Velvet in Dupont 28 May 2008 12:06 am
As we left my building one night, I said, “There’s my homeless boyfriend.” Mr. X and I gave him some money. He looked sad. Perhaps it was because I was on the arm of a man and the last two times I saw Dredlocks he asked me out. Or perhaps it was because it was raining and he’s homeless.
Regardless, there’s nothing like saying you’ve arrived when you go down to your front door and find a homeless guy trying to call you from the callbox - with the help of one of your neighbors. I wondered which of the two had truly lost their mind – the homeless man asking me out and telling me he needed a warm place to stay for the night or my god damned neighbor who told him my last name and how to dial my number. This city is too liberal, even for me.
So Mr. X said to me, “You know, it would be nice if you could point to some decent looking guy under 80 years old who has asked you out. It would make me feel a little better than the processional of wheelchairs and canes hovering around your front door for a date.”
It’s true. Within a span of 10 days, I’d been asked out by three men, all over 65 years old. My mom wanted me to post about the Congressman, but I’m nothing if not against the “D.C. Machine.” Let’s just say I royally fucked up some serious rules of avoiding the unsolicited “well now I owe you one so let’s go to dinner.” I did this guy a favor, not knowing he was a Congressman and not particularly caring, and he used my favor to up the ante and push for dinner. I promptly sent the link for his website off to 17 of my closest friends. Patsy texted back, “FUCK. I was NOT prepared for THAT!”
Mr. X just wants one of my suitors to be young and attractive so it can validate his attraction to moi, but that hasn’t happened. I have been considering wearing a
medic alert bracelet decoy ring to ward off these advances but instead, despite the fact that I’m very lucky in the wrinkle department for 35 years old, I just decided to try to look younger.
I went to the Dermatologist and said, “Why is this happening?” I pointed to several parts of my body including lines around my mouth and my C cups (D Cups if you believe that whore from Nordstrom) that you can now find down near my knees thanks to years of running with an improper sports bra. The Derm put on his mask and said, “Honey. You need a plastic surgeon.”
Great. Just fucking great.
So now every day my mom and I have the same conversation.
Mom: Honey, please, before you get your tits lifted, can you check into some of those really good expensive bras.
Me: Would you stop? Helium and a crane couldn’t save me now.
Mom: Why do you want to go under the knife?
Me: Well mom, when you watch as much porn as I do, tits on the collarbone start to look normal. And I’m going to stop telling you shit because now you’re going to send me every fucking newspaper article on the matter.
Mom: Oh, I will NOT.
I’m not sure what’s worse: That she actually underlines crap in those newspaper clippings with a red pen, as if I’m too stupid to find the main points of the article, or that my mom is younger than the average age of men who asked me out that painful week.