“Friends, no bennies”

“What, pray tell, are ‘bennies?’” I asked ******, my widow-friend with whom I eat out often.
She, like me, lost her beloved marriage-mate; she five years ago, me six.
We were discussing my adventures with women.
“Yer problem is you overthink everything,” she said.
“Not exactly,” I thought. “It’s the fact I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of ‘Gender’ Relations.” No longer is it “Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations.” “Gender” is my doggy-daycare guy, who I once worked with at the Canandaigua Messenger newspaper. “Gender” is more precise, “Sexual” misses the mark.
“Sex,” ****** declared. “‘Bennies’ are sex. We’re too old for sex.” ****** is 64, I’m 10 years ahead of her.
“I hafta talk to you,” I said recently to *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do balance-training.
One could say ***** is one of my female adventures. A few months ago she said hello to me by name. Contrary to my upbringing I decided I should be able to say hello back, which I did later.
I’m awfully glad I did, an act of incredible derring-do for a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. There were others earlier, but 10 years ago I would have avoided *****.
Another female adventure is my aquacise instructor. “Hot!” my widow friend said.
“Nope!” I shouted. My widow-friend dialed back to “cute.”
“I’ll tell you why,” I said. “It’s that smile in her Facebook profile-picture. And that’s coming from one who badmouths yer online suitors telling you they like yer smile.
I wish I could smile like that. That aquacise instructor probably had a pleasant childhood. I didn’t.”
I’ve only done one Facebook “like” over 10 years. And it’s probably the only “like” I’ll ever do. I have little time for Facebook. I “liked” that picture.
Fortunately I don’t have *****-the-lifeguard’s phone-number. I do have my aquacise instructor’s phone-number; she gave me her business-card. That phone-number is her personal iPhone.
Not having *****’s phone-number saved me from deluging her with the torrent of texts I hurled at my aquacise instructor.
Texts can’t be retracted. I wish I could have retracted many. They were prompted by not knowing what was going on after walking my dog with that aquacise instructor three times in quick succession.
This is the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, combined with being happily-married 44&1/2 years. I have no experience dealing with females.
“Friends,” my widow-friend observed. “That’s all it was. She enjoyed yer company.”
That’s not how it is with Faire Hilda. All males are disgusting, prone to EVIL = attracted to women not approved by Hilda.
As I’ve said before, Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent. Together with my Bible-beating parents she convinced me I too was disgusting. (I was about five.)
I carried that albatross 70+ years. Combine that with being married 44&1/2 years to a female who actually liked me, and I usually goof up with women.
Despite that women keep talking to me. I’m easy to talk to, and harmless.
My widow-friend and I are miles apart, yet she keeps eating out with me.
And *****-the-lifeguard keeps talking to me, and now I’m getting eye-contact. I wasn’t at first, and I flubbed innumerable times.
My aquacise instructor and I are also far apart, yet she keeps smiling at me despite my deluge of texts, plus a Facebook message I call “the proposition.”
“Oh Hughes, will you get over it?” says my doggy daycare friend. “Hilda and yer parents are all dead.”
I can’t just flip-flop my past. My counselor agrees. She’s supposed to be my bereavement counselor, but all we talk about is my childhood.