The Missing Link

After yet another extravaganza at the ship last night I began to wonder.

Where the hell are all the twenty-eight year olds.

Seriously, I'm surrounded by people around my own age (obviously) and in the event that I step out of my comfortable circle of friends I only encounter men over the age of thirty-three. Sometimes dangerously so (if your pickin' up what I'm puttin' down). I'm talking late forties here people. Gorgeous, forward, old men who I most definitely should stay away from.




If you haven't figured it out already, my opinion on adherence to the socially acceptable standards of age differences between two people is pretty low. It's hard enough to find people you find attractive and can carry on an interesting conversation these days, why constrain yourself even further. Don't get me wrong, Mama didn't raise no fool. I know (believe me, I know) that there are those individuals who step out of their 'age pool' because of less then ideal reasons (i.e. can't get ladies their own age, have a thing for 'younger girls' etc).

Through the course of my short lifetime I have become fairly good at recognizing these people, because like them, I am a creep. I am creeeepppyy. I will leer at you to the point that you begin to wonder if you have something on your face.



Why you ask? Because I have no shame, and I know that you secretly love it. Most people call it confidence, but I pride myself on honesty.

Anyways, this brings me back to my original point. Like the summer fling, single attractive interesting men in their late twenties are a myth. They don't exist. They are absent from my world because they are out at backyard bbq's with their attractive like-minded age appropriate girlfriends and their hip late twenty-something friends. They are happy, they have forward moving careers, and a nest egg for the house the plan to buy. They have no need to get sloppy drunk on a patio with the rest of us (unless it's a Saturday, and all their friends are doing it).

They have plans, and a dangerously attractive, ambiguously aged jaded blonde is not included in these plans. That is, until their plans fall through.

Until they become thirty-year olds. That time in one's life when you begin to realize things didn't turn out according to plan. That happy girlfriend of yours wanted to have babies. You've stopped having sex with strangers, and if you haven't it's not as cool anymore. Or (as I've often encountered) you've come to terms with the fact that you love work more then people.

That's when I come in like a pre-mid life crisis ready to make you feel so wrong it's right.

I'm doing a public service people. I didn't choose to be the magnet to your moral compass, that's just the way things turned out.

They should give me an award. Make me the patron saint of men unwilling to grow up or settle down. The sexified version of Peter Pan.

Seriously.

'DILF of the Week'

Both Jeffery Dean Morgan and Javier Bardem, because, let's be serial here, they pretty much look the same. Like deciding what's for dinner, you can pick by nationality.

What's better then treating men like objects you ask? Treating them like food.

The Truth Hurts

In honour of the season (which hopefully we'll enter sometime soon, fucking Calgary weather) I'd like to do a little expose on the thing we're all looking for on those hot summer days and nights.

The summer fling, the summer romance, that hot member of the opposite sex you plan to spend the next three months panting with throughout those short starless nights. Somebody you can run barefoot in the grass with and in August wave goodbye to with the content feeling that you made the most of the season.

Let's be serial here ladies and gents, the summer fling is a LIE.

Chances are I'll find some handsome thirty-something bearded deadbeat who's been to Asia and has experienced an almost-to-close-encounter with one of those beautiful Thai lady-boys (can you say dreamy). It'll be cool, casual, the sex'll be great and by mid august I'll say "see-ya" and spend the next however-long pining over the good times I had in the midst of a summer romance.

There is not going to be a content subtle wave goodbye. There will be loosely organized pretend plans for visits and however many years later that persistent background hope that you'll run into your 'summer fling' during Christmas break and manage to slip away from your family (yes, you do remember why you moved away in the first place) just long enough to have sex in a bathroom, at the very least.

I know what your thinking, "you're right oh wise one, but I can't not get laid for 3 months! That's ludicrous!" and you're right, that is ludicrous. So the fact of the matter is either we start taking that Jonas brothers' purity ring vow to run back to the nunnery with your pants around your ankles view seriously, or we suck it up and deal with those hot "weather" flashbacks that consistently plague you while your standing in line at the university bookstore waiting to spend your summer dough, or at least, what you have left of it after having discovered that you can find a wing night almost every night of the week and that happy hour drinks only cost less if you drink the same amount.

Nevertheless, I raise my glass to cold cider, hot wings and talks of threesomes with people you hardly know in the twilight hour of midnight. Here's to summer for letting our brains rot and our genitals take the wheel.

'DILF of the Week'

Take a gander at the seconds from 0:45 on and see the moment my DILFdar began to appreciate eHarmony. Apparently his name is David and he needed a dating site to find a woman. Yeah, and I'm Tai-sho the natural blonde lady boy.

A parting gift for all you seekers out there: "Do you come here often?" does work—if you look like me.

Like Disneyland for Daddy Issues

I would like to let you all in on a delightful secret about a magical place, one which you have to see to believe. But once you do, you'll never want to leave.

San Francisco is the city of DILFs.

They're everywhere, coffee shops, restaurants, walking down the street, buying GQ, smoking cigarettes on street corners, taking those novel little trolleys and exiting those fantastically phallic shaped buildings in the financial district. They're tall, short, buff, skinny, ginger, blonde, touch of grey, rich, poor, artistic, anything and everything. A DILF for every woman.

My best friend and I visited this magical place about three weeks ago, and although the airport was surprisingly barren of these mystical creatures (it would seem that airports are the origin of every widespread American stereotype and upon entering one the individual is lead to believe that all attractive people live in Canada) the moment our young spry feet touched the pavement of Market street any fears we had about slim pickin's were quieted.

On our daily hikes around the sister my friend and I subconsciously began to participate in a game in which upon spotting a DILF one would say such title, in a variety of tones and specifically when in the company of a third in coughing form. Essentially, we took sight seeing to a whole other level. The DILF hunt began.


The DILF hunt, as it shall be called, is a fairly primal notion. It originates in the ovary's and makes it's way up to the mind disguised as everyday attraction. But if you run into these attractions frequently enough (like I do) you come to recognize that part of the reason you keep flocking towards these 'Just for Men' models is because the caveman part of your brain is over actively searching for a guy that can not only provide the juice for a couple mini humans, but also have the seasoned experience to stick around.

I will caution, however, that our definition of DILF is fairly loose. Rather then classifying a DILF as an attractive male individual who has children, we more so see DILF's as attractive individuals who appear to be over the age of thirty and thus have the potential to be father's (in the societal circumstance, rather then the biological). Let's be serious here ladies, if you're anything like I am you want a DILF but have no urge to become a substitute mother to a step-child that may be closer to your age then their father is. That shit is just awkward.

And now for a new introduction! As inspired by this week's topic I will be adding a little something to spruce up your hump day at the end of every post from here on in, which will be referred to as:

'DILF of the Week'

Christopher Meloni, and actor from Law and Order: SVU. He brightens up my partial unemployment by giving me something to look at whilst watching daytime TV, even with the Crucifixion tattoo.

I may be a deadbeat, but at least I'm good looking.