On a Summer’s day so still, even the chipmunks stopped skittering, my love and I lazed about the lakeshore. Except for being named Long Pond on the local map, I would have had a hard time calling it a small lake or a large pond. I never knew the difference, just the same with creeks and brooks.* As with many things, it was the size that mattered. I just didn’t know when one became the other. Suffice to say, the day was so hot, I had nothing better to do but ponder such things aloud. And Angela listened and smiled wryly, because she had nothing better to do than listen to me and the cicadas drone.

We slathered ourselves slick with sunscreen and took two fat innertubes out of the dockside shed and placed them in the water. Angela tried gracefully to plant her bottom in the center, but failed miserably. I handed her two umbrellas after she had settled and then I just flopped backwards into mine. We opened our umbrellas and meandered about the pond slowly as there was barely any breeze at all.

We held hands or intertwined our legs, as if there really was a chance of drifting apart. Twice we laid our umbrellas upside down on the water surface so they could float while we took a dip in the cool, clear water. Later, we showered and supped. I built a little fire with twigs by the pond to keep the critters and skeeters away. We shared a bottle of wine sitting on cushioned Adirondack chairs, awaiting the stars to blink awake as they did in that divine darkness. And Angela listened to me tell talltales of make-believe constellations. What would you like to do tomorrow, I asked.

The same again, please, she replied, smiling sleepily.

*Ever the seeker of useless knowledge, I took the time to find out the difference between ponds and lakes and…there is no scientific demarcation, except to say a pond is smaller than a lake. I also read sunlight does not reach the bottom of a lake, but really the person who names it makes the call.

The difference between brooks and creeks: size again, but it gets a little more scientific in that you can step across a brook but have to jump across a creek.

There will be quiz later.

#middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #summer #shortstory #fiction

I had been told it’s possible to have given birth while still a virgin. Of course, being Catholic, I had heard all about the Virgin Mary, but nobody in my hometown was being visited by the archangel Gabriel. These miraculous pregnancies were being prognosticated by Mr. Forrest, 6’4″ of grizzled, no-nonsense, former marine. He was my eighth grade sex education teacher (really he was the gym teacher and way out of his depth) telling us boys-the girls were being lectured separately-we could get so excited during a makeout session that some eager sperm may very well escape, weave their way through our briefs and jeans, through the girl’s clothes, and swim their way happily upstream to fertilize an unexpecting, but soon to be expecting, egg. He told us our sperm were absolutely Homeric in their endeavor to get to their goal. Our running backs at the high school, he said pointedly, could learn a lot from sperm.

And just like that, the hallways would be filled with pregnant virgins. Mr. Forrest also told us, the resultant baby should be considered 9 months old and three months later, a year old. After all, he told us, life starts at conception. Mr. Forrest did not shy away from controversy. We were made to keep a decent distance between our bodies during the slow songs at the school dance a few days later.

As far as I know, there were no virgin births and yet I’ve found no lack of nouveau virgins as I’ve waded back into the dating pool. These are middle-aged women, mostly mother’s, who are quite happy living chaste lives. Sex will be withheld until either I’ve proven myself especially worthy or we’ve married. My ex-girlfriend found religion several years into our relationship and decided one day we would no longer know each other sexually until after a walk down the aisle. I walked somewhere, but it was not down an aisle.

A woman, with whom I love conversing, told me she has basically given up sex for good. I told her sex and ice cream are the two great rewards life has to offer. I’ll stick to ice cream then. I get nauseous thinking about bodily fluids. I didn’t bother pointing out ice cream is frozen scoops of bodily fluids, just not human.

I am not arguing for casual or promiscuous sex, but I do feel sex is one of the great joys God has granted us. In no other way can one find that level of bliss naturally. The orgasm is a gift granted by God, to make the perpetuation of life a joy, not a burden. I would suggest as we get older, perhaps we should be enjoying it more. After all, the years don’t run ahead in great numbers anymore. Your orgasms, like your days, are finite. Gather them while you still can.

#middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing

#orgasm #virgins #catholic #virginmary

As we get older, commitments become very different things from what they were when we were young. We’ve aged, matured, and gained life experience we could not fathom in our 20’s. I was 27 years old when I got married. What did I know about “until death do us part”? One would think it would be a little easier making that promise now the end point isn’t quite so distant, but somehow it’s become more difficult.

I was discussing commitments the other night. Which were the ones I was still willing to make? For instance, I don’t think I’d buy a house with a 30-year mortgage with any thought I’d be burning the note at the end.

And as you get older, those commitment periods get shorter. I would like to get a pet to share my days. A tortoise is out of the question. Those bastards can live 75 years. Even the longevity of parrots might be too much. They can go 22 years. A dog or cat might still make good companions. They can live 10 to 15 years. After I reach 70, I’ll have to do the math again.

I recently bought some tickets for a concert 9 months away. In the age of computers, do they really need to sell them so far out. When I buy a ticket to something, I would like to go while I still remember I bought the damn things. In the not too distant future, I may have to stop buying tickets for shows that far in the future. I may not be there to see it. And, frankly, for some of these old rock and rollers, I’m a little doubtful they’re going to be around that long.

The commitment grace period is getting shorter. I think I have a few more great commitments left in me, a pet, a car. There will be a day though, when I’ll have to think twice about buying a gallon of milk. After all, my expiration date might be before the stamp on the container.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #expirationdate #pets #milk

#toohot

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