Old men and their gay hookers.

Carolina, Vivek and I just got back from a bikeride, and after a dip in the pool, they left (cuz it's gonna storm) and I was laying out towels on the balcony, when off in the distance I saw a tanned, furry-but-groomed set of pecs and a perfect swimmer's six-pack from halfway across the Belle Isle bridge... attached to a scruffy preppy guy in Aviators with sunstreaked hair...

And I dropped the Marimekko tray I was holding, and plastic cups rolled everywhere. (Not really).

And I stared. (Have you figured out my type if you want to match me up with someone?)

And when I finally remembered to breathe again, I looked at his companion.

Who at first, I thought was his aunt, resembling a large white bratwurst.

And then I realized it was a guy. Puffy -- zaftig... In large black sunglasses, lipstick-pink short-shorts, and a flowing linen shirt and...

Oh god, it pains me to write this...

A Sailor Cap. Or a sunhat. Some awful variation thereof.

::needle scratching off the record...::

Wait... him... and him... but... Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh...

I'm going to bring to your attention something you have probably never noticed before.

And as soon as I say this, you will start seeing them... Old men and their gay hookers. (Of course, that caveat is only to those of you who live in the Miami Beach or Los Angeles, California areas...)

Next time you're 'oot n' aboot, keep your eyes open. And then you'll see them. See what? Old men and their chiseled, beefy and/or JCrew-modelesque "escorts."

Because, it's super likely that the bald, overweight 63-year-old queen in the limp Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt, just happened to strike up a successful conversation among the frisee in Publix with a tall, tanned Adonis, that actually lead somewhere, and then they went on an awkward first date, and both of them would strategically answer the phone early in the relationship to keep the other person interested, even though it killed them not to answer every call, and now they have lazy brunches on Sunday mornings over the New York Times crossword puzzle, and right now they're on their Friday evening stroll down Lincoln. And also, they fuck. Voluntarily.

Seriously? Who do you think you're fooling?

Now, that said, I have nothing AGAINST hookers - I hope never to be driven into the arms of one as my only option for lovin', but hey, I could have a disfiguring accident (knock wood and spit between your fingers) so it's nice to know that I could pay someone hot to hang out with me if I needed to.

But like, if you have someone you're paying (doubtlessly a LOT of money) to hang out with you with a 95% probability of a bored acceptance of your sloppy groping at the end of the night, why not just cut to the chase and get your money's worth at the beginning of the night... and hey, stretch it out?

I mean, it just seems like a perfectly good waste of hooker to be dragging them around, when it's so obvious that you're PAYING AN "ESCORT" for company, that you're not really impressing anyone, so much as making them sad, and making their brick-oven pizza taste a little more bitter, the flavor poisoned by sympathy and pity...

Personally, I just think these guys are making a very poor economic decision: it's like making white sangria with Perrier Jouet, instead of $10.00 Cava from Costco...

It's a waste!

Instead of making other people who they think they're impressing, actually feel sad, they should just hold 'em at home, and drip candlewax on the hooker's waxed chest, or whatever the agreement is...

You'll see. Next time you're out, you'll see a set, and that entire thought process will flicker through your mind as you watch them stroll down the street, eventually disappearing into the crowd.

Now, go forth, and see Hookers!