Catnip

Fly in for a week. That’s enough for me. Plenty. Got a nice place with a pool. Four-star. Kitchenette. Don’t bother with the bar girls. I don't. Not my thing. No way. Can’t be bothered with all that fooling around. It’s Tinder all the way. For me. You have any idea how many lonely women are wandering around this island? Pick'm off like low hanging fruit. That's what I do. They call me the ‘Big boned baby’. Admittedly, I got an oversized toddler's body. So what? More to love. That's what I say. Weightlifter tits gone saggy. And a belly. A sure indication of good living. Fat legs. Fat hands. A tattoo that doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. Used to...but not now. Things change. The tattoo was a youthful indiscretion. I tell people different stories about this little indiscretion. The deep meaning behind it. Make shit up. Keeps life interesting. Everyone loves a good story while you're sitting poolside sucking down a few cold beers. Passes the time. Anyway. 'Boned’ because, well, I’ll leave that one to the imagination. What I’m saying here is that there have never been any complaints. In that department. No female has ever lodged a formal complaint. This is a fact. Whatever. You work with what you have. My point is....the female tourist s where it’s at. For me. I can’t be having with the locals. Mine is a niche market and I don’t deviate. I don't. I won't. I’m on the Tinder soon as the plane touches down. In line, shuffling through customs, getting scrutinised by the officials, I'm swiping left and right. Cathy, Kelly, Francesca, Laura....the list goes on. All gagging for it. Sporty, sexy, flirty, fun....whatever. Insert any adjective you like in your profile it doesn't matter. Not to me. Women, just like us men, when exposed to all that sun, warm water and booze....are you kidding? They want a piece of it. They do. And fair is fair. They’re human beings. With needs. Just like us. Just like all the perverts you see on this plane. The men, I mean. Look at them. Chomping at the bit. Clawing to get out. Even before we hit the tarmac. Gagging for that first whiff of local talent. Not for me. No thanks. For me....it’s the tourists. For me, it's a turbocharged week. Believe what I say. I'll have something different planned every single day. And it does wear you out. It does. My hectic pace. The humidity and the beer. All that running around. A week from now I'll be exhausted. Mark my words. Never ceases to amaze me. As a white male, I'm nothing special back at home. I get off the plane here and my marketability goes straight through the f'ing roof. And you can honest. Look at me. I know what your thinking. You can say it. Go on. Back home I'm some kind of middle age lump. I am. But here? Here I’m catnip. Women who wouldn't give me the time of day....soon as they got off the plane, soon as that wall of warm air hits them, I'm worth a second look. Hello! What do we have here? That's what they think. They'll start coming out of the woodwork. And what kind of fool wouldn’t take advantage of that? Tell me. Get it while you can, right? Who knows? I shed a few pounds, live long enough, hit the old Stairmaster, maybe I’ll end up one of these old guys you hear about on a cruise ship. Tripping the light fantastic with all the old widows. And that’d be okay. With me.