Let me go on record that I toyed around with the idea of calling this one the Dirty Old Men's Club.  But in truth, there's nothing dirty about these guys.  Most of them are somewhere between 65 and 80 and shine like sterling beacons of traditional values, gracious manners, and respectful communications.  With the possible exception of their "after tennis" coffee klatch.

Ken organizes the "drop in" men's tennis group at the country club in our community.  Like most transplants from California, he keeps a separate file drawer for divorce papers.  No one really knows how many times he's been married.  And in spite of his hefty bank account, no one questions why he's currently a bachelor. Here's a snapshot.  Ken has 12-month allergies, shared by many in our fair Valley of the Sun.  Now, we all know that allergy sufferers often need to wipe their runny little noses.  What you may not realize is the comparatively high price of Kleenex tissues over toilet paper, which is something a multi-millionaire like Ken has researched to the penny.  Blow by blow.  So Ken did what anyone who is serious about his budget would do:  Installed a toilet-paper dispenser on every wall.  Kitchen, living room, formal dining room, bedrooms, hallways.  Literally every room of his upscale Scottsdale home features several toilet paper rolls precisely positioned for quick and convenient access.  No worries about clashing with the decor.  Toilet paper is the decor.  The entire place is devoid of artwork or decoration and only sparsely furnished with the very bare necessities.  Couch, television, kitchen table, bed.  Even Ken's tennis buddies had a tough time envisioning the scene.  Any woman in her right mind, save the most desperate Gold Digger, would run away screaming the moment she crossed the threshold.  I'd like to say I'm making this all up, but only real life could be this delightfully bizarre.

For all his eccentricities, Ken has ingeniously rallied the rest of the men in the community around a tennis schedule that magically expands and contracts around the number of fellows who show up.  After tennis, the entire gang heads off to coffee.  Java and whatever freebies the bakery might be offering that morning.  Let me break into this discourse by describing the shameless behavior of my own beloved in the face of freebie anythings.  He's the only guy in Costco who is walking around with 36 toothpicks from six sample stations.  Apparently, he's the unabashed leader in conversation as well.

Today, he glanced down at the Arizona Republic newspaper and announced in his resonant, booming, confident, ever-so-loud, radio-worthy, baritone voice:  "It says here that the best sex lasts from three to 13 minutes."

Now we're hearing a backlash of laughter, jokes and chiding.

One fellow hollers out:  "THREE minutes!?" 

Another shot rings back:  "Oh come on, Wynn, that's two minutes longer than you'll ever need!"   

Keep in mind that this high-volume banter is unfolding in the outdoor seating area of the neighborhood grocery store.  Thank you, Starbucks, for irrevocably altering our world.  Ned tries to discreetly bring the group's attention to the sole woman sitting quietly off at an angle from the boys.  "Fellas, please. Quiet down. Look over there."

But no, sex was the subject and they were not to be shamed or shushed.

Someone brought up Cialis and again my sweetheart boomed out: "The television ads say to contact your physician if you have an erection lasting longer than four hours."  At even higher volume, "If I had a four-hour erection, I'm sure not calling my doctor!"  Gales of laughter.  That's my baby.

At this point, responsible and sensitive Ned is beside himself as the little lady gathers up her cup and slips away.  We'll never know how her sudden exodus affected the rest of the men, but my Willy (granted, not his usual nickname) was feeling a bit red-faced about her departure.  Listening to him describe the event when he returned home, I couldn't help but crack a smile.

My verdict:  "She was either deeply offended or she just found herself in the middle of a men's locker room and decided to leave before you stripped down and started snapping each other with towels.  In that case, she was more amused than anything else and will be telling her girlfriends all about it over lunch."

The best part of this story is the men involved.  Affluent, successful, retired, active, intellectually stimulating, caring, loyal, exemplary fellows.  Most have been married to amazing women for many decades.  The classic insight into their female counterparts came at the annual "tennis group" party our neighbors throw each year.  Drinks were flowing.  Conversation was popping.  Delicious food was piling up higher upon the table with each doorbell ring.  We're talking communion, not catering.  It was actually Ned's wife who spilled the beans about the calendar that the ladies' tennis group created about five years ago, inspired by the movie "Calendar Girls."  Need I say more.

That's all I had to hear to wander over to a group of men and suggest a matching project for the guys.  My man would definitely be Mr. March.  As my daughter so succinctly exclaimed the first day she saw him on a tennis court:  "Mom, he has amazing legs."  When I agreed that he was remarkably well-conditioned at age 75, she repeated:  "Who cares about his age?  Are you kidding?  Those are 24-year-old legs!"

Tough to believe, but none of the fellows seemed to know or remember that the women had audaciously posed for a "tastefully nude" calendar.  Several of the fellows even accused me of making the whole thing up.  Like I would issue such a challenge just to lure them out of their clothes in front of a flash bulb?  Oh please.  We all saw that episode of "Sex and The City" where Samantha is dating the "old guy."  She caught one glance at those sagging buns and literally ran away, clutching her newly acquired diamond jewelery and half her clothes.  And several of our tennis champs are pushing the envelope by just wearing shorts on the court.

But it seams that beauty seen through the eyes of love never fades, as I learned one evening when Bill and I joined several couples from the "tennis family" for dinner.  On one side of us sat Herb and Elena, who met at a dance in Manhattan just shortly after the Native Americans sold it to Peter Minuit.  These two have been married a long, long, long, long time.  Elena said that she whispered to her girlfriend the moment she caught sight of this handsome stranger, "That's the man I'm going to marry."  When I asked Herb if he felt that sense of instant recognition, he admitted to being "completely spellbound."  My romantic bones were tingling and I couldn't help but sigh:  "She must have been such a beauty!"

And then Herb, who never utters a serious syllable about any subject, said something I will never forget.  Particularly since he was sitting next to a wrinkled, aging woman with great bone structure and a regal aura but far past her prime in any sense of this world.

"She's a beauty right now."

Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
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