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January 15, 2014

(originally published in PARTING GIFTS)

     Last week I visited my mother in the Jewish Home for the Aged. As we sat in the solarium talking, little by little her friends came by and joined us. Pretty soon I was sitting with a dozen seniors, all women.

     I am fine around women when it's on a one-to-one basis, but as soon as there is more than a couple of women around me I find myself picking and choosing. It happens. I couldn't not do it. I go through a process of deciding which one will be my next lover.

     Selecting her is not a snap decision. There is a method. I study each woman carefully until the cream rises to the top. This happens everywhere-in restaurants, department stores, funerals, bus stops, at Temple - anywhere. First, I eliminate the definite no chances, which is easy. Then I pick the positives. With a guy like me who's not all that discriminating-even in fantasy, the positives can mount up pretty fast. If there are enough positives to select from I don't even bother with the maybes.

     I was looking at these ladies, that's true--but it wasn't them I was seeing. I'm trained--my mind's eye is fine-tuned. I don't have to get off on old women. It was their daughters I was undressing. It's not hard to down-age a person with some practice, and God knows, I have enough practice. A couple of the seniors had to have beautiful daughters. I could tell.

     Molly, sitting to my mother's left, has very shapely legs. They are crossed lady-like at her ankles and I envision her daughter--a young Molly lifting her skirt above her knees showing me alluring thighs. Looking up I see the fullness of Molly's sagging chest and I'm in my world with young Molly unbuttoning her blouse, her full breasts, braless and pointing defiantly at me. Molly and I smile at each other and I see young Molly's mouth--beckoning mine with sparking teeth and natural lips--full and inviting. Just then Molly goes into a coughing jag and the moment is broken. Pass. Who needs this?

     I'm not exactly your soap opera hunk. I am tall and chunky, and a woman once told me that I had an appealingly soft smile. I liked that. Another told me I had a Will Rogers kind of smile. I guess they are the same thing.

     Anna walks in and my mother introduces her . I stand to say hello and her daughter reaches up and touches my cheek. It's a smooth caress. She is gentle and sensual and keeps her hand on my face, moving it slowly towards my mouth, parting my lips and sliding in two fingers. I roll my tongue around them and suck on her fingers separately and then together until she moans and unzips me with her free hand. We're staring at each other. As she reaches into my pants her mother gives my cheek two pats and a pinch and says, "What a handsome boychick." She moves to an empty chair. Erection and all I sit back down. Possibility.

     The scene I play out changes, but this is one of my favorites.

     My shirt is unbuttoned half-way and my gold chain shimmers as it weaves through the thicket of my chest hair. I am talking to a woman-charming her. I carry this all the way through to a bedroom. Then I do the same to the next woman and so forth. Sometimes, even often times, we never get as far as the bedroom scene. She'll make a gesture that I find unappealing and the fantasy will end. Why the hell should I have to put up with an unappealing gesture or expression in my own fantasy? If the chemistry isn't there, why bother to continue?

     When I finally make my selection I proceed to attempt to fulfill my fantasy. It's not unusual for me to end up with a new lover for the night or for a period of time by using this process. After all, I am pretty smooth, plus, I have this advantage of rehearsal. This is not foolproof and at times I go home alone. Sometimes, I never pursue -- I just do the exercise. Who has the time to complete every fantasy? Besides, I love the exercise.

     When it was time to end my visit I kissed my mother and said my goodbyes to the others and left the solarium. While I was waiting for the elevator one of the seniors came up to me. She was slender and wore a turquoise pants suit with the top three buttons opened. I'd been saving her and planning. Rifka's hair was red and curly and she had been sitting quietly two seats from me looking and listening. She was the mother of the most gorgeous daughter. She said, "I know that look in your eye."


     "That look you had in the solarium. Mine Milton, may he rest in peace, had that same look when he wanted my attention."

     Her beautiful daughter stood naked in front of me, unbuttoning my shirt, and I smiled.

     She looked into my eyes and smiled back. "Come to my room," she said, fluffing her hair with both hands, "and I give you like I gave Milton."

     Young Rifka turned and walked down the hallway. I pivoted and followed.

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