Imagine you were out walking your dog at 7 a.m. one morning when a little white-haired old lady ran across the street and greeted you with this question:

“Your diplomat friend — how’s he built?”

Yes, that was my greeting from Minnie Trimble a week or so ago.

We had never discussed my paramour before. I had never even told her I was dating anyone. But yes, now he stays over a couple of times a week, and she has obviously seen the diplomatic plates on his car. But why she wanted to know what is body was like, I did not know.

I sputtered in confusion.

“Ummmm … average height? Quite compact?” (He later told me I should have said: “Huge cock.”)

“Is he over six feet?” Minnie asked.

“No, he’s about five ten. But Minnie, why are you asking?”

Why was she asking? Because Nosy McIntrusive was peering through my living room window one night when I was downtown, and noticed one of my son’s very tall friends walking past it. I explained. She replied that she almost called the police. I asked: “Why?” while struggling not to say: “Why the fuck, crazy lady?” She responded that she had never noticed Alex’s tall friend before, because, you know, apparently I am supposed to supply physical descriptions of every person who walks into my home.

Oh the Trimbles. And the worst thing is, Dolly the hound dog runs over to their house to say hello every time I take her for a walk. I sense their judgment of me every time I see them, especially when my paramour is there. I know they are praying for my slutty soul every time they go to church. Yet only Dolly seems to really care.

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