Who said romance is dead?
Oh, it was me.
Ever since my libido moved to Florida, there’s been none in my life…not even a healthy flirt since, you need its presence when you’re femme fataling it in any capacity.
It’s like a cheerleader with pom-poms screaming, go team go, as you vamp and tramp with some unsuspecting guy who’s just trying to read his paper.
I’ve accepted my sexual retirement with a great deal of magnanimity, now knowing how the oldest bunny at the Playboy Club must feel trading in her cleavage for the job of being in charge of the hutch.
Not that I had any cleavage to trade, but you get the gist.
I actually met a retired bunny once…Tiffany…call me Tiff…was her name, who was still very attractive, but did look like a wrinkled centerfold, no pun intended.
But I’m going off point, as they say.
When these beautiful flowers arrived and happened to be my favorites…pale pink tea roses, long, loose, unarranged, dancing in their pretty paper like showgirls waiting in the wings…
with no card…I knew it was someone who knows me, and well,
racking my brains, the few I have left, trying to figure out who it could be.
Hicks is out, for obvious reasons, and there is that Englishman who should be brought up on heartbreaking charges.
Wish the Senate would vote on that.
But as an actor, he’s too vain to do anything anonymously since he’d be in the lobby like a sleek seal, reciting Hamlet for the doormen.
So, here I sit with the Rockettes kicking up their stems on my coffee table, pondering their purchaser who forbid the florist to reveal his identity.
Better place a call to my libido and tell her to get her ass back here…just in case.
“Hello Lib, are ya there? Pick up! Whaddya mean she’s by the pool.” 🙂