After the Tact

Back when I was a hip ‘n’ swingin’ girl about a smaller town (Philadelphia), I used to go out on these things I called “dates”. That word has probably fallen out of fashion by now, and probably wasn’t even in vogue then, but, well, I’m really an old-fashioned girl, so it doesn’t matter much. (And it doesn’t matter, either, if I choose to do the “mashed potato” at the swanky clubs around town. I don’t care for this stuff that’s passing for dancing these days.)
So anyway, I dated. I went out with a variety of guys. Men, boys, boys to men, men to boys. (Sorry, girls, but despite what I may have led you to believe, I’m not into you that way. Sure, I dig the way your hair smells of “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific” and I like the curve of your lower back and the way you bite your lower lip when you’re feeling shy. Oh, and the sway of your hips. But that’s as far as it goes.) Thursday night I’d be at Striped Bass with Mr. FancyPants, where the bill would come to more than my Thursday night date (“I’ll bring you Diet Coke!”), Mr. ShortPants, made in two years selling lemonade on the sidewalk in front of his parents’ house.
It was fun sometimes, and it blew sometimes. Just like everything else. There were more misses than hits (and in a few cases a “missus” who would do a lot of hitting if she only knew) and more kisses than tits. And sometimes there was what the kids these days may still be calling “action”.
I don’t divulge details of my exploits when I’m actually involved with someone. None of that “kiss and tell” stuff. I don’t even talk about it when the situation isn’t too involved. It’s just not my way. However, years after the fact, I may tell a story or two about something particularly noteworthy, but only if the person isn’t anyone with whom I have any contact anymore. I am, after all, a lady in some respects.
However, I’d just like to say two things to (and thus, about [which is OK, since we haven’t spoken in years]) “C”, one of the deeper-pocketed men. A man of grace and elegance who could quite possibly pass for Barry Bostwick as he appeared in “Spin City”. A tall man (6’6″), well-dressed, impeccably groomed, chivalrous. I told him he looked like “Country Club Dad”. And he laughed. He had a very powerful laugh.
Country Club Dad: You would be well-advised not to refer to your penis as a “steel rod” when it has all the raw power of a sheet of aluminum foil. You should also know that when you tell me, over and over again to “watch it grow”, that a watched pot never boils.
That’s all.