{"id":507,"date":"2025-09-29T22:39:14","date_gmt":"2025-09-29T19:39:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/?p=507"},"modified":"2025-10-15T15:00:40","modified_gmt":"2025-10-15T12:00:40","slug":"chapter-seventeen-dinner-with-the-devil","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/chapter-seventeen-dinner-with-the-devil\/","title":{"rendered":"Chapter Seventeen: Dinner With the Devil"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

My expectations weren\u2019t high. They never are, these days. But still, I had that tiny flicker of hope, the same pathetic flame that keeps moths frying themselves on lightbulbs. I shaved, splashed on some aftershave that expired sometime during the Obama administration, and combed my hair in a way I imagined said: distinguished gentleman<\/em> rather than dirty old man lurking outside playgrounds<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We met at a coffee shop. She wasn\u2019t young. She wasn\u2019t glamorous. Ordinary-looking, maybe forty-five, maybe more. Hard to tell in the dim caf\u00e9 lighting, which I was grateful for. But here\u2019s the thing\u2014she was funny. Actually funny. She cracked a joke about the barista\u2019s hipster mustache that made me laugh so loud half the caf\u00e9 turned to stare. For a moment, I forgot all the nonsense of Tinder and disappointment and loneliness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We talked. And talked. Three hours passed. The staff began giving us the stink eye, clearly wanting their table back for some laptop-clutching freelancers sipping oat lattes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I suggested dinner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked at me with narrowed eyes and said, \u201cI know what you\u2019re thinking, but I\u2019m not going to have sex with you on the first date.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I protested, hands raised in mock surrender: \u201cEveryone has to eat!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The Feast<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We ended up in a gastropub around the corner. Candlelight, wooden tables, chalkboard menus pretending to be rustic. She ordered veal\u2014slow-braised, dripping in red wine sauce, tender enough to cut with a sigh. I had mutton, roasted with garlic and rosemary, served with mashed potatoes so creamy they could\u2019ve doubled as face lotion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drank. We laughed. Somewhere between my third pint and her second glass of wine, I realized: I was enjoying myself. Genuinely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then it hit me: I wanted to kiss her. Badly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The Turn<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Outside, under a flickering streetlight, I leaned in. She didn\u2019t slap me. She didn\u2019t recoil. She kissed me back, soft and warm, and then pulled away with a look that could freeze vodka.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCoffee at my place,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\u2019s just around the corner. BUT nothing more than coffee!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I swore I\u2019d be a perfect gentleman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Coffee, Rolls, and Wine<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her flat smelled like cinnamon. Actual cinnamon. She had homemade cinnamon rolls waiting on the counter, as if Martha Stewart and Aphrodite had conspired to ambush me. We drank coffee, ate rolls, and talked. About life, about failure, about sadness. At one point, I thought I saw a tear in her eye. Maybe it was mine. Hard to tell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then came the wine. First one glass. Then another. And before I knew it, we were kissing again\u2014only this time not soft and warm but desperate, hungry, as if the years of loneliness were finally being repaid in one instalment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We made love. And let me tell you, it wasn\u2019t two bodies fumbling in the dark. No, this was something else. Something ethereal. Something angelic. If angels sweat and curse and knock over half the furniture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The Morning After<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I walked home the next morning, the sun was brighter, the birds were louder, and I\u2014Jan Parviainen, dirty old man\u2014was walking on air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wasn\u2019t just back in the game. I had won the damn match.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was so confident, so inflated with joy, that the first thing I did when I got home was open Tinder, go to settings, and set my preferred age range to 18\u201329<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because why not? A man has to dream big.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


(This is a pick from my upcoming book\u2014if you want to read more – for free – subscribe to a newsletter.)
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Get NordVPN 75% off + 3 extra months, and stay anonymous & safe. If you click here<\/a> and buy, I may get some beer money, at no extra cost to you.<\/em><\/strong><\/mark><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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My expectations weren\u2019t high. They never are, these days. But still, I had that tiny flicker of hope, the same pathetic flame that keeps moths frying themselves on lightbulbs. I shaved, splashed on some aftershave that expired sometime during the Obama administration, and combed my hair in a way I imagined said: distinguished gentleman rather … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"pagelayer_contact_templates":[],"_pagelayer_content":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[38],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-507","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-book-how-i-became-dirty-old-man"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/507","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=507"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/507\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1453,"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/507\/revisions\/1453"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=507"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=507"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dirtyoldman.blog\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=507"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}