I admire people who want to get laid, I do. I’m just not the right source to get your needs met.
Seems I have an admirer. He’s around 40, handsome…a writer who I’ll admit I somewhat like. He flirts with me in the foyer of the library making it known he’d like it to go much further.
He does this funny thing with his feet…they rub one another while he chats me up…as if he has an itch, which I suppose he does.
I’m polite, flirt back just enough to raise my blood sugar, but I’m really not interested in dinner with Andy.
For starters, the ambient noise holds my appetite for ransom, causing me to drink while I sit there nodding my head having no idea what’s being said.
The truth is, I want to live in the reality of my present. I’m told I should go out anyway, and think why, if I won’t enjoy myself.
To be with a man, my friend Camille says. A man I can’t hear nor understand and yes, sex can be conducted mutely, but that doesn’t interest me either…like watching a foreign film naked.
Estrogen cream stuffed in my clutch is just too depressing, along with pretending my libido is back from the coast. Last I heard it was at the Chateau Marmont doing jelly shots with the Stones.
I want to accept my life as is…it’s the least I can do for myself, and randy Andy can just go find himself someone else to canoodle with.
There, matter closed.