I do not remember Cole Porter singing "Anything Goes;" however, I remember the 60s remake. The lyric line that always got my attention is in the refrain, "In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking, and now, God know, anything goes." No longer is it the 1960s when I was teen, now it is the teen years of the 21st Century and I, like Boomers across the country, am figuring how to retire on Social Security and other pensions. Today, it is not anything goes, it is more like everything went.
I live in an efficiency apartment biking distance from the university where I am a part time professor. The apartment is not much more than a garage apartment with a bedroom, small bath and utility room combined, and an open kitchen living area. Total square feet of the place are less than 800 square feet. It is comfortable since I no longer have a wife and my kids are grown and on their own.
I downsized to the bare essentials, got rid of cable TV, kept high speed internet, got rid of two households of furniture and sold both households. I got rid of landline telephone opting for smart phone technology. I kept my car but prefer my bicycle most of the year. I have a queen size bed that sleeps one, sometimes two when Anna stays the night, and a pullout bed in the couch for an occasional overnight guest.
I am not a total recluse; I have a core group of friends with whom I enjoy a couple drinks after work or a weekend party. I host parties in my apartment that are more intimate gatherings of my closest friends, usually not more than eight to twelve people. This Saturday evening, I hosted one such get together with my hostess of choice who never turns me down.
This evening Anna wore a sleek 'little black dress' that accentuated her petite curves. I knew Anna well enough to know she was naked under that 'little black dress.' In fact, she went to lengths I could not imagine to explain how sensual it is being "commando, is the guy term, right," she concluded.
I laughed at her use of the term 'commando,' and agreed that commando is the term. "However, don't you think you are sharing too much information? We've never had secrets but I don't think I need to know what turns you on."
The coy look in Anna's eyes should have told me what was coming, and then I heard it. "I get turned on by a lot of things," she told me and wrapped me in a hug any man would die for.
My guests know Anna as my closest, no secret friend. Anna is much younger than my close group and me maybe more than half our general age; Anna, at 32, is 32 years younger than I am. My close-knit group knows no other hostess than Anna and never asked questions.
My group knows her for her local news anchor celebrity status. She uses a different on-air last name making it less likely that my group would stumble upon our real relationship. Most of my friends make the presumption that I teach speech communication; therefore, I must be a mentor or coach.
Anna is a great mixer and works a crowd well. Tonight she got one of the stiffest of my group to break into laughter over a story she told. Everyone went silent for a moment waiting for lightening bolt that was sure to strike. She makes sure people have drinks, she keeps the snacks supplied, and always pauses near me giving me a sweet touch.
My group is usually done in by midnight and the party breaks up. Tonight, friends began leaving as they usually do with Anna bidding them farewell and thanking them for their visit.
