I have a new alter-ego. Let me descibe her to you.
She sits on a barstool, with a cigarette holder in one hand and a vodka martini (Grey Goose) in the other, smeared lipstick in an somewhat garish color. She and her friend, who is nursing a scotch rocks, are gossiping and making slightly inappropriate comments about the strapping young men who frequent the watering hole. Periodically she throws a glance towards one of the young bucks and gives a knowing smile.
I have become, within the confines of chat rooms and message boards, a Dirty Old Lady.
Hide in the hiding place where no one ever goes.
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.
It's a little secret just the Robinsons' affair.
Most of all you've got to hide it from the kids.
My interpretation of the DOL may not be quite as classy or refined as the late great Anne Bancroft’s portrayal of Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate, but I like to think we have the same brand of libido. These thoughts aren’t new to me -- the willingness to share them publically is. So much for that filter which theoretically keeps one’s inner monologue private. And although the objects of my affection span a good sized age range (from hot twenty-somethings to Mr. Clooney), the Mrs. Robinson label just seems to fit across the board.
For me sexiness is definately in the eye of the beholder, and is much more than the outside package -- give me a brain, a sense of humor, a silky singing voice -- pure seduction.
Although a tight ass and a slightly hairy muscular chest are always appreciated.
But I digress...
Benjamin: For god's sake, Mrs. Robinson. Here we are. You got me into your house. You give me a drink. You... put on music. Now you start opening up your personal life to me and tell me your husband won't be home for hours.
Mrs. Robinson: So?
Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me.
Mrs. Robinson: [laughs]
Benjamin: Aren't you?
The Internet, with its necessary veil of pseudo-anonymity and fantastic capability for bringing people with a common interest together, has allowed me and my inner Dirty Old Lady to shine as brightly as the rhinestone brooch on my virtual little black dress. I find myself sharing risqué bon mots with new friends from across the globe as we engage in nonsensical lustful yearning for this public figure or that celebrity on internet message boards. I’m able to say things that I normally would only think and make written comments that if actually said out loud, might make me blush.
On the one hand, I’m a bit mortified that I have a comfort level sharing such overtly lacivious thoughts. On the other, I’m having a hell of a good time leerting and lusting.
Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, I can't do this.
Mrs. Robinson: You what?
Benjamin: This is all terribly wrong.
Mrs. Robinson: Do you find me undesirable?
Benjamin: Oh no, Mrs. Robinson. I think, I think you're the most attractive of all my parents' friends. I mean that.
My mother went through a similar phenomenon, although being the proper 1950s southern debutante that she was, she never would have thought of herself as a Mrs. Robinson -- or been as descriptive or public about her feelings as I am. She’s always said there are two men she’d leave my father for: Paul Newman and Burt Bacharach. Although she’s been pretty open about her crushes on these guys, I can’t imagine ever hearing her say “I’d hit that” about Paul or Burt. We just took her infatuation as being no big deal. Then, one summer in the late ‘70s, the “buns” of Dave Kingman (her phraseology) -- a well-known baseball player at the time -- caught her fancy. I frankly don’t remember much more about her new attention-grabber, either because her ingrained sense of propriety wouldn’t allow her to go beyond that with her public comments, or because at the time, I was at an age when I just didn’t want to hear or know any more and I tuned out. (Actually, I’m still at that age where I don’t want to know about my mother’s crushes -- maybe I’m more proper than I realize.)
The PTA, Mrs. Robinson,
Won't okay the way you do your thing
Ding ding ding.
And you'll get yours, Mrs. Robinson,
Foolin' with that young stuff like you do
Boo hoo hoo, woo woo woo.
(an alternate verse from Frank Sinatra’s cover of Mrs. Robinson, found on his 1969 album My Way).
The thing of it is, being so explict with my desires and interests has been a very liberating experience for me. And, it’s made my real-life relationship with my husband better as well -- he’s asking no questions, and I’m not divulging information. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.
So I’m going to enjoy being, at least as subversively as the internet will allow, a randy woman of a certain age. A bawdy dame. A lacivious broad.
Now tap that guy standing next to you on the shoulder and ask him to turn around. There’s something I need to check out.