Ode to a Young Buck in a Liquor Store.

I couldn’t help but to smile under my Jackie O’s,

after being hit on by some 20-year-old,

who stared like I was a spread-eagle centerfold,

a boost to my battered and tattered ego,


I was dressed like a Female Assassin en Vogue,

a hoodie and shades, cause that’s just how I roll,

but the kid still told me that I was beautiful,

as he passed me by on his way out the door.


Hang Up and Survive!!! – A Concession of First/Last “Dates” with “Young-Bucks”.




Tonight’s “I’m a Loser Blogging on a Friday Night” post is about my infatuation with older dudes; and the recent – and long overdue – understanding of why I indulge in it, to begin with.

My “thing” for grown men started when I was embarrassingly young: approximately sixteen years old. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was during that time that I became a regular on the “Cradle Robber’s” scene; and I never looked back in terms of the age range defining any love affair that I tangle myself up in (yes, the Ripper was eleven years my senior, too). For years, this has been an element of me that has been difficult to explain to others (ANY ONE of my brothers have an opinion about my “twisted taste in tails to chase” worth special mention on this particular subject), and it also subconsciously has always sort of alarmed (?) me, too… to some degree.

I mean, let’s face it: young, good-looking chicks who are popular with their peers and date older dudes typically are a few sandwiches short on that picnic, if you know what I mean…

It’s only been in the past year and a half or so, since my nephews have grown into little “men” and I hang out with my guy friends from school and stuff again more often, that the answer has finally come to me surrounding WHY ANY IDEA THAT I MIGHT ENTERTAIN REGARDING ROMANCE OR LOVE INCLUDES A MAN AT LEAST A DECADE OLDER THAN ME:

Because, his fucking “Smartphone” NEVER becomes my competition for this older gentleman’s full attention.