There is something horrific about a woman in her 70’s that likes to chase men half her age.
For the record, I am not a whore.
But, this is what happened.
I was driving a long distance thing recently.
4-5 hours in a crappy rental car is enough to make anyone a little punchy.
I can drive that far only if I have adequate amounts of caffeine.
Which explains why I am in a Starbucks in a major tourist city.
And that was when I met Betty.
Betty is 70 years old.
I know this because Betty told me.
Would you like to know what else Betty told me in the span of 3.5 minutes in line?
1. Betty’s husband, Herman, sleeps 12 hours a day and has not had sex with her for over 25 years.
2. Betty loves men in their 40’s. (This was said after she asked me my age.)
3. Betty has the cutest condo, just down the street, and I should come see it.
And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.
Let me paint you a picture.
The grand mother of ancient whores is prowling tourist spots and attempting to buy souls for coffee and shitty English pastry.
And the worst part is, she is cheap and has low standards.
You might think I am smacking myself here, I’m really not.
I am a realist.
I am five feet nothing with a gut, a bad attitude and tend to scowl when thinking about things.
This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.
I have had friends over the years that were the type of good-looking that men, women, and couples would hit on them.
I am not that guy, and I came to peace with that long ago.
There is a solid reason I developed this vengeful nasty attitude.
But, this is not about me, this is about Betty.
Betty is a realist too.
Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.
Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.
Someone who would be more than willing to drop whatever they were going to do on a Tuesday at 11am at a tourist stop, and give up the goods back at her retiree, ben gay smelling condo, all for the price of a coffee and pastry.
I should be insulted, but I find the whole thing kind of desperately charming.
Betty is not from a generation that does this.
So my mind immediately goes to what road led Betty here.
She let me quiz her for the better part of 10 minutes before she finally figured out I was not a team player and just turned and walked off, getting back into line behind a mid thirties redneck wearing an Earnhardt tee shirt.
I watched the whole thing unfold as I ate my cranberry-orange scone.
Jethro, for lack of a better name, listened as Betty laid it all out to him. He then got his coffee, took a bite of the cookie she bought him, and headed out the door with a delighted Betty.
You have to wonder how it all turned out.
Did she enjoy herself? Probably. I mean this is evidently her whole thing. God knows how many times a day Betty is making the Starbucks run.
Did he enjoy himself? Probably. Women that old usually know their game well. Also, it may have been quite a while since Jethro got anything other than chafing marks from his right hand. Its called lotion people. Look into it.
Did Herman wake up and realize his wife is banging countless strangers in the guest bedroom? For all we know, Herman is dead and his memory is now being served up as part of Betty’s “Mercy fuck” pitch
Did I miss out? Probably not. I am in my own head often enough to know that this twisted little scenario is tailor made for nightmares and indigestion and being even more of a disappointment in the sack.
So, all in all, Betty actually gave me a better gift than some wrinkled ass and crying in the shower.
A somewhat lurid blog, which I always love, and an interesting half hour during a boring drive.
Plus, the coffee was good. (And I do enjoy a good scone.)