I doubt there’s any reason to enumerate the ways a bottom-heavy fifty-something craft brewer differs from a state-champion swimmer at the peak of his athletic career once the lights are out, the clothes are off, and the headboard’s banging against the wall. But even when you’re at the amusement park, nobody spends every second on the roller coaster. For the most part, being with Nick is more like strolling along the midway eating cotton candy—a perfectly pleasant way to spend an evening, and very sweet. And if the s*x is like the ring toss—not as easy as the sporty young dude with an armload of stuffed animals made it look—well, Nick’s intent on not being outdone. He’s ready to shell out as many dollars as it takes to impress me, and, at least most nights, he wins me a prize.
He likes his
