Roger awoke and immediately knew that two things were fundamentally wrong with the picture. First, he was not in his own bed, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but as an older fellow, he liked his own bed.
There was a beautiful woman staring directly at him. Her beautiful thick black hair had a greenish tinge and flowed over a shapely waist and perfectly shaped buttocks disappearing under the blanket. He reached out to touch her, and pulled short. as the second thing happened.
The beautiful woman was in fact a mermaid tattooed on the back of a much larger torso. The real woman beside him had short flaming red hair. In her ear, at least four spikes, and a chain going to her nose. And there was another tattoo, a snake, wrapped around her neck, its mouth open, fangs gleaming.
This is not going well, he thought as he quietly slipped out of the bed, dressed and stole away.
“Lookin’ for love in all the wrong places,” the song rang through his head as he drove home.
With his 60th birthday looming, Roger desired a life partner—before his life ran out. He hadn’t been having much luck on his quest. Most of his invitations garnered incredulous stares, and too often the woman would just break out laughing hysterically. Last night at a party he was flirting with the redhead, Anka. “I am from Russia” she said. “You like snake, come, we drink vodka, I show you my back.” He could not refuse.
He had always got along well with women, even married women. They always had the perfect girl for him. Now he just politely refused.
He had tried the bar scene, but quickly realized that the women of his demographic were checking out the younger men around him — as were the younger women.
With full brutal honesty he created a profile on a dating site and exposed himself to the myriad of women who, just like him were seeking a life partner.
And sure enough, there she was.
52, good looking, professional, good income, loved to travel, cook, dine out, listen to great music and read. “At home in hiking boots, sandals or heels,” she claimed. He contacted her.
She offered to buy dinner, even pick him up. But when he got in the car, he had to wonder if this was perhaps her mother, here to check him out before the date.
“You look just like your picture,” he lied. “Oh” she laughed, “ that picture was taken a few years ago, and I’ve just started a new diet.” Roger reassured her with pleasant small talk, and proceeded to get hammered on real good scotch—since she was buying.
At home he looked at his drunken self in the mirror. “Who am I kidding,” he thought.
The next morning he signed up to a Yoga studio, and after a few weeks of exhausting workouts, started really digging it. He went religiously every day concentrating on the practice and his health, eventually not even noticing his proximity to the plethora of beautiful, lithe, usually blonde, pony-tailed women of all ages who effortlessly contorted into pretzels.
He pampered himself with the luxury of expensive organic food and became a regular at the local market. He took pride in his ability to find the freshest and most perfect of the fruit and vegetables. He stopped drinking and got healthier and stronger as the months passed.
He even convinced himself that celibacy didn’t matter. His married friends constantly complained about not getting any, and he wasn’t getting any less than they were.
Even the Buddha says, love yourself, you’re all you’ve got. The Buddha doesn’t worry about sex.
One day at the organic market he was picking through the fresh mangos when a voice beside him asked, “what’s the trick to choosing a good mango? “
Without looking up, he chose a mango and said,
“A ripe mango is like a young woman. It has smooth skin, often with a rosy glow. Its meat is firm yet supple. You must squeeze very gently. It gives, but only the slightest bit. Don’t bruise it. You can tell.
He looked up at a very attractive older woman, feeling slightly embarrassed as he recognized her from the studio.
That’s easy enough,” she laughed. “How about avocados?”
Roger picked through a few from the pile, and held one up.
“Now avocados are a completely different thing. The skin can be green or black, but is always thick and hard. Seemingly unyielding, tenaciously protecting the treasure inside.
“No, only an experienced hand can hold the fruit and tell the story of what’s inside. You need an especially tender explorative touch, and an even gentler squeeze to establish whether the inside is an over-ripe dark discolored mush, or a perfectly aged fruit that is firm, yet creamy and soft with exquisite texture and flavor.
He grinned and looked up at her, handing her the fruit. “A perfect avocado is like a beautiful mature woman whose life has been filled with love and kindness. You don’t just poke in the stem.”
She laughed as she took the fruit, her hand lingering on his for a moment.
“Buy you a coffee?” she asked
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