MisAdventures in Mid-Life Dating, the Male View: The Ambush

Then again, sometimes it looks more like a Shakespearean tragedy except that there have been no deaths.

Yet. . .

The Ambush

Wendy has been a friend since college days. Wendy and Bill, her husband, are avid golfers. (Not their real names)

A few weeks back, Wendy called to ask if I'd be interested in a threesome. 

Get your mind out of the gutter. 

"Threesome" only sounds naughty if you don't play golf. The Game is played in groups of two, three, or four -- twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes. Wendy, Bill and I would make a threesome.

Stop giggling.

Anyway. . .

I recently returned to the game after a long absence so I readily agreed. I no longer play to a 6 handicap (mid to high 70s), but my game is still respectable. I was looking forward to it.

Bill and I were warming up, hitting balls on the practice range when I remarked that we should probably go looking for Wendy. Our tee time was coming up.

Bill said, "No need. The girls know we're over here." 

WTF? 

Wendy may no longer be the slender 22-year-old I first met, but there's certainly no reason to refer to her in the plural. 

Bill's face spoke volumes as he sputtered. His face turned a lovely shade of aubergine.

"Oh, Shit! Wendy's gonna kill me. Act surprised, man, PLEASE!"

"Surprised" wasn't the term I had in mind. This wasn't a set-up. It was an effing ambush. My mood darkened with every passing second. I considered feining an injury or sickness so I could leave immediately. 

Non-golfers need to understand that a game of golf can take five hours or more. If the set-up went badly, as most are wont to do, we'd be stuck together for that entire time. 

"C'mon, Paul. Help a brother out. Trust me. You'll like her. Everybody does. Just fucking act surprised, Okay."

Anger is close enough to surprise, and I was fuming.

"That shouldn't be a problem." 

I took my anger out on the golf balls. My practice drives lengthened by 30 yards. The aggravation was triggering a nicotine fit. In turn, that triggered more aggravation. 

My drives lengthened by another 25 yards.

As I turned to refill my bucket of practice balls, I saw Wendy turning the corner towards us. A Goddess walked with her.

I should probably mention that I have two "types." My first wife was a tall leggy blonde with boobs. My second was a petite curvy brunette with boobs. 

You may notice a pattern.

The Goddess was a tall leggy, curvy, auburn-haired woman with boobs.

When I call Colleen -- "Call me Coco" -- a Goddess, I am not exaggerating. Her beauty is almost painful to look at directly. She's like the female equivalent of a solar eclipse. You need to build one of those whatchamacallit contraptions to avoid having your eyes burned clean out of their sockets if you look directly at her.

Think of Cindi Crawford's classically beautiful face, add double Ds, no mole, long, wavy, dark auburn hair, luscious legs that go all the way up to her throat, and about six feet tall. You'll come pretty close to Coco. 

Coco doesn't look 30 although Wendy swears she's 43. That's two years younger than my bottom limit, but not enough to quibble about. Why is it that no one is aging but me?

Coco loves to cook and bake and was excited to meet a trained Chef and Pastry Chef. She's also an excellent golfer. There's really something awesome about the female form in an athletic activity, especially that particular female form. Her swings were poetry in motion -- just beautiful. It was even more impressive when she would bend over to tee up a ball.

Hey, I may be an old guy, but I'm still a guy.

Oh Maman, vient chercher ton p'tit gars. (Translation from the Quebecois French: Directly -> Oh Mama, come get your little boy. Colloquially ->Holy Crap! I'm in trouble!)

Don't get me wrong. I own a mirror. I know this woman is so far out of my league that I doubt we're even of the same species. That seems to happen a lot lately.

Something wasn't kosher here.

As Coco was teeing up balls and hitting them while causing all proximate activity to immediately cease, Wendy noticed I was watching her and took that as a good sign. 

Well, not really an earth-shattering surprise. . . blind men stare at Coco. 

Wendy filled me in on Coco's background.

Coco was 43, divorced 4 times (huh?), and completely single, and unattached. She was very lonely but hadn't dated much for three years (WTF?). She would get asked out often but rarely for a second date and hardly ever for a third. (WTFFF) Editor's Note: WTFFF stands for "What the fuckityfuckfuck?"

Something really wasn't kosher here.

Coco had trust issues with men. All four husbands cheated on her. Huh? I doubt they found better-looking or more attractive women. I doubt any such exist.

Something really, really wasn't kosher here

Let's be honest... There are very few faults that will override that insane level of hotness. Us guys are not all that deep. Most guys will forgive just about anything to a woman even half that hot. . . and yet, 4 guys cheated on her, and two filed to divorce her.

Something really, really, really wasn't kosher here.

The mystery was solved by the fourth hole. 

I admired Coco's form (both the golf swing meaning and the more traditional meaning) through the first three holes. I lost interest by the fourth. 

Call the elapsed time as 35 to 40 minutes.

I've had more scintillating conversations with eggplants. . . while I was making parmesan. Then again, maybe she's just very shy. She was very up to date on celebrity gossip... a topic I have zero interest in. Who the hell are the Housewives of Beverly Hills and why should I give a fig? 

(Feel free to substitute another word for "fig.")

Or, maybe she had little to no interest in me. She did, however, write her phone number on my arm, saying, "There, now you'll never lose it. Call me." 

Really, am I the only guy who showers regularly?

High intelligence and extreme beauty are not mutually exclusive. There are plenty of beautiful, brilliant women. Just look at Melissa Hughes, Lupita Reyes, Claire Caldwell, Katyan Roach, Denise Barry, and Candice Galek. That's just a few from just this platform. 

I don't really need that much intelligence melded with that much beauty, but I do need a woman I can carry on a conversation with. If anything, I'd gladly trade beauty for intelligence.

Hey, it's not like people mistake me for Brad Pitt, you know,

I have no idea why Wendy thought Coco and I would be a good match. Maybe it was Coco's golf game, she beat me by three strokes. That part of the "date" was actually very good. Then again, I spent a good chunk of my "date" with Coco chatting on Messenger with Diana, a friend of Claire Caldwell's in South Africa. 

Gorgeous just ain't enough.  If I just want something pretty and shiny to hang on my arm, I'll buy a Rolex.

That doesn't mean I won't play golf with Coco. She plays very well and dramatically improves the scenery. At least this time I got a golf buddy.

I think I added her to my contacts. 

I hope so. I've already washed her number off my arm.

Cheers