I’m a tell it like it is. Older women dig The Steve. I think a few of my mothers friends read this blog — don’t think I hadn’t noticed. Me-ow. You’re blushing now, aren’t you? You’re imagining me talking in a Barry White baritone, alone in your bedroom. Your sweetness is my weakness. I’m in a satin robe with a bit of a belly and sparse chest hair, some moles on my back and a spring in my step. Can’t get enough of your love… Water to the face! Breathe – This is just a fantasy. Breathe. That’s your hand, not mine. Breathe. Relax – it’s your dirty secret, I don’t really know (winky face.)
In my early 20’s I was at the peak of desire for women of this variety. As a 23 year old bartending Adonis (sans the muscles), baby faced with whiskers and dripping in sex appeal my most frequent cliental was 40 something smokers, over-served and horny.
Me: What can I get cha?
Lady: Mmmm (purrr). What are you offering?
Me: You strike me as a Menthol 100 and spritzer type a gal. Am I right?
Lady: You are so adorable – get in my purse. I want to draw a mustache on you, put milk on your face and watch my cat lick it off.
Me: I get that. That is sexy. I’ll go get your Chardonnay and Sprite.
Yeah, I speak that language. Slight problem – it’s not my demographic of choice. However, I once parlayed a cougar flirt job into a date with a sluh-tay looking daughter of a middle aged admirer. She says to me, “You are just so adorable. Look at this picture of my daughter. I should set you up. She trusts my judgement, I mean, has good taste in boys, I mean men, I mean – I think you two would have a good time.”
Me: “I think I know what you mean. You do have good taste.”
End mack portion of story
Begin humiliation portion
This led to the weirdest date of my life. I called before picking her up, and she answered in tears. “Is everything ok?” I ask.
Her: “Yeah. It’s just that my dad just found out I was on Girl’s Gone Wild… for the second time <sob, sob.>
Me: “I’m so sorry to hear that. Can you hold on for a second?” <giddy fist pumps while running in place and a quick “please say no” prayer.> Do you want to reschedule?
Her: No. I’m fine. I’ll see you in 30 minutes.
Appropriately late (32 minutes) I pull up to her house. Check for food in the teeth. Smooth out eye brows. Eat a tic-tac. Pimp strut to front door. She answers.
Me: Wow, you look (like a stripper) wonderful.
Her: “Thanks. You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”
— and we’re off —
The next 90 minutes are a bit of a blur. It takes a lot to overwhelm the Avocado, but she found a way.
Her: “My dad is so mad.”
Me: “The Girls Gone Wild thing?”
Her: “That, and the surgeries. Do you think my boobs look fake?
Me: “Uh…no, they look, um…they look totally normal. And good. I mean great (rattled head shake.) Did you say surgeries, as in plural?”
Her: “Yeah – I had laser surgery to remove all of my pubic hair too. My dad thinks it’s a waste of money and now he’s saying I can’t redo my nose.”
Not knowing how to respond to that I offer a meek: “What a jerk?”
Her: (while applying lipstick, again, in the fold down mirror) “Whatever.”
The bar offered no reprieve. As her accounts of promiscuity unfolded, my deer in the headlights look became less endearing and more awkward. My choice of conversation followed suit..
Attempted humor, awkward and nervous – “I also enjoy sex, usually more than my partners -haha.”
She spends the majority of the next 2 hours talking on her phone to an ex. It’s all getting away from me. Needing some water to refresh and regroup, I order one from the bar.
Her: “Water? I think you’re getting drunk. You should take me home.”
With failure all but ensured, I drive her home and make one last ditch effort at saving what I once considered to be an inevitable boom-shaka night. “You mind if I come in?”
Her: “Kind of.”
Me: (weak face-saving attempt) “I mean – to use the bathroom.”
Eye roll – “Ok”
Me (Leaving): “Well, tell your mom I say hi. Talk to you again?”
Her: “Maybe – who knows. Sometimes I drunk dial.”
I offer this as a moment of humility, a juxtaposition to the nearly flawless body of work that is “The Steve.” Take your lumps in stride, avoid strippers – and at the end of the day, do like I do. Write a blog to get over it.
The Big Avocado.