I’m not hot anymore
An Uber Eats guy delivered the news to me
I’m at an age that I look better dressed that naked. Specially in Winter. Nonetheless I believed the curve on my turning heads chart was holding up fairly dignified — at least for a woman in her early 50’s, until I ordered a falafel wrap with Coke Zero.
I’ve never been sexy in that throughout history legendary erotic irresistible Cleopatra and Kardashian way. I’ve never posed with my tongue out in a push up bra, owned nice lingerie, red lipstick or squirted my panties with cologne. Men attention makes me feel uncomfortable most of the time. I have never pursued a man, and only fall in love with guys that are madly infatuated with me. That’s my thing.
According to the exes who chose me over the really sexy girls, I’m attractive in a chaotic, clueless, different way. It’s a magnetism that appeals to a significant minority of males: when your glasses are too big, your legs almost long, your boho skirt needs ironing and on the first date you talk politics, period cramps and blowjobs in a monotone raspy voice and then smile with thick lips and then order a fried appetizer “to share” and then squeal with excitement spotting an effing cute puppy you want to pet.
So when the Uber Eats guy ringed at the gate and I stormed out looking fine: big hoops, comfy heels, smelling like Prada Candy and all…
