GIRL 41
BLONDE BOMBSHELL GIRL
I'd listed my interests on the famous internet dating site based on what I thought at the time.
They'd asked me, in the sign-up form, what age of females I was
interested in. I said, duh, 35-45. I didn't think that the site would yell
it from the hilltops.
"Hey, all you 34 year olds! Tigershark Boy (my handle at the time)
wants nothing to do with you! Hey, 46 year old females! Tigershark
hates you!"
Jesus, I'd wink at a woman, and she'd write back, "Yeah, right, you don't want me!"
What? Did I not just fucking wink at you, madam? Age is a number if
you're a hot babe. Who cares if you're 21 or 51? If you're hot, you're
hot! If you're not, you're not!
Ah, the female of the species, always believing lies to be the truth, the truth to be lies.
Anyway, I hit on her hard. She was a platinum blonde so lovely that I
wanted to paint her on a World War II bomber. Mile long legs. Beautiful
facial structure. Blue eyes. Milky skin, capable of a tan. Great
breasts. Cocksucking lips. I was lost.
And what did she say? "I'm 52, you whippersnapper, get lost."
What? What does age have to do with anything?
I stayed on target, and finally she relented and agreed to see me.
On the date, she was better than I'd ever expected. I was all over her.
I took her out to an all-night place when the first bar closed, and it
was 3 am when we ended the date.
I forgot - the aged need to go to bed early. She got grumpy by the time we went to our cars to drive off.
So there was no good-night kiss. When I got up the next day, there was
an email in my inbox telling me she had no interest in me.
Blonde Bombshell Girl Part 2:
She winked at me. I replied, um, you must have forgotten who I am, I'm
the guy you didn't like before. I figured, with the aged and infirm,
memory goes first.
She laughed. Date me again, she said.
I did. I met her at an expensive place near her beach resort high rise
condo, thinking that if things went well, well, they'd go…well.
She was as lovely as the first time I met her. She said she wanted a relationship with me.
You do? I asked.
Yes, she said.
Complete with sex and cocksucking and buttfucking and the works?
She smiled archly. Of course. All those things. Particularly the cocksucking and buttfucking.
I might yet get the chance to paint her picture on a WWII bomber.
I kissed her for an hour as I leaned against her car, each kiss a bona fide pussy-soaker.
There was no invitation to her place, but what the hell. It was almost ten. Time for the aged and infirm to hit the hay.
I bid her farewell, went to my wheels and roared off.
Back at the Snake Ranch, I fired up my email. There in my inbox was her email. She wasn't interested in me.
Damned Alzheimer's, I thought. She'd forgotten who the hell I was. No more 50s girls, I swore to myself.
I adhered to the policy until I saw Girl 86, Fountain of Youth Girl.
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