Charlotte's Web Site

I am now the proud proprietor of my very own web site. Woohoo! Twenty-first century here I come!

So anyway, the other day, as I lay helplessly on an inaptly named massage table (inaptly named because "massage" connotes some sort of pleasantness) I was telling the guy wielding the loudly vibrating instrument of torture against my aching muscles about it. Well, trying to tell him, between moans. Moans which must have sounded like moans of pleasure to the geezer lying serenely on the table next to me, who suddenly went from looking like a dusty old corpse to a frisky and very dirty old man.

"A web site?" he purred. "Really?"

I tried my best to purr back, although I probably sounded like a cougar in the throes of a deadly cat fight. "Yes. My very own web site." I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I figured out pretty quickly he was not assuming my website had anything to do with the drudgery of helping kids craft college application essays. My feline grin was no doubt a bit scary, but for him I think that was a good thing, adding a little something to the sexual tension that had gripped his once lifeless form. "AARP porn," I elaborated, winking as I grimaced my way through a particularly painful attempt at unknotting my hip.

Frisky doesn't even begin to describe what he looked like then. His entire body literally started to shake with a renewed youthful energy. Granted, my body was shaking too, but that was because somebody appeared to be driving a car across my back. I don't know what had excited the guy more -- the prospect of some new pay per view porn site filled with glistening women whose body parts were still under factory warranty, or the prospect of his AARP discount. I needed to clarify.

"AARP porn," I repeated over the din of the vehicle taking a joy ride over my piriformis. "The stars have the AARP cards," I explained, thinking it would be a cute party game to try to locate those damn cards (which I toss in the trash when they arrive in bulk around every birthday) within the wrinkles and folds. And there's no discount, butthead I thought to myself, although if there was an incentive I could provide to some younger male viewers to sign on and act as occasional arm candy and sex toy I would be sure to offer it up.

The old guy's body suddenly looked tired again. I was losing his attention, and, well, it's not as if I can afford to turn my other vibrating cheek at anyone these days. Even an octogenarian, especially if he has a big bank account and non-arthritic fingers, can look hot in the correct lighting (correct lighting being anything other than the bright ceiling fluorescents hanging directly overhead). Hoping his eyes were even worse than mine, I tried to look sexy as I winced. My guy was now pressing the vibrating instrument of torture against my hamstring. Somebody was getting jollies, and it sure wasn't me. And my geezer neighbor was back in corpse pose.

Food for thought, though, I suppose. If I don't get any nibbles for my writing services, I might just consider some more scintillating options. Writing, writhing? Really, what's the difference? Whatever I need to do to put food on the Formica table in the double wide.