As promised, I have decided that today I will bestow upon you all the story that so fascinated and terrified me a few weeks ago. Yes, the one with sex and cats. I sure hope that it lives up to your expectations, because I know you have been fantasizing about what it could possibly be all weekend.
I have a geriatric boyfriend of sorts (this is not the sexual fetish part). A long time regular of the restaurant I worked at in college, and a shorter than average bearded man of about sixty-something, Mr. OB and I often find ourselves dining alone at the same restaurant. We have our declared spots at the bar. We have our usual orders. We both like our wine with a nice cold diet coke on the side. So, in retrospect, we don’t ever actually eat alone. We eat together.
There are a few things you should know about Mr. OB. He always orders the same thing. He “only dates women under forty”. He knows people. He can and will tell you anything and everything there is to know about New Orleans even if you didn’t ask. He can not hear but refuses to get a hearing aid. I assume he thinks this would confirm his age, thus he avoids it. He is also known for something called the champagne bath, which by its name alone should give you an idea where this story is going.
Mr. OB and I share a no-shame attitude in regards to the openness of our conversations. I’m almost certain that it has nothing to do with the bottles of wine. Being that I mainly talk about cats in regular discourse anyway, and he about hot women he has courted, it is to no surprise of mine that the following conversation happened: Read the rest of this entry