The smorgasbord of Instagram offers me men who politely request to follow me. Some hot, some cold, all tempting, especially those hot-gunned military dudes, camo-gear flexed in the bare woods, deer stalking I suppose.
I admit the doctor leaning against shoulder height filing cabinets caught my eye. He wore scrubs convincingly accessorized with a stethoscope and a surgical mask draped around his neck. A safe, antiseptic scent protruded from the screen. #MrClean
A father of two boys from Florida photographed in a light baked kitchen DM’d me. “Nice pic. That cake looks good!” he said, referring to my profile pic taken on my 62nd birthday, a happy silver-haired woman proudly showing off a homemade Black Forest birthday cake.
I can’t know for sure, but I think the cake drew them to me. Hungry for something sweet they think I’ll do just fine. The photo is small after all and grey is oh so in. #silverhairlovers
Bing cherries ringed the perimeter of this cake. In the center, chocolate stubble dotted the whipped cream and those cherry sentinels hung back with their orange Bic razors, eager to shave.
A social worker told me the key to a happy marriage was being good in bed or good in the kitchen. If I had to choose, what would I be? “What if you’re both?”, I thought. Was that partnership the key to the 50-year box of Betty Crocker?
After the first few, I lost count of the gentlemen callers. That’s the way it is with too much of a good thing – like sex for women after we figure out how to have an orgasm. Turns out you don’t need a man at all. Turns out you can have your cake – and eat it, too. Same could be said of men of course, so why request to follow me? It’s the gooey cake of love in the dessert buffet of life. It’s all about fucking cake.