If you are into on-line dating, take my advice: cut the foreplay. Keep email and phone calls to an absolute minimum. Get right to the meeting. I speak from experience! Anyone can be sexy, smart, funny, kind, sensitive etc. on the phone or on email.
It comes down to chemistry, and only a one-on-one, person-to-person encounter will tell if you two have it.
HSM charmed me. There was a lot to like, yet I noted the red flags: He’s working on a deal that could net tens of millions. His first big score. He had been a medical dr. in a big city in the Midwest. But his wife divorced him, he moved to L.A. and now he’s an actor. He lives in an apt. not a house.
We agree on lunch, Sat. His suggested Chili’s in some part of L.A. I think it was Marina del Rey. Red flag. Either he has pedestrian taste, and/or he doesn’t have much money. Actually, I like Chili’s, but not a good suggestion by a 60 year old man who wants to impress a woman.
We settle on Louise’s in Old town Pasadena. Sat. morning, as I’m putting on my make-up, getting ready for our lunch date, he calls to cancel. There’s this conference call: Dubai, Hong Kong, South Africa. Don’t know when it will finish. Lunch is off.
He calls about 7 that night. He talks a lot. Finally, I say, we have to meet. I’m not interested in a phone and email relationship with someone I’ve never met, so when he has a time and place, call me, and I’ll come meet him. Maybe it was a bit harsh. Maybe he could have said, well, then let’s set a firm date right now. What he said was, “ok, I have my marching orders.” I think I said something nice and reassuring.
And that was that. Never heard from him again. Easy come, easy go.
Ladies, you are not going to believe this.
Today I met LRSM on the phone. You know the drill, I saw his picture on Match.com, I wrote him that I liked his smile; he wrote back that he liked my smile, too, and included his phone number. I called him.
Very low energy, and kind of boring. He’s a widow. I asked, how long have you been a widower? Four months. FOUR FUCKING MONTHS, and he’s out catting around, sniffing, looking for a woman. He said he didn’t like to be alone. Yeah, well, a lot of us don’t like to be alone, but we wait a decent period of time before going shopping for a new mate.
It took me two years after my last partner to even think about a replacement. And another two years go decide to do something about it.
And since LRSM has been on Match.com for two weeks, and let’s say he thought about it for a few weeks, prior to actually joining, within three months, THREE FUCKING MONTHS, of his wife’s death, he ready to replace.
I heard this expression: “women mourn, men replace.”
Yeah, well, I guess so, but that doesn’t make it any nicer.
Got a note from N. She’s getting a divorce. She mentioned something about not wanting involvement, just a man-whore. Apparently there’s a wish out there, by some women in their 30’s, or 40s, for a man-whore. That’s what she called him.
I wasn’t familiar with the term, but she didn’t have to define it, I got it.
Interesting, that a word has been invented to go with this new role that some men have. Like a man-purse. A man-whore. I don’t’ know about you, but to me it has the same grunty, drippy visceral kick as the word cunt. A really bad insult, a very bad thing. I wonder how a guy feels when he hears himself described like that?
I first noticed the electrical charge of “falling in love” when I was 20. Boyfriend and I went to the bakery and the baker gave us extra sweets. Why? Cause BF & I were combusting, our “falling in love” created so much heat we were sending out electrical jolts all around us. The baker was sucked right in to the happy party, and BF and I got smiles and happy nods from strangers.
Now, I’m 60 and my fear is that I’ll become too old and ugly for anyone to fall in love with me, and it’s all because of Bette Davis.
When I was really young, and she was really old, I saw her on the Johnny Carson show, wearing little white gloves, which hadn’t been in style for at least a decade. Obviously trying to hide her old, ugly hands.
And I thought something along the lines of “I hope I never get that creepy.”
And now I see we can’t avoid getting creepy, unless we die young. And one has to come to terms with that. Now ain’t that a bitch.
Here’s the thing. I want to be desired. I want a man to want me. I want to make a man hard. I want him to pant, to become obsessed, to not be able to keep his hand off of me. To me, those moments, those exact minutes, are the highest high, the biggest thrill. After that comes falling in love.
Just in case you ever wondered if there was sex after 60 just look at the picure of Bruce Springsteen on the cover of this month’s AARP magazine.
The answer is yes, there is sex at 60.
I just discovered a SLEW of (BOR-ing!) books about women’s sexuality at 50 and 60 and 70. And even 80. They looked like books I don’t want to read, like something from a Jr. High sex education class, except for one: “Still Doing It,” which is not only a book, it’s also a a documentary on the film festival circuit, and it has a “sexy” website. I checked out the film clip: my one issue is that they could have chosen, overall, more attractive women to interview.
Yes, these women were lusty at 65, but the other part of that equation is looking the part. You know what I mean? It’s one thing that YOU want sex; it quite another to find a man who agrees with you. Isn’t it obvious that if you want him to desire you, you have to look alluring? Be alluring? We play our part, he’ll play his? You know what I mean.
On Thurs. Met BLC for lunch. He drove a red Corvette.
Three Corvettes in a a row, black, orange, red. All new.
No. No and no.
Nice-ish kind of guy. Didn’t look me in the eye when we talked, at first, but that could be nervousness. He did later. But still. Wore pants w/ an elastic waist cause he was like 30 lbs overweight
Had A+ emails w/ PM but the phone conversation was a dud. He’s in the movie biz, editor, some scripts, some 2nd unit filming. Quitting that to write his novel. Was married for 30 years then his wife divorced him. That’s pretty unusual.
Lots of psychobabble, and way too much detail about the scripts and the stories. Movie people are like that. They think everybody is interested in them.
I asked him why he was telling me so much detail about a movie that might not even get made? I actually told him that shoptalk was only interesting to other people in the field. I could tell that’s when he lost interest in me. But I didn’t care. In this case, I didn’t want him to fall in love with me, even for 5 minutes. I just wanted him to disappear.
So, it’s time to go “fishing” again. Find some new dates. Maybe Mr. Wonderful. It’s hope that get’s us up every morning.
I love shoes. Sexy, chic, elegant shoes. Just as lovely lingerie says something about the kind of woman you are, so do your shoes. Last winter my favorite was a pair of leopard stilettos, which showed toe cleavage. Why do I bring this up? Because 25 years ago my mother told me that there came a time when she couldn’t wear high heels anymore. That had never occurred to me and it made a serious impression on me.
This past year, I did notice that “spikes”, as stilettos used to be called, well, just weren’t as comfortable as they used to be. Was it my feet? Or the shoes? Or both? Part of it is that shoes these days, the brands you get at Nordstroms or Macy’s, unless they cost a fortune and are hand made in Italy, are made in China by people earning 12 cents an hour, who don’t give a shit about workmanship. Chinese made shoes are designed to fit some abstract, “average” foot, meaning they don’t really fit anybody, the materials are the cheapest and the construction is sloppy. No wonder they are uncomfortable. Compare that to a pair of Bruno Magli’s: the teeny-tiny stiches, the buttery leather, the arch support, the heel that fits. I can walk all over Manhattan in those, and feel just fine.
On the other hand, I do think that the “padding” on the bottom of my foot isn’t as spongy as it might have been, say, 10 years ago? Maybe the combo of thinner tissue plus poorly designed shoes, equals a less than comfortable walkabout?
I don’t care.
I’m going to wear stilettos no matter what, even if they are uncomfortable. When I start to wear old lady shoes, it means I’ve thrown in the towel, sex doesn’t matter, that I’m putting comfort over looks. If it’s a toss up between comfort and looking sexy, I’m going with the sex. That says a lot about a woman’s priorities and I’m not near ready to put comfort over sex appeal. Not by a long shot