Nadja Moore

Forty-six and divorced

So I’m divorced.
I’m two decades older
than I was the last time
I was single
and I’m two inches further
from being happy.
Forty is the new sixty.
Sixty is the new forty.
Forty is like being thirty which
means yes. I’m really horny.
I am.
I think dick 99% of the time.
At my desk, I’m working and
also being fucked by two guys
with thick penises.
Oh yeah.
My imagination’s just strong enough
to get me a few feet from the edge.
So I’m forty-six.
I look good.
I don’t have kids.
So no shame there or errands there
or apple juice on my sweater.
I’m ready.
I put on some nice clothes,
my girlfriend meets me at the bar
and we drink an expensive cocktail
and nothing happens. Not a thing.
So I go home thinking, “This just isn’t
my night”, and imagine being fucked
by just one big dick this time
and fall asleep. I masturbate maybe
three times the next morning and scrub
my vibrator to death before putting it back
in the box (some good things happen
when you get older). I go to work and
there’s my co-worker. Well he’s lovely
and he bends over my desk with those
hard shoulders and that brown hair
and we talk (work stuff) and I say:
“D’you like Westlife?” “Haven’t heard of them”
“They’re playing a show tonight, wanna come?”
“Sure”, and we meet that evening and he’s only
just joined so I have no clue who he really is
and we dance and he’s laughing which gets
me laughing and I’m thinking, “This is it. This is
the night. You rock! Sixty is the new forty!”
Then after the show we walk towards the station
and he says: “You know I think I’ve heard of them”
“Oh yeah?” “Yeah my mum is a massive fan” “Your mum, huh?”
“Yeah” “Would kissing me feel like kissing your mum?”
“Dancing with you felt like dancing with my mum” and
he broke into some weird dad dance and said “This
is how you guys used to dance, right? In the eighties?”
“Nineties”, I said. “Right, this is me”, he points to the station
across the road and says “Thanks” and walks off.

Nineties, Hugo. It was the nineties.
When twenty was just twenty.

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