When I yelped in protest, she sneered that someday I would remember it fondly.
"Hah! When I’m gone, you’ll miss my patting your butt. No one else would do it -- “Aiyah, don’t wanna touch those flabby ancient spongies!” "
And with that, the bathroom door closed.
She’s probably at least partially right. At fifty years of age, I am not exactly in the running for Don Juan, as Savage Kitten realizes. But then I never was.
More likely somebody’s crazy old male relative. Something avuncular.
Which brings me to a conversation on facebook, reproduced below.
It is between a dignified gentleman, and a smart-aleck young lady.
[Names have been changed to protect the innocent.]
Middle-aged Coot: I wish to formally affirm that I am NOT, repeat, NOT, trying to get into her panties. Although I am sure they are quite fine, as such things go.
Middle-aged Coot: They're probably too tight anyhow.
Middle-aged Coot: I merely wish to persuade her to take up smoking. That is the furthest I wish to go.
Middle-aged Coot: Young ladies with fine briars - it's a lovely combination.
Sweetyoungthing: Yes. Far too tight.
Sweetyoungthing: Not until I go to college.
Sweetyoungthing: Probably like swimsuit blondes and Ferraris.
Rabbitmom: SYT, ignore the creepy old men. Leave them to the creepy old women.
Sweetyoungthing: How can I ignore the creepy old men? They're all around us!
Sweetyoungthing: Besides, he's too much into tobacco and whiskey to do anything. It saps the male vitality.
Sweetyoungthing: The words "dried-up old Dutchman" come to mind. Nabokovian, yes, but hardly Humbert Humbert.
Middle-aged Coot: Young lady, I'll have you know I am still very moist! At least fifty-five to fifty-seven percent by bodyweight water! That is sufficient!
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My sympathies, of course, are with Middle-aged Coot. How could it be otherwise? He and I probably have much in common, and he is clearly the aggrieved party.
I've been there, I know how that feels.
Whereas his attacker, miss Sweetyoungthing, obviously, is a snarky fourteen year old who lacks a proper attitude towards her elders.
In actual fact, none of us wish to get into her panties. We are cognizant of the law. And that society disapproves of such things. If we were even ever so inclined.
Which we aren't.
We are the pure of heart. Think of us each as 'Tobacco Uncle'.
Instead, we fervently and passionately wish to introduce her to pressed blonde Virginia flakes (demure and maidenly), or light Balkan blends (zesty and full of life), English mixtures (perky, audacious, even quite full of figure), and, should she prove receptive, the full Balkan blend in all its glory (seductive, mysterious, and tantalizing).
We might even expose her to a dark stoved flake (earthy, but with an alluring sweetness), Perique concoctions (oooh, so naughty!), and if there is absolutely NO other choice, mild aromatics (out dancing with the boys, but still home by ten).
Trust me, my dear, these things are far far better than chocolate. You will soon be convinced.
TOBACCO INDEX
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