Stalked by nymphomaniac on the war path for a booty call

Daily, I get bombarded with a barrage of friend requests from Facebook Messenger. Despite being married, the philanderer within me proceeds without concerning himself with unpleasant consequences. Before to long, responses to clicking yes (unaware I am being baited) accept yield a plethora of females (most young enough to be my daughter - according to the wife, but methinks what's good for Bill Belichick would be good enough for me), who fantasizes about finding his own Jordon Hudson without the benefit of that minor detail of a healthy bank account. Interestingly (and not maybe not so surprising) enough, most all those women whose friend requests I responded too less interested in a platonic friendship but a f*ck buddy on demand and a sugar daddy to boot!

After asking me for a photograph (the deal breaker), whereat many gals with implants the size of Rhode Island ask me my gender, cause based on the picture of yours truly - taken soon after taking a shower and washing hair, this dude looks like a lady. Once the gal in question convinced yours truly a bonafide guy (matter of fact, an aging foo fighting baby boomer long haired pencil necked geek to whit).

Once we get down to brass tacks, the usual host of general questions peppers their text messages to me including age of yours truly, who answers with an extemporaneous somewhat lengthy prevarication, which creative reply from me, a modest Norwegian Bachelor farmer from Lake Wobegon barely generates any buzz-feeding desired effect, but no matter, he who cannot be named (for dramatic effect) claims to be an extraordinary Earthlinked hot male from the outer limits of the twilight zone where dark shadows hover like the edge of night.

I put my figurative cards on the table and immediately under_score this boyish looking sixty six year old husband and father of two grown late twenty something daughters, who merely seeks a platonic friendship, and also rattles off (to shake off any gold diggers my economic plight as dirt poor), which according to The Census Bureau assigns each person or family one out of forty eight possible poverty thresholds, thus without mincing words we (this knight in tarnished armor, and his distressed damsel) lives below the poverty line in tandem with mental health issues such as anxiety (once upon a time debilitating), dysthymia, obsessive compulsive disorder and palmar hyperhidrosis and subsequently receive social security disability allotment direct deposited into the checking account reserved for accepting deposits only.

Nevertheless, once the writer of these words cobbles together and responds to the unsuspecting recipient with a satisfactory tall tale, he subsequently gets queried with a flurry (more like a squall) of commonplace questions also answered with spontaneous ejaculation of humorous on the spot (tea for the tiller-man) mistruths er... trumped up story barren of hyperbole (in other words equivocate) to fulfill an opportunity to embellish fictitious literary schlock and allowing, enabling and providing free reign to whatever comes to mind trying my darnedest to be a raconteur like I am doing right now, right now, right now... (cue Calvin Harris - the stage name of Adam Richard Wiles) ad nauseam.

Both the written and spoken word fascinate me, a Caucasian, faustian, latitudinarian, nonestablishmentarian, sexagenarian and Unitarian Democrat, who actually breathes a sigh of relief if the potential femme fatale abruptly ceases (without explanation) to reciprocate with an eccentric, phallocentric, theatric, et cetera humble gentleman interested to foster mutual (of Omaha) interpersonal liaison to experience intellectual orgasm, which necessitates cultivating familiarization of various and sundry knowledge base, and the predisposition to liberate literary spontaneity.

Once a brave and daring dame deadset to demonstrate her prosaic chops, and steps up the electronic kick ass jousting to sophistication that finds me feeling like chopped liver (the worst feeling one can experience) who came late to the vocation of scribe (and feels much disadvantaged by young whipper snappers weaned on the Internet and writing opportunities while in utero) three score and six years resident on planet Earth, and most likely will meet his demise on oblate spheroid, and possibly after being a grateful dead (as a doornail) will of corpse get his body electric cryogenically frozen until a cure for mortality.

If and when I hit pay dirt game plan will sow the virtual ground for me to flirt, yet always allowing, enabling, and providing the natural course of events to let graduation into the offline dimension occur, and even free and clear of the faux pretense of impressing the other with rapier wit and wisdom, we will be highly attuned to non-verbal signals so as not to rush in where angels fear to tread.

Just when I thought to breathe a sigh of relief that the message in the medium of driving home my disinclination with subtlety against nary to consummate exchange of bodily fluids, a nightmare scenario arose, whereby blank (name omitted to protect the innocent author) admitted courtesy sixth sense that at least one and maybe more of these bodacious chick wanted more than a fillet and tracked upon my figurative tail predicated on the distinct impression that along the edge of night dark shadows slunk along the outer limits of the twilight zone, and a sixth sense discerned the scent of at least one woman.