Most of my columns are packed with lies, but the story I’m about to tell is absolutely true. Especially the part about me being much more fetching then my friends.
I was sitting poolside at a Las Vegas hotel with my two best friends and my lady friend. We were fully dressed. Well, let me qualify that. Some of us were wearing bathing suits but we had wisely covered up with those clever, flowing pool pajamas that some nice gay boy designer created to disguise middle-aged sag.
We’re all in our 40’s and we look pretty good. I’m happy to report that I’m aging the best of all of us! And if any of them wants to argue this point (and, of course, they all will) they can get their own column. But even with my exceptional good looks and raw animal charm, there’s no way to hide the fact that I’m a middle age gal. And there’s certainly no way to disguise my friends’ age. They really look it!
So, we were mildly confused when a 20-something boy approached us and began flirting. Aggressively.
He was wearing swim trunks and nothing else. First, he asked for sunscreen, which I pulled out of a large, decorative bag that I had bought in the gift shop for my mom. It was the type of thing that a mom would like. Both colorful and practical. I used to like only drab and impractical. But, as you age, you find yourself drawn to things that sparkle, and also items that can multitask.
The boy told us a very convoluted life story that made no sense whatsoever as he slowly massaged sunscreen into his chest. I was so confused by the nonsense coming out of his mouth that it took me a few minutes to realize that he was trying to be sexy.
My friend Stacy attempted to use her mighty passive-aggressive powers to scare him away, but the boy continued to massage himself and ask too personal, too probing questions of us.
I’ve always found that the best way to end an unwanted conversation is to buy a drink, so I signaled the waitress. The boy licked his lips in anticipation, but Stacy dashed his hopes by shooing the waitress away and announcing that we were leaving.
“I think he just wanted the old ladies to buy him a drink,” I said, as we walked into the hotel.
“I wasn’t going to spend any money on someone with a nicer ass than me,” said Stacy.
Just then, our waitress trotted up to us. “You know what that was all about, right?” she asked. “He’s a gigolo.” Apparently, young guys hang out at Vegas pools and make a living off aging divorcees looking to have themselves a good time and bring themselves home a social disease.
“A gigolo!” we shouted in unison, and then we looked at him working a couple of blue-haired early-bird special candidates across the patio.
“Well, he’s the worst gigolo in the world!” I said. Of all the desperate, middle-aged women around the pool—and judging by the landscape of fake tans, damaged hair, and sorry fashion choices there were a lot of ‘em—he picked the only four lesbians in the joint.
“Poor thing!” we cried in unison, our middle-aged hearts bleating maternally. “He’ll starve to death.”
Later that evening, I saw him sitting next to a slot machine, earnestly chatting up a 70-something gal who refused to take zombie gaze off her machine. She was wearing a sweatshirt with the HRC logo. I tossed the kid a $10 chip and advised him that maybe…just maybe…it was time to get into another line of work.