Paging Dr. Bob
I'm out of control.
I've been out every night since last Monday.
So much for slowing my roll.
Tuesday I went to one of my favorite restaurants to make myself eat something. I try not to go in there too often, because the owner is jovial and perverted, which means that he gets me fucked up on tequila pretty much every time I visit, and then tries to fondle me or be otherwise inappropriate. It has turned out very badly more than once. God help me, I just adore that dirty old man anyway. It's hard to explain.
I went though because I needed to eat something, I haven't been doing much of that lately, and also because I was on the lookout for Dr. Bob, a surgeon I met in there the last time I got all fucked up on tequila.
Dr. Bob is an older (mid-50s), reasonably attractive (but much less so than Massimo) guy who seemed to fancy me when I met him. Actually, he told the owner that he was interviewing me. Seems Dr. Bob is looking for the 4th next-ex-missus Dr. Bob. His apparent confidence made him sexier, an aspect further increased by his surgeon salary. Those sorts of things make it easier to overlook the wrinkly skin and liver spots. And the mothball smell, but just barely.
I made myself all easily-spottable at the end of the bar, and sure enough, the good doctor happened by directly. The double-take and skid back to where I was made me giggle on the inside.
It seems that Dr. Bob had been back every day since we met, hoping I'd come in so he could finish his extensive vetting process. He had actually called everyone with my last name in the phone book trying to find me. Luckily for him, that is a short list. He doesn't know this, but he did call my sister; she told me I had had an anonymous caller there not too long ago. This was reiterated by the owner, who asked if my ears had been burning. Apparently the effort to locate my telephone number had been a team effort.
Dr. Bob and I became a bit more acquainted over dinner. I gave him my unlisted phone number, which he apparently shared with the owner, because both of them called me the next day.
It was still pretty early when I left, so I got to go hang out with my friends Dan and Jimmy at another bar, and watched Jimmy sing karaoke.
This is a side benefit of going out with someone who thinks 10pm is late:
One night, two chances for a date! No waiting!
Dr. Bob took me out to dinner on Wednesday, after we met at the bar of my friend's restaurant. I had the best tacos I've had this side of the border, which made me happy, and more amenable to Dr. Bob's relentless questioning about me, my values, and my beliefs.
I guess when you are Dr. Bob's age and on a mission, you really want to dispense with the formalities of the getting-to-know-you stage of a relationship and go fast-track. Time's a-wastin.
I let Dr. Bob kiss me goodnight. He wasn't bad, just out of practice, I think. He told me that it "has been years since [he'd] been with a woman."
I shook my head and tried to look appropriately appalled at his long drought.
"Poor bastard," I thought, "Years it's been, and along I come, working it like this year's Ferrari and your last ride was an '87 Datsun. In '87."
I threw the whammy down on Dr. Bob like the ruthless tramp I occasionally aspire to be.
And Dr. Bob was as good as fucked right there. He had that glaaaaaaazed look in his eyes after that first kiss. You know, the one zombies have when they're trying to eat your brains.
Poor Dr. Bob.
He never knew what hit him.
With a flick of my tongue, he was done.
I've been out every night since last Monday.
So much for slowing my roll.
Tuesday I went to one of my favorite restaurants to make myself eat something. I try not to go in there too often, because the owner is jovial and perverted, which means that he gets me fucked up on tequila pretty much every time I visit, and then tries to fondle me or be otherwise inappropriate. It has turned out very badly more than once. God help me, I just adore that dirty old man anyway. It's hard to explain.
I went though because I needed to eat something, I haven't been doing much of that lately, and also because I was on the lookout for Dr. Bob, a surgeon I met in there the last time I got all fucked up on tequila.
Dr. Bob is an older (mid-50s), reasonably attractive (but much less so than Massimo) guy who seemed to fancy me when I met him. Actually, he told the owner that he was interviewing me. Seems Dr. Bob is looking for the 4th next-ex-missus Dr. Bob. His apparent confidence made him sexier, an aspect further increased by his surgeon salary. Those sorts of things make it easier to overlook the wrinkly skin and liver spots. And the mothball smell, but just barely.
I made myself all easily-spottable at the end of the bar, and sure enough, the good doctor happened by directly. The double-take and skid back to where I was made me giggle on the inside.
It seems that Dr. Bob had been back every day since we met, hoping I'd come in so he could finish his extensive vetting process. He had actually called everyone with my last name in the phone book trying to find me. Luckily for him, that is a short list. He doesn't know this, but he did call my sister; she told me I had had an anonymous caller there not too long ago. This was reiterated by the owner, who asked if my ears had been burning. Apparently the effort to locate my telephone number had been a team effort.
Dr. Bob and I became a bit more acquainted over dinner. I gave him my unlisted phone number, which he apparently shared with the owner, because both of them called me the next day.
It was still pretty early when I left, so I got to go hang out with my friends Dan and Jimmy at another bar, and watched Jimmy sing karaoke.
This is a side benefit of going out with someone who thinks 10pm is late:
One night, two chances for a date! No waiting!
Dr. Bob took me out to dinner on Wednesday, after we met at the bar of my friend's restaurant. I had the best tacos I've had this side of the border, which made me happy, and more amenable to Dr. Bob's relentless questioning about me, my values, and my beliefs.
I guess when you are Dr. Bob's age and on a mission, you really want to dispense with the formalities of the getting-to-know-you stage of a relationship and go fast-track. Time's a-wastin.
I let Dr. Bob kiss me goodnight. He wasn't bad, just out of practice, I think. He told me that it "has been years since [he'd] been with a woman."
I shook my head and tried to look appropriately appalled at his long drought.
"Poor bastard," I thought, "Years it's been, and along I come, working it like this year's Ferrari and your last ride was an '87 Datsun. In '87."
I threw the whammy down on Dr. Bob like the ruthless tramp I occasionally aspire to be.
And Dr. Bob was as good as fucked right there. He had that glaaaaaaazed look in his eyes after that first kiss. You know, the one zombies have when they're trying to eat your brains.
Poor Dr. Bob.
He never knew what hit him.
With a flick of my tongue, he was done.
posted by desert diamond at 8:39 PM
4 Comments:
It's comforting to know that overeducated professionals are just as easy to manipulate at 50 as they are when they're half as old.
Loved this post!
I think part of it is the doctor ego - i.e. "how could anyone resist me? I SAVE LIVES!"
Oooh, 50s, eh? There's hope for old guys like me yet.
Dearest Tom,
As long as you continue on being yourself, there's always hope, and likely much more!
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