And don’t call me Frank Lee.

When I was a married man, I had a bottle of cologne. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was the good stuff. I got it when I was 27 or so and still had the same bottle twenty years later. I don’t wear cologne much, only if I’m in a suit. I could not tell you why I felt the need to put it on when I was well-dressed, but I did. I probably would have been better off, if I wore it on my regular work days.

I used to buy my Dad Old Spice or Aqua Velva gift sets when I was a boy. The sets came with a few different bottles of aftershave and cologne. The women in the commercials really dug the men wearing those scents. The Old Spice sailor was always arriving in some port and passing his lucky bottle to some rube waiting on the dock. Aqua Velva used sports figures like Dick Butkus and Pete Rose, because nothing says sexy like those two. I’m not really sure why I was buying my father colognes that I thought would attract women. I am certain he always thanked me kindly for the gifts and then they completely disappeared from the house. Our house was very small and there was no spare space to store unwanted crap. Things could go missing very quickly if they weren’t used on a regular basis.

Anyway, when I left my marriage home, my cologne did not make it out with me. I suspect my ex-wife occasionally spritzes the bedsheets with it so she has an olfactory reminiscence of all the great times we had together. I’m joking, of course. My ex would rather sleep on sheets soaked with my aortic blood than anything that reminded her of me. But I digress.

Since joining online dating, I’ve felt the need to enhance my scent. I even switched deodorants because Jim Gaffigan said the one I used smelled like urinal cakes. I’ll never be able to wear Speed Stick again, though I had used it for decades. One does not want to smell like old man bar bathrooms. I’ve since switched to something else and I have no idea if it smells any better. The guys at work would say something, I’m sure. They don’t let much get by. Women, on the other hand, seem to let you be you for awhile and then casually mention in passing that your deodorant is horrible. And, oh yeah, your cologne is very fashionable, if we were still in the 90’s. I’m a man alone. I have no one to tell me if my shirt looks good with my pants. Black shoes or brown? Do I smell ok?

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #cologne #oldspice #aquavelva

#morning #nyc #nycskyline

One day, when I was but a wisp of a child, I noticed something weird. So weird, in fact, I decided it needed some explaining from the nearest adult on hand, who happened to be my mother. Now my mother had a sense of humor. She was smart. She didn’t go to college, but she certainly could have and she would have done well there. What my mother didn’t have was time for nonsense. At that moment, she had 5 children between the ages of 5 and 11. We were a hungry, dirty, wandering-off band of attention grabbers. As I began to stake my little claim within the family, I figured quiet and barely noticeable suited me just fine. Talking wasn’t my strong suit. And when I did talk, there was maybe a 50/50 chance what came tumbling out of my mouth had a passing resemblance to the thoughts in my head. Thus was the situation, when I approached my mother, looked up at her, and asked, Where do dead squirrels go?

I think I must have shocked her a bit, as I was fairly well known within the family for keeping my own counsel. She replied, as she often did when one of her children asked a question, with a question of her own, What are you on about? I naturally answered by asking the same question again.

Now what I meant and what she thought I was asking were two completely different things. What I had noticed in my backyard and neighborhood explorations was that I had never seen a wild animal that died of natural causes. Really, I could have asked about any animal, birds or rabbits for instance, but squirrels were an obvious and abundant rodent around there. I had seen plenty of dead squirrels in my short lifetime, but every single one of them had been obviously run over by a car. I had never seen a squirrel fall from a tree felled by old age or a heart attack. None laying peacefully dead without a mark on it. So where did those squirrels go? Was there a squirrel boneyard, where the old and the sick went to live out their last days and quietly die out of sight of a curious boy. A hollow tree perhaps or an underground cave filled to the brim with dead animals.

My mother, however, thought I was asking where dead squirrels go after they die, rather than where do they go to die. In other words, are there squirrels in heaven? I didn’t know at the time this is what she thought I meant, but it became clear as the day went on. And it is by such misunderstandings I became known as a rather thoughtful, but decidedly odd, boy. I suppose they go to Heaven, she said. They’ve committed no sins, have they? You’d probably find rattle snakes in Hell though. Now get outside and play. Unbeknownst to me, I had stoked her own curiosity and a few hours later I was driven down to St. Theresa’s RC Church, where I was brought in to see Father Paul.

Several months before I had made my first confession to Father Paul so I could make my first communion. In the darkness of the confessional with wood latticework separating us, I was supposed to be anonymous to all save God, but Father Paul knew me and I knew him. When asked to recount my sins, I panicked and lied to him. I had to come up with something, but I was 5 years old, what kind of sinning had I done by then? It didn’t occur to me to confess I was lying at that very moment. I couldn’t even confess my sins without sinning. I left with a list of penitential prayers and the admonition to sin no more.

My mother marched me into Father Paul’s office, sat us down in chairs before his desk, and prodded me to ask the priest my question, but I clammed up. After all, this was all a great misunderstanding. I imagined Father Paul had more important things to do, like keep tabs on the children of the parish for Santa Claus. How else was that naughty and nice list getting done? Santa had spies everywhere.

He wants to know if animals go to Heaven, Father, my mother finally said for me as my silence grew annoying.

Does he now? We have a deep thinker here, Mrs. McLaughlin, Father Paul replied, as he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a satisfying drag. I sat still and stared at the laces on my sneakers, wondering how one had come untied. Father Paul then commenced a rather long soliloquy on the subject as I teetered between anxiety and utter boredom. The gist of it though seemed to be he did not know. God created them…St. Francis loved them…Heaven was such a joyous place, he thought surely animals would be found there. Maybe you wouldn’t see your particular dog, because it was soulless, but newly created animals just for Heaven. He ended by saying we wouldn’t know for sure until we got there. I was disappointed. I believe my mother was too, but she thanked him profusely nonetheless. And I was left none the wiser about where the dead squirrels go.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #pets #heaven #popefrancis

I’d like to make a few points about The Graduate, the classic 1967 film, starring Dustin Hoffmann, Anne Bancroft, and Katharine Ross. Great films make you feel something intensely, maybe it’s horror or terror or happiness. The Graduate made me intensely uncomfortable. Hoffmann’s Benjamin just seemed so out of place in his own home, within his family and in his own skin. He stands at the precipice of starting adulthood and is literally drifting instead of stepping forward. He is seen by others as an empty vessel waiting for someone to steer him into a purpose. At the same time, Benjamin wants no part of the ordinary, plastic world of his parents. Even after he finally manages to win Elaine over and they escape her wedding in the back of the bus, he again seems so lost, as if he’s wondering, now what? Has he escaped from or fell into the trap of the ordinary.

Dustin Hoffmann was 29 or so when the film was made and Anne Bancroft was about 36. Benjamin states he is 20 and Mrs. Robinson is presumably in her 40’s. They’re such fine actors, I never realized how close in age they really were. Katherine Ross was an attractive young lady, but it was Anne Bancroft who seduced the audience. She singlehandedly made it okay to lust after older women. The movie recognized they were still attractive and seductive. And older women apparently knew what they were doing. Ever after, all older women would be called Mrs. Robinson.

Mrs. Robinson too bristles against the ordinary, fighting against it by diving into the bottle or having inappropriate affairs. The movie is filled with great Simon and Garfunkel songs and Buck Henry lines and Mike Nichols scenes. It is so emblematic of the year it came out, one is instantly transported back to the late 1960’s. I love the movie. I know it is great, but it makes me so uncomfortable, I can barely watch it.

#thegraduate #olderwomen #dustinhoffmann #annebancroft #lastfirstkiss #kiss #sex #onlinedating

I am not fully evolved; I am evolving. Can we start with that supposition? Please don’t hold me to the position I held a decade ago or, in some cases, even the one I held last night. It may be difficult, but I can be convinced I’m wrong.

A short list of recent subjects on which I have changed my mind: women in combat, legalized marijuana, gay marriage, white privilege. Subjects in which I have remained resolute: Trump, slave reparations, abortion, kneeling during the anthem, Eddie Money. So let’s pick one and explore it. Go ahead, choose.

Ok, you chose white privilege. Good choice, you. Now I once thought white privilege was nonsense. Privileged? I grew up working class with hardly ever an extra dime. Gimme some of that privilege, I thought, not recognizing how I already had a head start. I was basking in the glow of white privilege, but whining about the occasional cloud.

I saw a comedian once ask, if you could go up to an ice cream truck and choose your race instead of a flavor, what would you choose? I’d choose white. I’ll even narrow my choice more. I’d choose straight white male. Any straight white male who says different is flat out lying. We know we have it good. What about other races, genders and sexual preferences? I dare say more people are going to go with the straight white male option. I’ve heard the argument that white males built the world. We’ve earned our place on the top of the heap. I’m more inclined to think we’ve been lucky. And when our Chinese overlords take over, I’ll consider them lucky too.

White privilege manifests itself in myriads of ways, but let’s just mix it in with the legalization of marijuana. I was very much against legalization. I know plenty of guys who smoke it everyday. I don’t think pot is particularly harmless. I don’t like working beside guys who are high. On the other hand, I think it more benign than alcohol.

The argument that convinced me to change my mind though was the high rate of minorities arrested for low level infractions. Blacks and whites basically smoke pot at the same rates, but blacks are 3.75 times more likely to be arrested. That’s not a statistical blip, that’s institutional racism. And for me, it’s white privilege. And that’s just an infinitesimal example of how I’m kept on top and everyone else is screwed.

I’m just saying I’ll discuss anything with you from sexual harassment to Star Wars. I’m opinionated, but give it a shot. You just may change me to your way of thinking.

Note: I will never change my way of thinking on Star Wars. For the most part, it’s pure crap.

#whiteprivilege #institutionalracism

#marijuanalegalization #lastfirstkiss

#starwars #icecream

Seville, Spain, July 17, 1936

The guitars played the flamenco and the women, in their clinging red dresses, danced, tapping out the rhythm with their shoes and snapping their fingers. The sangria flowed and we ordered tapas after tapas to soak up the alcohol. We did not get drunk, but we glowed. I won her over during those hours. I made her smile and then laugh, shyly at first, but soon full laughs. How could one not fall in love on a night like this in the city of Seville? I was aware the rest of the city was on edge though, as was the rest of the country, and all of Europe.

Speranza expressed surprise when I asked her to go out with me, but I felt the electricity in the air. Three times I asked to take her out. Three times she said no. In the middle of July, the fourth time I asked, she acquiesced, not reluctantly, but maybe a bit resignedly. Boldness thrives in such an atmosphere and my father always told me, The answer is always no until you ask. When he first cast this pearl I asked him for a loan of some pesetas and he replied, Sometimes the answer remains no.

Who was I to approach such a great, rare beauty? Just a lowly wage earner, I worked as apprentice to a successful printer. I had reason to be optimistic. After all, trade unionists had prized control of the country. Steps had been taken to redistribute the wealth. At night, my comrades and I plastered posters on the high stone walls of Alcázar and the Cathedral. We thought we were revolutionaries on the right side of history. We marched in our parades through the city, carrying banners high, raising our fists and our shouts. This seemed our moment, if only we had the courage to match our desire.* How could we know the answer was still no?

Speranza knew somehow. After we left the square the night of the date, she took me by the hand and led me to a warehouse by the Rio Guadaíra. I knew her father owned buildings in the district. I assumed this was one. She unlocked a small office there, put some worn cushions on the floor and made a man of me. And what may have been merely an admiration and lust for her great beauty transformed into something more as we fell asleep in the early hours of July 18. I slept like only the deeply contented sleep.

Speranza woke first and shook me awake too. Listen, she said. At first I didn’t know what I heard and then I realized there was the crackling of rifles and distant explosions and it is by such sounds one learns the ruthlessness of no. She turned on the radio beside the large desk and we listened as a Nationalist general exhorted his soldiers to kill the workers and rape their women. We held each other tight in our fear and I promised to get her home safe.

We hurriedly dressed and tentatively made our way across the town, avoiding the streets where the gunfire centered. We saw barricades built with cobblestones on the main avenues. Sometimes in our fear, we tried to enter buildings and houses along the street, but all the doors were locked. It took us two hours, but finally we got to Speranza’s home. She took me in through the servants’ entrance and I waited in the kitchen as she made her presence known. Before long her father came in and said, I suppose you think I should thank you for getting my daughter home safely, but I do not see it that way, young man.

Two officers of the national army entered the kitchen then, as if on cue, and bound my hands together. They took me outside to their sedan and deposited me beside the old stone walls of Macarena. I saw dozens of prisoners there, also bound. Many soldiers milled about, smoking cigarettes. They taunted us with whispers, You’re next. Some of the prisoners were taken one by one and others in small groups before a man in a Captain’s uniform sitting behind a large table. He had papers before him that he shuffled through. He asked questions and wrote notes and waved the prisoners away. Usually they were led to the wall and executed. Some hours later, I was led before the Captain. He asked my name. I told him. He asked the officers, who had brought me, the charges and they replied I was an anarchist. The Captain, without a moment’s consideration, sentenced me to death. I was quickly led to the wall where three soldiers stood reloading their rifles. An old priest from the Cathedral came by my side and asked me if I would like to confess my sins, I told him, Father, you know me and my family, is there anything you can do for me? He looked me straight in the eye and replied, No.

* WB Yeats

#spanishcivilwar

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

I am not a grandfather. None of my friends have become grandparents yet. I say this only to point out grandparenthood is an abstract concept to me. Of course, I’ve had grandparents. Grandmothers really, I have no real memory of either of my grandfathers. My own parents have been blessed with many grandchildren. In fact, the first grandchild arrived for them when they were 5 years younger than I am now. I did a little research before sitting down to write this and the youngest grandmother was just 23 years old. Meanwhile, two grandchildren of President John Tyler, (b.1790) who served without distinction in 1841, are still alive (as of 2017, at least). Let those two trivia facts sink in for a bit.

In my mind, being a grandparent meant you were old, notwithstanding the fact a person can potentially be one from age 23 on. When their first grandchild was born some thirty years ago, I thought my parents were as ancient as the hills. My grandmothers also seemed terribly old to me. I look at them in pictures from my childhood and they do look old, but in the way their generation always looked old, not because they were old. Again, they were younger than I am now.

So it should not come as a shock to me that some of the women I have sought to date are, in fact, grandmothers. I giggle to myself as I write this. I’m dating grandma’s. It’s reasonable and logical to think it would happen, but I never thought it would. It never even occurred to me. When a potential date mentioned a few months ago she could not go out Saturday as she would be babysitting her grandchildren, I nearly spat out my tea. “Grandchildren! How old are you?” I shouted. She did not find my amazement charming in the least. And I should say, some of these grandmas are hot. Not at all the pearl-wearing, purse-clutching biddies of yesteryear. I have to revise my whole point of view on them.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex #grandparents #grandmother #aarp

What do you tell your prospective dates and when? John Lennon was correct: we’ve all got something to hide, except for me and my monkey. Of course, I should disclose I have a monkey (No, I don’t. I’m kidding). Do we need to tell all before we even meet or should we allow the facts to come tumbling out organically? And what info is so important, it really needs to be acknowledged before an initial meet and perhaps should be noted plainly in our online profile?

A woman I know has a dilemma. She’s been chatting with a gentleman for several days and they have decided to go to lunch today. She was a little hesitant to begin with, unsure of whether they’re really a match. Last night, he writes to inform her he has had a debilitating disease since high school that has rendered him unable to walk and he gets around on a motorized scooter. There’s no hint of this in his profile or any of their previous messaging. He hopes this isn’t a problem or issue.

Her predicament reminded me of the woman I had asked on a date who sent me “updated” pictures hours before we were to meet. Her profile said she was very fit and athletic and her pictures there showed a toned woman. Right before sending the new pics, she said, “Don’t forget, fit doesn’t necessarily mean thin.” Thats true enough, I guess, but it also doesn’t mean obese. The new pictures didn’t show the triathlete she claimed to be. I do not mind a few extra pounds, but I did mind the late notice. I went on the date anyway. We both enjoyed a hearty meal and said our goodbyes. Forever, as it turned out.

Now, my friend with the lunch date was put in the position of either going on the date or appearing to be heartless. In her own profile, she lists walking, running and hiking as interests. She lists them because these are the type of activities she’d like to enjoy with her future match. These are not likely future activities with a gentleman dependent on a scooter. I told her I was of the opinion he had withheld important information she would have used to decide whether to even spark up a conversation, because she had the right to calculate how much she was willing to give and how much she needed in return.

She is going on the date by the way. She’s hoping for some sort of “Coming Home” scenario. During the same conversation, she told me about a potential suitor who revealed he was a recovering alcoholic. She rejected his offer of a date, because she enjoyed an occasional martini in the evening or wine with her pasta and it was important enough she wanted to share that with her potential mate. He told her she might have a drinking problem. Then good thing they didn’t go on that date, I thought.

So, again, what rises to the level of needing to be revealed right away? I’m still thinking. I may have to return to this subject a few more times.

H/t Bluemoon

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

#fulldisclosure #secrets #handicap #disability

#johnlennon

#fulldisclosure

Funny how the celebratory aspect of birthdays diminishes as you get older. You would think my son was the prince of the land, the way we celebrated his first birthday. Really, the hoopla continued until he was about 10 with extravaganza after extravaganza at various birthday hotspots around Bergen County, NJ, because you didn’t want to be seen as negligent in that department by the parents of your child’s schoolmates. There was no official scorecard kept, but mental notes were taken.

The parties go on a breather but then there are sweet sixteens (and quinceañeras for my Hispanic friends) that rival debutante balls. At 17, we get our driver’s licenses. We are adults at 18. We can drink at 21. The party continues with every birthday milestone. Even turning 30, we’re all still pretty happy. At 40, a little confusion becomes apparent. Are we still celebrating and what’s so happy about that birthday? Up until then, life still seems fairly spread out before us. At 40, we may begin to think we’re on the back nine, but we shrug it off. After all, we are as goodlooking as we’re ever going to be, and as healthy. From there on in, it starts to become a little bit of a struggle. The metabolism slows a bit. Clothes that fit a year ago suddenly seem a little snug. What’s all this hair in the tub drain? Perhaps your grandparents shake off their mortal coils, but at least there’s still a generation between you and your own departure.

The years pass and suddenly we’re 50. Our parents aren’t quite so vibrant anymore. Some get on the train to Elysium too and now mortality seems a little more real, a little closer. We have 50th birthday parties and put on our brave faces. Women stop menstruating. Is that a good or bad thing? They have menopause, a mysterious phase they all go through. Nobody explains anything to us men. We’re having problems of our own and self-medicate with sports cars, younger women and Viagra. We start going to doctors regularly to check for cancers of all sorts. They want to send cameras both up and down us. Cholesterol is a big thing. They need to monitor our blood pressure and blood sugar. I hear friends have gout. Isn’t that a medieval disease? Bring on the leeches.

My brother just turned 60. We had a family gathering. We joked what an old prick he is, but diabetes is knocking on the door. They keep taking samples of his face away to test for skin cancer. Retirement beckons. We start to exercise like demons, staving off aging and its eroding effects.

We are still here. We shake our fists at aging. We spit in its general direction. We shore up the battlements, hold back the siege. We shoot up our brave faces with Botox and attempt to smile. We look at each other. We still see beauty there and hope and life. We haven’t given up yet. We’re in it for the long haul.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

#aging #birthday

As time moved on, I grew a bit bolder with my initial messaging. Maybe I got a little abstract in my humor, but I didn’t need a hundred women responding, just one or two who really got me. I told a woman who listed dancing as her major interest that I was fantastic in both hip-hop and classical ballet. It was an outrageous falsehood. I had left it to her to figure out the likelihood of a 55-year-old white man being both a ballet and a hip-hop dancer was next to nil. Either would’ve been incredible. Nobody could believe I was attempting to pass myself off as both. She replied, “Lol. You’re a complete fraud!” Well, ok, I got a laugh, just the response I wanted. She got the joke, I thought. She’s even expanding on it a bit.

“I wouldn’t say a complete fraud,” I messaged back, smiling as I typed. “I’m just merely proficient in both. However, I can do a mean Pogo and a wild mash potato.”

A quick message back, “Just beat it!” Hmm, I thought, a Michael Jackson reference from the 80’s.

“And I can moonwalk too!” This was a lie as well, but she wouldn’t find out until after we had met and she had discovered how charming I was in person.

“Why don’t you moonwalk your sorry ass off a very high cliff?” This is when I began to think maybe she wasn’t getting my humor at all. A lot gets lost in text messaging. I cannot see if she’s smiling or frowning. I once used “dunno” answering a woman and she asked me if I meant “I don’t know.” I replied in the affirmative and she said, “No slang!” Then she blocked me. The blocking really bugged the crap out of me, because that’s a discussion I would have enjoyed. I wouldn’t be able to debate her on the merits of slang, the beauty of an ever-changing, living language. I couldn’t tell her how Shakespeare just made up words as he went along. She had concluded I was both lazy and stupid. All because I said “dunno”. I was left in a void with no way to rectify the problem.

One last message to my dance partner, “You do get that I’m just joking?”

“Fuck off!” So I did. And then I blocked her.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

#dance #dancing #texting