My wife, Gwynne, and I are in our mid-60s, and so are most of our friends. We come from a time of what today would be considered innocent and naive, where having a “boyfriend” didn’t mean having sex, the pictures in Playboy were tame, and swingers were something you only heard about in movies. About a decade ago, we started going to the bars to hear live music & dance. When we started out, there were usually a couple tables open in the same place so we would sit there; turned out after several very awkward interactions with single men, some younger than our sons, we were told that’s where the “swingers” congregated; we moved.
A friend of ours, who is tall, single, male, and good looking, often meets us when we go dancing. He’ll usually dance with Gwynne a number of times while I’m resting since she compulsively wants to dance every dance rather than sit at the table. He came to my son’s birthday for the booze, and was showing me pictures on his phone of the kind of girls he likes. I looked back at him and said, “I know exactly the kind of girl you like; I like her too.” Later he spent an hour talking alone with Gwynne while I trended our granddaughter so her parents could go to the movies. One of the party-goers asked if the guy with my wife was her boyfriend. I thought for a moment; well, using the old definitions, yes.
We were going dancing that night, so went to get dressed. When Gwynne came out of our room, she was wearing the zip-up decorated high top cowboy boots I had bought her for Christmas. Heath looked at her surprised.
“Mom!” He exclaimed. “You’re wearing stripper boots.”
“These are what your dad got me for Christmas so that I can easily put them on.”
“They’re also easy for strippers to take off,” Heath instructed her.
We’re pretty clueless but we got the implication, and I tested it out when we got home.
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