Like Vegas, Los Angeles is a town full of slutty women wearing inappropriately short, inappropriately tight clothing. Cleavage is spilling out onto the sidewalks of Beverly Hills and it ain’t pretty. It’s like the entire city is one big strip club. And you know how it is at strip clubs. Why pay for a dance when you can enjoy the one your neighbor is getting for free?
Recently a date of mine asked me what I see for myself at age fifty. I replied, “more of the same, but better.” I love life and I have no fear of aging. I believe that like a good wine, age is making me better—smoother, more balanced, with tannins that are less harsh. But enough wine references. Let’s just say I am no “Peter Pan” or the female equivalent. I plan to age gracefully without excessive plastic surgery or the insecurities that accompany such beauty obsessions. Evidently, that’s not what he meant when asking what I see for myself. He was asking about my attire and whether I’d still be wearing mini skirts.
Let me start by saying while I live in a city where the women are known for wearing ridiculously short, tight dresses that stop just below the water line and look like they’ve been spray-painted on their surgically enhanced figures, I am not one of them.