I find the historicity of age to be positively fascinating. Being old itself isn’t all that wonderful, but being able to gaze back across six decades has led me to some marvelous insights into the very nature of [primarily my own] human existence.

One thing the perspective of age can teach us in the here and now is that life is no longer linear. Instead, life is broken up into a bunch of separately discrete points that just happen to be co-joined. The future always appears to be a predictable continuum of the present but reality has proven that just isn’t so.

I’ve owned houses, I’ve sold houses. I’ve lived here, I’ve lived there. And I’ve worked here and there, doing this and that. Women have come and women have gone.

I swore off sleeping with twenty-something year old women fifteen years ago but irony has raised her wicked, mischievous and pretty little head once again and I am now staring down a twenty-two year old woman who seems pretty determined to return me to my once lascivious ways.

To be quite honest here, regarding women, I’ve never really managed to grow up. For the life of me, with rare exception, it has been my observation that there are few (very few) physically attractive women over the age of forty.

The oldest woman I ever slept with in my entire life was forty-two and that was back when I was in high school. What can I say? I was easily seduced. Like many a horny teenager, many of us would have fucked a rock pile if we thought there was a snake in it.

Why do women let themselves go physically? Some as early as twenty-five or thirty. I’ve personally stayed in shape all these years simply because not to do so is unthinkable.

So where am I going with this tale? Oh, the twenty-two year old. She’s downright pretty. A beautiful smile, nice boobs, a good butt but hypercritically she’s starting to lose her muscle tone. Am I an immature asshole or what? Be that as it may, I am still being drawn into her orbit.

The only one thing I know for certain about women, physical wiles aside, is that they are damn clever. Six to sixty and they intuitively know what it takes to wrap a man around their little finger.

So what does this young woman want with the likes of me? A passport to a better life? In my case, not likely. To learn English like she says? To have some fun? To tease? Perhaps she has some daddy issues. Or maybe she’s just bored.

Who in the hell knows? Only she does, that’s for certain. But for whatever reason, starting next week, we’ll take a trial run at teaching her some English; in my apartment, for an hour twice per week.

I confess I would like to see her naked but I know there is no way for me to compete with her sexually. When I was her age we screwed like bunny rabbits. Something absolutely beyond my reach these days. And no, I am not a Viagra guy.

To momentarily reminisce. Back in the ’60s, sex for many of us was like shaking hands. I remember back in high school sleeping with three different girls on the same day. And my favorite sex bunny of that time; we once did it six times in twelve hours. I remember it vividly because it wore some of the hide off of my weenie.

Then there was college…

Remind me to tell you of that one particular legendary night of streaking the campus and then the night of finding the goddess, Tinker (as in from the gorgeous mischievous fairy, Tinkerbell) in my dorm room bed. I wandered in drunk about 3 am and my roommate, the No-Eyes wryly said, pointing upwards towards my bunk, “You’ve got company.”

Ah, but those are other truly wonderful stories worthy of their own separate and distinct posts. I will leave this post with the reminder that I momentarily picked up the nickname of Moses after the streaking episode. I obviously was naked, then with the long hair and beard – and was tall and skinny – so Cuchinotto (a rather famous football player who lived in my dorm) tried to hang that moniker on me.

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