Age Is Just a 1-800 Number

They say that the internet is primarily used for porn.

I’m not going to lie; I make a habit of deleting my search history every morning just in case I get hit by a bus.

Deleting your search history is the modern equivalent of heeding your mother’s advice regarding wearing clean underwear.

Given that I am a single woman almost beyond middle age, I am less concerned about the ambo’s reaction to my smalls than I am to my children’s horror at discovering my fixation with Japanese tentatporn.

It’s just SO bizarre how can anyone NOT be fascinated?

Today when I was looking at pictures of Hugh Jackman running all over Sydney beaches with his shirt off thus discovering a lot of rather well photo shopped pictures of him with his highly inflamed organ precariously close to the Adamantium sheathed 6 inch claws that thrust from his knuckles every time his blood rises….I came across a WHOLE other side to the phrase ‘something for everyone’.

Down on about page 8 of the search (hey, my weekend had started and it’s raining outside) there was a rather disturbing picture of a clearly elderly gentleman all but naked, with a look on his face that was either ‘come get me’ or ‘help me, I may be having a stroke’.

When my mouse ran over his ample grey chest I discovered it belonged to someone’s Flickr account.

OK.

I thought we all knew about not wishing to appear naked online unless we were being paid for it, but still…..I clicked on the picture and lo, found myself in the world of ‘ Italian Daddy’s’.

Now before you think for one minute that I am sitting here in judgement, let me just point out that I understand perfectly well the dynamics of sexual psychology.

My rainbow flagged family, not to mention my own predilections, could leave little doubt as to the Large ‘O’ Open-mindedness I value.

Whatever floats your boat, as long as it’s between consenting adults of the same species, but flicking through this account - ( wow, those guys NAILED naming that thing, so much more than Tumblr )- it was clear to me that most of the pictures taken were of unsuspecting members of the public.

Of the 229 photos at least half were just of old men walking down the street or in the stands at Soccer matches, or fishing off piers.

Most of them were clearly shot from the back and, I would think, without the subject’s awareness or permission.

Of course, some of the photos were clearly set up to look smexy.

Nothing says ‘You’ve been naughty’ like a grinning topless 70 year old laying on a peach pleather sofa with his belt buckle undone.

I’m going to be honest; the ones with the walking sticks freaked me out a little, as did the sequence of stills – obviously taken from the tele- of Peter Sellers removing his socks.

That the account is held by, and is a service to, men and women ( and here I think I mean just men) who find beer bellied, balding, double chinned old Italian men the hottest thing since removable false teeth is, I suppose, heart-warming.

It doesn’t do it for me, but it clearly does for ‘greydigger’, ‘daddyzboi’ and ‘Grislyman’, all of whom made a number of pictures of old men in jeans their personal favourites.

And that’s a fine thing, although I do think that taking random photographs of Giovanni Public as he wanders through the piazza for a Lemoncello and a dissection of the game in his twilight years a bit of an invasion of privacy.

Not to mention probably illegal.

Italian men are packed with testosterone, it’s true, but not all of them imagine themselves still ‘on the pull’ to a bunch of twinks looking for comfort in the warm embrace of tissue paper arms.

And if they WERE interested, they would have listed themselves on www.richgaysugardaddy.com

Sadly, no website exists for slightly beyond middle aged women with the same qualities as the ones listed above.

And no matter how hard I try, I doubt anyone will find the way I take off my socks as a reason to break open a new box of durex.

So for now I shall go back to my pictures of Hugh looking buff in the surf, and try to imagine his lucky, and no doubt lovely, wife shrieking things like “ take that towel off the bed” at him after he steps out of the shower.

Wet, weapon’s erect, and sheathed.

Valē.

The ability to compartmentalize is a magical thing.
Over the years I have become rather adept at it.
I think I may even be an expert, just quietly.
I'm not sure if I should feel proud of that, or ashamed.
I think the lesson was taught to me very early by my mother.
One of my earliest memories is of her telling me about a woman in New Zealand, a female broadcaster whose name I forget, who had gone on air on the day of her sons death- perhaps it was a suicide.
"That" my mother said emphatically, " is professionalism"
It was a lesson in getting on with things.
That this memory comes to me so strongly, and that my early childhood was one filled with the terrors of an abusive and violent stepfather provides me with answers to questions I wish belonged to someone else.
As an adult the link is clear.
As a child, the message was just as clear.
Shit happens, and you need to find a way to get through the day.
So I learned, early, to get through the day.
Boxing each and every pain, each trauma, into it's own little cubby hole until there was time, or breathing space, to deal with it.
Or to lock the door on that memory and throw away the key.
Whatever worked.
I still compartmentalize.
Automatically, as it turns out.
Only now, with the advantage of a less broken self, I make the effort to open the doors behind which I have hidden pain, and deal with what is there so as not to discover one day that I have spent my entire life banking away nothing more than sadness.
Which is why I am writing today.
This morning, via a private message on face book because this is the way we do things now, I learned that a girl I once knew, a friend from a distant past, died- at the ripe old age of 43- from illnesses related to years of alcohol abuse.
Her name was, and still is, Felicity.
It means 'Joy' and 'Happiness' in Latin.
I remember being in Latin class when I learned that, and I remember thinking how remarkably appropriate that was.
For a short while, until hormones and adolescent stupidity got in the way, Felicity and I were close.
I thought she was the coolest thing ever.
She wore the school hat, had a quirky kink in her teeth, had amazing skin, and a great voice, and had invented her own form of handwriting that drove the teachers to distraction because it was so hard to read.
The fact that what she wrote was so amazing kept them at bay.
She had a gift.
She had flair.
Looking back now, I think at some point I may have even have had a crush on her.
After I left school, I lost all contact with her whereabouts.
But I thought of her often.
She was always a benchmark of sorts.
She was the personification of potential.
Another girl had become her best friend, and their friendship endured beyond High School.
I heard through this girl how there had been a car accident, and how after that there was heavy drinking involved.
Felicity suffered from chronic pain after the accident.
Perhaps this explained the drinking.
But I wonder.
I am, as some people know, a recovering addict.
My drug of choice was cocaine, and I did enough of it to put my life into a tailspin that I was lucky to survive.
I have been clean for many years now, but I know that my addiction was a way of coping with some of that compartmentalised pain.
I wonder what pain there was for Felicity.
Was it just physical, or was there something else that hurt her?
I will never, ever, be able to ask her.
We will never, ever, sit down and discuss anything ever again.
Maybe we never would have, but maybe one day we might have.
The thought has been with me all day.
A day where, after reading this sad, sad news, I went about my business.
I met with clients, chatted with friends, bought groceries, and even ran a busy pub quiz with more that 100 people, all without mentioning her name.
Well, nearly.
Tonight, just for me and for her, I changed one of the questions to include her name.
'What word, starting with F means happy?'
And as I asked it, if you had been watching, you would have seen a little catch of breath.
A little micro expression of pain will have darted over my face, so quickly, so secretly, as to be imperceptible.
The door of that compartment not quite strong enough to contain the pain within.
That's how I keep the doors to my heart these days, open just enough to let the dark out, and the light in.
That's the way forward.
Then I came home and threw up, the weight of my grief overwhelming for even my body to bear.
Grief at her early passing, grief at all that will never be said, grief that nothing could be done to save a soul with such promise.
I wish you good rest Felicity.
Sleep now.
Death is the last enemy: once we've got past that I think everything will be alright.
Alice Thomas Ellis

The Fat in The Hat.....

The sun did not shine,
it was too wet to play,
so we sat in the house,
on that hot, hot wet day.
I sat there with Guinness,
we sat there we two,
and I said
"I've forgotten that sky can be blue"
Too wet to go out, too hot to play ball,
I just stared at the tele, mounted onto the wall.
And all I could do was to eat.....eat......eat......eat,
mostly baked goods and snack foods, and bits of red meat.
And then something went BUMP !!!
And that bump made me jump,
I looked and I saw us, just me and the cat,
I looked and I saw us, two mountains of fat,
and he said to me,
"Why do you lay here like that?
I know that your yoghurt is drizzled with honey, but you could eat carrots and save heaps of money"
"I know a good game we could play" Said my cat "I know some good tricks" said Guinness The Fat,
" A lot of good tricks, I will show them to you, from Masterchef Seasons 4,3 and 2"
Then I stumbled for anything useful to say, it was time to get out of the house for the day.
But my fish said " No, no, you should not go away !!! You should stay here at home and read books for the day, you can just stay indoors, you can just laze about, you can stay here and binge eat and add to the stout" 
"Good Grief, time to leave, time to leave" my mind said "Your pets can not talk !!" and I jumped out of bed.
"Why, I will pay someone to help me I think, like a mentor, a guru, or even a shrink"
"TRY THE GYM !!!" said my brain, "that's a great place to play, TRY THE GYM," said my brain, " hell, you already pay" 
This was true then, I thought, for sixteen months now, I had auto paid fees with no sweat on my brow.
So I've called up a guy who makes fitness his living, and he's promised to give me the gift that keeps giving.
He puts me on balls, puts me up in the air, he makes me do movements that mess up my hair.
He jumps up and down, counting backwards from eight, he seems rather hell bent on shifting my weight.
And whilst I am grateful, and full of intention, there's one little secret that's worthy of mention.
The stuff that my animals said isn't crazy, for they know the truth, I'm essentially lazy.