It's not easy getting older. I think if I'd been plainer when I was younger, I wouldn't have noticed aging so much. Is that snotty? Vain? Probably. Honest? Definitely. I had my 44th birthday yesterday. I'm used to getting attention when I go places; I hadn't realized I was, used to attention that is, until I stopped getting it. Or at least as much. Now, young men in their 20s often address me as "m'am" and are, well, often indifferent to me. I at times feel invisible. Older men still enjoy my ... attributes, and women often look me over, check out my outfit, boobs, wondering if they're real or fake (fake). But, still, I can tell I'm on the downhill side of young.
I'll admit, I haven't been kind in my treatment of all people. I didn't take time to be overly polite, sensitive. Men would approach, I'd more-or-less give them the finger with my expression. Fuck off. That's pretty much what I was thinking too. I've only recently been back on the 'market'. It's fine, I can deal with it; been there done that. And, I can still garner some of the attention. But. . . things have changed. I find I have to work a little harder for things now. That rich, successful middle-aged man? He's looking at my daughter (or would be, if I had one), not me.
Last night, I went to the Cattlemen's Ball with a couple of my girlfriends. It's a black tie & tails gala. I wore my favorite Versace, showed off my assets, so to speak. I ended up talking with Hank, I later learn he's a real-estate guy of some type. Actually, I'd recognized his name, I know his company, let's just say that real estate is big in Texas, and I know his assets improved during the dot com years between real estate and hi-tech investments, that coupled with apparently impeccable timing, he's done pretty well for himself. He's tall, passing 6' by maybe an inch or two. Broad and square, like he played football in high school, but now works -- well, not behind a desk precisely, but he's no longer the young athlete either. Mid 30's maybe. Nice looking, but it's his attitude, the way he moves that catches my interest. Confident. Possibly arrogant. And male. Very very male.
Anyhow, I could tell I'd had one, two, possibly three drinks too many. I was touchy and giddy and horny. Hank comes up to me and whispers "lovely dress Vanessa."
I blink slowly, look at him over my drink, "Have we met?"
"It's been a while. My name's Hank, we, um, encountered each other about ten years' back."
I stop, fuzzily trying to remember the meeting. He's looking at, well, my boobs. I take his hand to shake it, laughing, and tell him it's good to meet him again, and ask if he wanted to go get another drink with me.
We go toward the bar, and then he maneuvers me out a door onto the terrace, saying "It's quieter out here." I bump into him a bit as he takes me to the far side of a tall tree, blocking the view of other guests. He leans up against the building, and I ask "So, you want to talk?"
He looks at me, a smile at the edges of his mouth, he moves his hand along my chest. I'm a little taken aback, quick moves, definitely presumptuous --- yet, I don't tell him to stop. He stills, looks in my eyes, and then slowly moves his hand down, between my breasts, then under my dress to cup my left breast, then breathes in my ear, "Nice."
I'm breathy, drunk , getting hornier, and leaning a little toward him. He continues, "You looked hungry back there." He pauses, then outlines my breast with his hand. Except for my shivers, I don't move.
