The Later Dater

Listening to the radio one day, the announcer noted that 'kids' (under about 25) were horrified at the thought of anyone over 40 having sex. In fact, many questioned assumed that folk stopped this act at about 39 and looked upon those acting upon such primeval urges as repulsive, even obscene. I squirmed in my forty-something hide.

Now assuming that the kids are wrong, and I have anecdotal evidence to suggest this. Take Viagra (or not, as the case may be), its ads are not targetted at the young and nubile. Current statistics divulge that older folk returning to the dating scene are picking up more than their dates due to omitting to use barrier contraceptives. In fact, if the ads are anything to go by, older folk are rampant albeit well-heeled sex fiends.

But what of real folk re-entering the dating realm? Why bother, surely a cup of tea and re-runs of Dad's Army should be enough to satisfy their needs? Companionship is the first ship pushed into port. Now this may be a lovely ship to set sail on, but companionship could be scored with a small furry animal or a blow-up doll. Lust is hardly ever alluded to in the older daters repertoire. This could be due to suspect hips or cranky backs but I suspect it's more to do with the misconception of age.

Stories of older daters are somewhat precious (our memories aren't what they once were) and much funnier than when we were young. When young, we'd cringe into our dacquiris at the unfairness of it all. Older daters revel in the full glory of embarrassment. Afterall, breasts are not where they once were nor bottoms as pert.

A very good friend, fell for a pony-tailed, single dad. He was witty, charming and quite buff. So all the ingredients were in place for a date or two or even three.

With dim lights and soft pillows, he carressed her with words and their adventures raced into the night. They were no longer cheering on the side of the soccer field Saturday morning, they were now on a much more grown-up playing field.

One morning after their exertions, the pony-tail hopped out of bed and made his way into the shower, afterall he needed to get ready for work.

My friend lay on the crumpled sheets, as the sun started to trickle into the room. One ray, as if a spotlight, fell on a small picture on the wall, drawing it to her immediate attention.

Looking over, she couldn't quite make it out. Getting up, she moved closer, grabbing her glasses from the bedside table. Her eyes widened as she looked. Dropping her glasses to the floor she picked up her clothes and dressed quickly.

In the frame sat a miniture shrine to pony-tail's ex-wife. She was smiling in one, laughing in another, comtemplative in that shot and harrowed in another.

He re-entered the room, just as she was stepping into her shoes. Not wanting to make a scene, she kissed him briefly on his de-stubbled cheek and clattered away.

As she sat in her car, the shrine flashing in her thoughts, she held back tears. Creasing her brow, the smell from the kiss lingered. But she couldn't quite make it out. All she knew was that its smell was something very familiar, she just couldn't think what.

Then she remembered.

Nit shampoo.

Smiling to herself, she turned the key in the ignition.