Desert Nights of Love


My last posting was dated Monday, May 31st 2010 – getting on for a year ago. With all my worries, and with all the changes in my life – I haven’t had time of late, to write much in this web-log.

I’m now 115 and will turn 116 this coming June. I don’t know anyone my age. This makes it lonely for me, for I would so like to have someone to speak with who is at the same stage of life as I. Although I know some people who consider themselves old, I don’t think they’re old. This is because they’re only eighty-five or so – quite young to me, since I’m old enough to be their father. However, I look younger than these eighty-five year-old whipper-snappers, because I inherited good genes from my Mater and Pater. Also, I eat healthy foods and go to the gym every day, where I skip rope, hit the heavy and speed bags, and spar in the ring with anyone there who wants to fight me.

I began boxing when a boy in school, which was before 1914 when The Great War began. After I retired from the ring shortly after winning the middleweight championship of the British Army in 1946, I continued to train every day in the gym as if I were still an active fighter. Some young women also work out in the gym I go to here in the town (whose name I cannot divulge for my own safety) where I live in northern Mexico, although their workouts are different from mine because they don’t box. Nor should they.

When I skip rope, hit the heavy and speed bags and spar, some of these young women interrupt what they’re doing to watch me train. They often tell me how much they admire me, and what a good boxer I seem. On many an occasion I’ve asked a young woman at the gym to join me afterwards for a beer and food at a cantina. Sometimes this has led to romances. Yes, many a time I’ve asked a young woman back to my little house after the beer and food. Soon we are in bed. I won’t, of course, dwell on what happens afterwards, except to say that she will get up to return to her home the following morning.

Although these young women know I’m somewhat older than they, little do they suspect that the man they are in bed with could be their great-grandfather. They assume I’m fifty to fifty-five. I’m happy that they think this. Were I to tell them the truth, that I’m 115, they wouldn’t believe me. What can I do, then, but let them think that I’m only old enough to be their father, rather than their great-grandfather.

Unlike the young women in America, or the young women in England, young women in Mexico seem to find much older men attractive, which is one reason for me to appreciate being in Mexico. It almost outweighs the disadvantages of having to be in Mexico to escape the American police, which is the case with me. Many a night I’ve spent here, entwined with a lovely young woman, our sweat-filmed naked bodies cooled by a breeze drifting in through the open windows from a moonlit desert outside. Such nights strengthen my resolve to live. May they continue until I pass over to the Other Side.

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This entry was posted in Writing.

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