On vacation we learned, Bill and I, that young ladies love old men.
As we sat on the deck, looking down on the beach, at bikinis, a clear vibe
came up from the sand.
A clear vibe of love for two sixty year olds appreciating fresh faced beauty.
Twenty year olds with zero body fat thinking "God, I love men with
grey hair, beer guts and bald spots."
Twenty year olds with zero body fat thinking "A forty year age gap
means nothing when you are talking 'bout love."
It was so obvious to us.
It made things uncomfortable for our women, knowing that Bill and I
could walk down to the beach and scoop up any babe we chose.
But they understood the caliber of the hunks they chose as mates so many years ago.
They knew the risk.
Still, we made light conversation, Bill and I, because we are pros.
But our eyes scanned the sand, evaluating, comparing, deciding which of the young beauties would complement our natural charms.
We didn't expect anything, necessarily, didn't want anything.
Except the satisfaction derived from improving someone's life
through the simple act of association.
The chosen ones' peers would be overcome with respect and awe.
Others would come to them for love advice, wanting to know just how you go about
attracting the attention of grey, old men.
But they would hold tight with that advice, to minimize the competition.
Makes sense. Makes a lot of sense.
We were ready, Bill and I, to make our move, poised to creak out of our chairs
and head down to the beach.
To bestow our blessings like the Pope to the poor.
Suddenly it seemed like another Margarita was in order.
No reason, other than our thirst and the delicious nature of the concoction.
Our women began to talk food; our women were hungry.
Plans were made to walk, arm in arm, downtown for premium junk food.
Margaritas slipped away and so did the time.
We never did make it down to the twenty year olds, never gave them
But we could have, Bill and I.