Here's to Me, Mrs. Robinson

A few things.

1) I am not a woman. And never will be.

2) Anne Bancroft will remain the hottest baby boomer that ever wore a black bra. (And don’t be fooled by her last name, she was Italian.) 

3) I am having an affair. 

She is younger than me. She has a beautiful Italian name (think sunsets at Portofino, without krauts). She has the build of an athlete and the soul of a poet. Best of all, she looks stunning with a black mop. She is so stunningly hot that my body screams like a banshee trapped in the fires of hell.

Thus my life has become comedy worthy of Dante’. I have told no one of my passion (not even her). I have secretly scouted places to keep her out of sight from my unapproving family–including a somewhat exotic 70’s style love nest in the woods.

I even have access to a valet at a very fine hotel close to where I work capable of providing the utmost, Buck Henry-style discretion.

I have become, in effect, Mrs. Robinson.

Except that I don’t look good in lingere.

And I have stolen my infernally all-black Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce’ all by myself.