of the place. Good: I’ll have an audience.

The lump behind the counter sees me coming, looks warningly at the beauty. I’ll never know if she’d sensed my approach before she got the us-females-have-got-to-protect-each-other signal from the clerk on duty, but she hadn’t turned her head till then. Up I come, right in her face. She chooses nevertheless to treat me to a radiant smile as though I’m not a threat.

“Can I ask you a question,” I ask.
She holds the smile, assents.
“Where dj’ya get those cheek-bones?” I demand, straight-faced.

“What?” she stammers, the smile replaced by confusion. But then the smile returns: ten-fold. She realizes that I’m flattering her: in public: before an audience. I am not attacking her. I am not going to attack her. I am not going to try to seduce her. I am paying homage: both to her and to her genetic line: right in front of a bevy of the distaff descendants of her line’s recent oppressors.

“Oh,” she’s radiant. “My people are from the islands.”

The faces on all the witnessing women have fallen. Maybe they were hoping I’d rape her in front of them. I can see without meeting the glances of any of them that they are acutely aware that I’ve ignored them and am burning my focus on this n-word (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 31). And treating her like a star.

“Wow.” I start to turn to march away, satisfied: good answer. I turn back, just my face, my body is leaned to leave. “The best from the whole world found its way straight to you!

And I leave.

You see? That’s how I do it.

I don’t do it until I’m convinced that I have a good line, a line that can’t be mistaken for any kind of fishing: pure display: public homage.

A year or two ago one statuesque blond startled me by flirting back: making it personal. I froze. I was totally unprepared for that!

Well, I’m particularly proud of a recent variation. There are differences in this story: beyond saying that the woman was neither young nor an alternate for the cover of neither Vogue nor Health & Fitness, I’ll let you notice the variations yourself.

A couple of weeks ago I’d gone fishing an hour before dawn. The motor hadn’t started. I’d decided to just row out to deep water and drift, but the wind was up more than I’d bargained for, and before long I turned to row back, anchored not too far from the dock.

While I was anchored a woman with her dog, the breed a boxer, ran from the road into Veterans Beach, ran up and onto the dock, where she commenced to do some serious stretching. I wasn’t catching a thing. Finally I overcame my reluctance to tie back up while a lone woman occupied the boat ramp dock: even though the boaters are supposed to have right-of-way, and got a closer look at her. Said hello, and goodbye, and she went off with the dog, calling her after her as the dog tended to linger in friendliness.

A few days later I was back at dawn, not trusting my motor, just fishing from the dock. She and the dog came up again. I was there first. I didn’t yield the dock. Made no difference to her: she just came on and did her stretches in front of me, talking, chatting, getting acquainted the while.

Her accent threw me. South Africa? Australia? No: New Zealand … Wrong: London! she says.

I can’t believe it. I’m thinking odd-British, not core-English. My wife was born in London. I’m astonished to recognize this accent of this woman’s so little. Of course my hearing is deteriorating with age.

In any case I can’t believe the aplomb with which she’s doing her stretches right in front of a strange male. I’ve been right next to stretched female strangers in a Jack LaLane’s gym: where the girls were clearly uncomfortable with so many male presences. But they bit the bullet and stretched. This gal was stretching without apology. Buttocks flexing, bosom bursting … She does splits right down to the wet dock concrete. The dark of her .. err … is showing at the stretched sides of her short shorts.

Finally she says Bye, but relocates in one of the picnic gazebos. There I see she’s knocking out pushups, one after the other: real pushups, male pushups, all the way down, all the way up, no messing around.

I hate to leave that view; neither do I mean to make her uncomfortable. I tear myself away. Driving along the lake I spot a fishing buddy casting from an area I (and others) haunt almost daily. I pull up for one more cast. “Paul,” Sean says, “How’re ya’ doing?”
“I’m in love,” I answer.
“Oh?”
” Yeah, I was just at the boat ramp, along comes this gal, starts stretching, doing splits: crotch right down to the wet dock. Then I see her knocking out pushups, one after the other.”
“She’s got an accent,” Sean adds.
“Yeah. London.”
Sean nods knowingly. “I’m in love with her too,” he confides.

Well, I can’t wait to see Christine again. I’m sure I can tell her that story in a way that will please her and not make her feel threatened: threatened in her marriage, her family, her self …

Of course I’m up far more dusks than dawns. Days pass before I see her again: though Carlos, another shore fisherman swears that Christine is there every morning, at the same time.

“Boy, I have a story to tell you,” I say. But this day the dog is called off by a young man. I realize they’re together. “Jack.” Christine introduces her son.
Well, the three of them occupied the lake-side end of the dock: Jack matching his mother in every stretch, every split. And the dog too occupying space.
At first I was glad her son was there. That in itself would assure her not mistaking my intentions in talking to her about “love.” But the moment never seemed right.

The next time I saw Christine it was she who’d avoided the dock: there were four! of us fishing that dawn. She took the picnic gazebo and had it to herself: plus the dog.

When a bass moved with my line, PowerPro braid, I set the hook: and the line snapped without resistance! That’s the most expensive line I know of! God, I hate it. I’ve got to go back to the car to retie. Or I’ll just give up and go home.

“May I visit you?” I ask Christine in her gazebo.

I reminded her that there was a story I wanted to tell her. She gave me her shinning smile.

“Now don’t you take this wrong,” I warned her: and told her of running into Sean after talking to her at length for the first time.

I got to the “I’m in love,” and she smiled: unthreatened. I got to Sean’s saying “I’m in love with her too,” and she beamed.

Now: in one sense I’d rather still be forty myself: in Christine’s range: maybe tempt her. Or twenty-five: for the Caribbean gal in the laundry.
When I was forty I was no longer doing so well with the really attractive women. Though when I was twenty-five I was doing better than many would believe. But there’s a pleasure too in knowing that nothing is going to happen. There’s a bit of lust in my homage, sure; but no expectation.

It’s neat. It’s unique. I’m content.

I could add more such stories here. Right now though I’ll say just one additional thing:
I’ve seen plenty of fathers and sons play ball together, golf, fish … But I have never ever seen a mother / adult son combo where the mother wasn’t an embarrassment. I don’t mean that Christine could keep up with Jack in a competition. Jack is an acrobat, in his prime, or close before it. But just working out, Christine was leader more than peer. He was with her, not she with him. And I mentioned that to her too! So I’m really content.
2008 05 25 Starting in 2000 I told some sex stories here: nearly sixty of them. This module was one such. I’ve deleted the bulk of them as inappropriate for a site about deschooling and Macroinformation. I expect to remount them online as a blog. A couple of the general philosophical sex files have been moved to my Society section: this one I move here to my pk as an old man section.
I plan to tell more “old flirt” stories, but among my .

2016 03 07 There, that was a decade ago that I launched the topic. But it was when I started dancing, dating, seeking new women, in 2008 that I really started flirting, old man flirting with a vengeance. Many of those stories are already here: my wonderful girl friend gets a kick out of my flirtation stories herself. Maybe I’ll build a flirtation story menu: I should live so long.

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About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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