HOT TUB MAN - PROVING THAT WE HAVEN'T LOST OUR TOUCH COMPLETELY

My friend and I are walking around Marina Bay in Quincy. There is a labyrinth made up of boat docks, and the further the wharf moves along, the more expensive and exclusive and enormous the life-sized toys. Toward the right are nice boats; toward the left are yachts that money-dreams are made of.

The two of us enjoy the beautiful summer day, leaning on the railing that gazes over the harbor with Boston in the backdrop. Behind us, people populate the outdoor dining littered all over Marina Bay. In front of us, several super-sized private boats are docked, one of which is so huge that it cannot even park inside the marina. 

Oh, how the other half lives!

This is when we notice Hot Tub Man.

On one of the larger yachts, a hot tub divides the deck of the bow. In the hot tub is a man about our age, topless, wearing sunglasses, and tanning his upper half while tossing around his unnatural, tangerine-colored hair. My friend is convinced that he is checking us out. I think she's hallucinating. 

Until --

Mr. Hot Tub Man glances over his shoulder at us, then slides himself around the water until he is face-on toward us. Of course, I giggle because this is so high school behavior, and we are all so very much past high school. Yet, we continue to semi-watch him from the corner of our sight line.

Suddenly, Hot Tub Man pops up, showing us his tighty navies. He is wearing either a square-crotched bathing suit or the man is in his damn boxer briefs. How do we know? He turns over and starts doing modified push-ups and planks on the tub's edge, still in the water, showing us his barely-spandex-clad butt cheeks. 

God bless the man, he's trying. He really is. He's got game, we'll give him that much. But, for the love of the art of flirting, you don't need to show us your aged backside if you want our attention. 

Just wave. Raise a glass to toast two beautiful ladies who may or may not be watching you.

When he finally climbs out of the water, Hot Tub Man goes for the beach towel, sucking his gut in as he waddles over to where the terrycloth is folded on a ledge. You all know the gut-suck I'm talking about. We all do it at our age. It's the "Oh, shit, my stomach doesn't belong down at my thighs" breathing intake and breath hold. Don't lie. Anyone over the age of forty has practiced it. By fifty, we've mastered it. By sixty? Well, we try, goddamnit, we try.

I'll be honest: I'm a window shopper. I have zero desire to try nor to buy whatever it is that Hot Tub Man is peddling. Once we realize that he is drying off and possibly changing, we come to the conclusion that, ahoy, matey, he's going to request permission to come ashore. This fact immediately alters our lunch plans. 

Sit outside on the wharf where he can find us? No way! 

Quickly, we hustle slightly inland, away from Marina Bay's immediate waterfront shops, and settle into our good old favorite, The Chantey. We do sit outside, but we are between two buildings and in the shade. If Hot Tub Man intends to find us, he's going to have to work for it. 

Besides, if he does find us, I'm putting the mudslides bill in his back pocket . . . provided he has finally put on his pants.