THE GENT

Hair with a quiff, sculpted with care, darker than is right with the age of his face,
and he's still quite lean, like he cares what figure he cuts in the eyes of "the ladies."

Ah, "the ladies!"

His foible. His predilection.
He found at 15 that boldness paid off,
and at 18 that his town was packed with ladies who had no objection to his being in their knickers because
their men rarely were,
and he was "Stan,
the one-night-stand"
which was all he, or they, really wanted.
He didn't break hearts; just added a little acid to
corroding relationships, 'till he met June
who got divorced, had his baby and adored him, licking his footsteps for the sugar she could taste had oozed where he trod; a sight that boosted his self esteem and he laid a woman a night, not counting her, 'til she died, worn out by forgiving.

And now he's 70 and on this cruise, and cruising for lonely hearts.
Of which, of course, there're scores.