I never thought that I’d be taking on this topic for a third time. But it seems to me that perhaps, just perhaps, if only one person benefits from this, my third-round; my time won’t be wasted. Who knows, maybe the proverbial hat-trick cliché of “third time’s a charm” might be in play here. On the other hand, “bad things come in three” just landed top of mind as well. My first treatise on the subject is here. And it that's not enough for you, the second go-round is here.
I again say that this is not an exercise in ridicule. I intend not to hurt anyone’s feelings but to offer a middle-aged guy’s perspective on what might be some misguided dating photo efforts out there. Remember, this is coming from the guy who, in an effort to “roll honest”, has willfully posted photos of himself avec bouffant disco high school hair, a porn star mustache as well as his yellow polyester high school prom tuxedo. I’m just trying to help. Conversely, the photo efforts I've captured here may be guided as deliberately and precisely as a laser. And therefore in those cases, a snarky comment may well be in order.
The dating scene, enabled by our wonderful online world, remains a minefield of peril and delight. And my bias says that in the middle-age dating segment, the poles between peril and delight are three freakin’ time zones apart. Oh the stories I could tell. But enough of this introductory drivel. Let’s get on with it.
I’m gonna get three issues out of the way quickly. You’ve heard these observations from me in my previous stories and I’ve come to believe that they are uniquely my biases…that they aren’t necessarily bad…they just aren’t for me. And the first issue is camels. People, I swear to the Lord that there are more camel contrived photos per capita in the online love world than anywhere else. And again, I know it’s just me but I think even the most attractive people look awkward--tentative--on a camel. There might be some other ADG camel pathos leaching in here. I love reading about the late 19th/early 20th century British Camel Corps and I have antique toy soldier versions of them. But camels are surly creatures who blow snot and spit on people. Therefore it’s just too damned difficult for me to equate camels and eros. But when I do finally get to camel land, you can bet your sweet a_s I’m not returning home without a picture of me, Lawrence of Arabia style, astride one of those bad boys. ADG aka “Lawrence of Florence”.
My next issue is helmets. Helmets are good. Helmets are logical. Helmets are life-saving. Helmets should be law-required. Helmets are also inelegant and don’t project any of the je ne sais quoi that one should be going for when trying to get people to contact them for a date. Sorry…but not too sorry. Buy eleven freakin’ different helmets if you do eleven things that require uniquely, a special helmet for each. But don’t date in them.
And my third and final personal hangup is the issue of girls in Cowboy-Cowgirl-Cowpeople-Cowcitizen Hats. Again, my bias. I’m a country-a_s redneck from Florence, South Carolina and I’m not trying to get above my raisin’ here. Maybe what I’m trying to say is that girls in cowboy hats arouse a fear in me that we…the cowboy hat wearin’ girl and little ADG, will end up at outdoor concerts and festivals where people get sloppy and start fighting in a mud-puke mosh spot. DO NOT call me out for being hypocritical here. Yes I’ve attended events where people-not me-drank too much. And yes, I’ve seen a fisticuff or two and yes, there’s been an episode or two of emesis-not-by-me. But my versions of all those things is more refined. When The Charmer slipped in vomit and flailed amongst it for a moment, he was in madras and linen and shell cordovan…on hardwood floors. Let me illuminate my fear of girls in cowboy hats another way. I almost got my a_s beat at an outdoor Brooks and Dunn concert in 1989.
“I’m gonna put a photo of me in a hot tub on my dating profile. It will say things about how adventurous I am when on vacation, with you, my man. We'll be hot tub-ing when we stop at the Holiday Inn Express on I-95”. Ok, but what about the bubble bath suds I see? Are we recreating here or hygiene-ating? There’s an important difference. Hot tubs in general scare me. Bacterially, virally, reality-show-y…there’s a zillion reasons to steer clear of a hot tub. And if that ain’t Mr. Bubble I see all floaty around you…if that’s just the froth from the undulating jet nozzle (nozzle is an off-putting word) causing that level of water-top-foam, somebody needs to call the hazmat team. And finally, I know that your other motive for this photo was to show everyone that being nekkid in a hot tub is completely within bounds…far as dating you is concerned. Nekkid…yes, I wrote nekkid. Naked means you are unclothed. Nekkid means you are unclothed and up to something. And doesn't your butt itch just a little bit by simply thinking about motel hot tubs?
Glamour Shots. Remember the franchised sexy photograph purveyor? Sure you do. Some of you went there and some of you, like me, just tisked-tisked at their smoky lensed visage strategy—with nylon (NOT plastic you idiot—these places were…c-l-a-s-s-y) rose in hand. Glamour Shots. Kind of an Olan Mills meets Branson Missouri by way of the Mustang Ranch…with my hometown as mission control. Photos deliberately made to look hazy by spritzing (spritzing is an off-putting word) them with hot tub froth. Sorry. Don’t post your Glamour Shot. Unless you wanna be whisked off from Florence South Carolina to Branson Missouri—probably on a tour bus. Or unless you are applying for a position. At the Mustang Ranch.
Let’s talk athletics. And the incongruence I see here. Observation number one—this middle aged woman is physically lovely. It’s totally a matter of personal taste but I’d say most people would agree that this woman is attractive. But here’s my issue. Swimsuits on tennis courts? I like swimming. I like tennis and used to be pretty good at it. But this puzzles me. And am I the only one who thinks that the bikini picture has been superimposed upon a stock photo of a tennis court? I’m no digital photography expert but I see some superimpositionating here. Oh and I just speculated something else. Do you think she’d actually play tennis in a bikini top? This causes me huge conflict. I like bikinis and any woman who can still wear two-pieces with dignity is to be applauded. But let’s not volley, Holly, if you can’t throw something on up top that’ll keep us focused on the game at hand.
While we are on the tennis theme, let’s sort out the hose with athletic gear issue. My sympathies to this gal if for health reasons, she needs to wear these hose. Seriously, there are people—men and women, with peripheral vascular issues, varicose vein problems and other misfortunes that necessitate compression-esque hosiery. But something tells me that this lady doesn’t really sweat it out on the courts. You know, volley and serve till you drip with primal cool down dew in an effort to thwart heat stroke. I just don’t see it here. Sorry. Nice fish though.
This may be pre or après tennis. I don’t know. But what I do know is the real intent of this photo. What Deloris is saying to all us suitors is “…this particular top of mine is sheer…and if I don’t have a bra on…and if I moved my arm…you could (as LFG hilariously called them one time at about age three) see my “niblets”…and my orangeolas”. Folks, here’s the deal…if you want to communicate thusly, then go ahead. Just don’t get angry when every barely literate knuckle dragging primate sends you a request for a meet-up. A request so specific that even amongst poor spelling, syntax and grammar, the clear need for you to “please ware that clear-see through shirt in pichur nummer Earnhardt (3) …the one that hugs your waste so titelee”. Just saying. Clearly.
I am reasonably hygienic. Those of you who have met me and the few of you who’ve been to my home could vouch so. But I’m prone to allow clutter. With this as context, all I’m saying here, in a non-OCD way is…clean your damn room before snapping your love connection photos.
We have yet another see-thru. At a festival. With a plastic-plaster-composite Clydesdale horse in the background. Papier-mâché Clydesdale perhaps? No, there ain’t no Frenchified “chewed paper” statues at these events. But at least Taretha Gaynelle has on a brassiere. Throw a cowboy hat on her head and I’d whip my own a_s for being with her. Sorry. Ouch. That one was a little strong. I actually liked meeting T.G. I might call her. Tonight.
Ok, this one is especially troubling. The mixed messages abound. I want to believe that this is NOT the Vietnam Veterans Memorial but it looks like it is. And perception is reality. The U.S. Park Service budgets have been so decimated that yes, you could probably get down to the Wall with a beer in hand and have time to snap a photo before the Park Service people could flag you. But there are other issues here. Elegant little black dress theme doing battle with bottled beer and landscaping stones. Expensive stones for sure. Pressure washed and bleached. Head cocked back in a carefree, laissez les bons temps rouler… “ha-ha-ha” kinda way. Or is it a cue for the beer bong? I’m just extry flummoxed by all of the aforementioned…exacerbated by the fact that this woman has what appears to be a stellar body. Oh, the stuff I get myself into.
Women that do sporting things are sexy. If you don’t believe me, just ask my buddy, Tonemaster Touch over at Main Line Sportsman. He’ll back me up on it. Honestly, I don’t think this gal revels in casting a line and reeling ‘em in. So what’s the harm here? There is none, really. Except that every old angler in the world is gonna want to take her fishing. If you don’t find joy in the activity, don’t offer evidence to the contrary.
Nice butt. Wrong Britches. And is that toilet not perilously close to the counter? Might be ok for a sexy compact model like me but a bigger boy might have some issues with the proxemics. We have GOT to pass Federal Legislation that officially recognizes the role and value of high-waisted mommy jeans circa 1983. But in order to vanquish this visual forever, we have to also make wearing these things a felony.
This is not another photo from the same source. It’s yet another misguided high-waister. Please see my previous comments regarding the felonious nature of such togs. It’s ok. We’re almost done.
I love children. You know this. I like the Orioles and I enjoy dating women with kids. But this little fella scares me. I do not know why precisely but he does. I would offer, in lieu of precise drivers of my fear; a few thematic possibilities. Brooks and Dunn. Women wearing cowboy hats. Plastic Clydesdales. Hide me from this little man. Oh, and one other thing. If his real daddy is still around, ramp-up the power of my fears by a multiple of a zillion. The apple and the tree you know.
Let me be gentle here. I wear cut off khaki shorts and paint splattered britches and frayed collar shirts. I’m ok with shabby chic. But this? This is…what? I don’t know. So this gal calls her brother …
“Hoyt, this is your sister Skeeter Jean. No, the other sister. Could you swing by here after you get off from work and bring your weed eater? I’m attempting a Xena the Warrior Princes Meets Dog the Bounty Hunter’s Wife look and I need you to rough up my leggings just a bit. Of course I’ll pay you. They’ll be a 12-pack of Mike’s Harder Lemonade waitin’ on you. No. The OTHER sister”.
I don’t know what to say here. Other than Reflections Lounge in the Holiday Inn. Corner of Palmetto and Dargan Streets, Florence South Carolina. Nineteen and about, seventy eight I believe. Brandi? Is that you? Oh no… Amberly? Annabelle? Bambi? Baylee? Destineeigh? Faylene? Harmonee? Kandeigh? Nylette? Raylene? Jim? Howard?
I remain flummoxed, vaporlocked, confused, vexed, agitated, Brooks and Dunned and undone over the whole implant topic. It’s touchy so please see my other posts on this issue. I can’t revisit it with the same depth. But I do love me some orange Tang spray-on bodybuilder tan. Hell, if it’s good enough for the Astronauts…
Let’s close this out once again with a treatise on photos including grown men with ambiguous connections to the gal who’s trying to get a date with you. She'll also soon hit you up for help with the power bill. Those window unit air conditioners suck the kilowatts like crazy. But electricity is the least of your worries. This is hugely problematic. So much so that death may be the endgame for anyone who goes out with this “lady”. If the nozzle froth from the hot tub doesn’t get you, Cooter Bob will. If C.B.'s her son, you’ve got titanic caliber trouble. If he’s her brother, the type of trouble you will have is, shall we say, region of the country dependent. But rest assured...trouble’s there. Already. If he’s just a “friend” then this one could go in multiple directions…maybe a few of them at once. Y’all may have a ménage of something that’s a win-win for everybody. He might even lend you his snorkel but don’t be surprised if he asks to touch yours. The possibilities are endless here but something tells me that you better carry a knife. Maybe one of those Lloyd Bridges Sea Hunt ones. That you can strap to your leg. In the hot tub.
Onward. With a knife and a nozzle.