While I complete a few projects I let slide in the last year, I’m dusting off some of my older posts. You know, just to make the old blog look like somebody’s actually home.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” said the hunk, but not to me.
I hadn’t visited Las Vegas since the 80s. Back then, Duran Duran was hungry like the wolf and this pool-side stud guzzled his bottles as fast as I could hand them to him.
A lot changes in 18 years.
“Baby, c’mere and meet my aunt. She changed my diapers.”
Meet my nephew, the Wolf. And that was supposed to be my line, but somehow it didn’t sound as funny as it did when I said it.
Grumbling, I smeared on 50+ sunscreen while Wolfie continued his running commentary on the prospective conquests floating by in rental tubes.
“Oh, yeah! Looking fine, baby. Come to ME, baby!”
It was hard to take him seriously, seeing as how I knew him when he barely came to my kneecap. But this boy wasn’t just talking big. Women were clutching at his trawling line as if it was a life preserver and they were going under for the third time.
“See that sexy older babe over there?” Wolfie sucked his breath through his teeth. “We went out last night. ”
I put on my prescription sunglasses to better examine this cradle-robbing senior. When I focused, I gasped. Older women were supposed to be… older… than me. But this gal was thirty if she was a day, and had a body that qualified her for Baywatch duty.
She smiled and winked at Wolfie.
“She’s twenty-eight,” he said reverently as he waved back. “She knows a lot.”
Sipping my mineral water, I carefully noted her leopard-print bikini, her deep, golden tan, her gravity-defying… Thompson Twins… just in case I needed to pick her out of a lineup of child predators.
“Yeah,” Wolfie added meaningfully, doing that breath thing again with his teeth, “I took her back to my room last night.”
The mineral water burst out of my nose. “You what!”
He frowned. “But Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me keep her.”
“Well, she’s not a lost kitten, for crying out loud!”
“No, she’s a German kitten. And in Germany, older kittens appreciate younger men.”
If any more kittens appreciated this young man he’d be classified as a Pet Shop Boy. “Do they appreciate getting tossed out of hotel rooms?”
Wolfie sighed, no doubt wishing he could get his money for nothing and his chicks for free. But Mom and Dad were paying for this trip.
“Oh, baby,” he suddenly said, and not to me. “You da bomb! Bomb, baby!”
Bomb Baby whipped around, her hands planted firmly on what couldn’t been more than 33-inch hips as she disdainfully surveyed the dude who dared lay lustful eyes upon her. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and I ducked.
Wolfie intensified his monologue. “Oh, yeah, baby, bomb! You vain, baby. You something else.” Not only was he disposing of all conventional verbs, he was growling. “Come on, baby, turn around! Gimme a look at that prime merchandise.”
“Stop it!” I hissed from under People’s “Where are they now?” section, where my zinc-oxided nose was smearing Boy George’s makeup.
“Oh, yeah, you fine! You bomb!” Wolfie threw back his head and howled.
I grabbed my towel, ready to run.
But Bomb Baby didn’t attack. Her head and shoulders began to bob, like one of those toy dogs in the rear windows of cars. A sly smile spread over her lips.
Wolfie’s head bobbed up and down, too. Bomb Baby bobbed. Wolfie bobbed. For a moment I was confused. Didn’t I just see this on Animal Planet?
Then Bomb Baby slowly turned and began to walk away, all of her bob-bob-bobbing along as she gave Wolfie the requested scenery.
“Oooohhh!” he moaned, “Oh, yeah. Ohhh yea-AAAAAGH!”
He fell back on his chaise lounge, spent.
“Are you through?” I snapped. “Do you want a cigarette?”
He popped up again. “You are so funny, Aunt Bonnie. You know I don’t smoke. But–” he used the tone he used when he was six and wanted a Popsicle from the ice cream truck, “how ’bout a beer?”
I didn’t care if the 80s were long gone. The only bottle I’d let this cub guzzle was root beer.