After two or three vodkas, the truth finally comes out

“You’ll know me. I look like Clint,” says 74-year-old widower Ian Goldblatt. “I’ll be at the bar. Six thirty.”

“Sure. See you at six thirty,” I say.

He answered my ad on I never looked at his picture. I like surprises. All I know is that he’s a retired furniture manufacturer and widower. OK, so why not? Widowers make the best lovers, I’ve heard. Here I am, 74, a writer, but I want it all, fame, fortune and undying love. Why not? Love happens any age. Especially after 60.

So far, no undying love. I meet the super-boomer men who answer my ads, at Starbucks. I sit in the back, drinking my decaf iced Americano with an inch of soy and foam on top and watch them shuffle in. I meet astronauts, dentists, all shapes, sizes, with spray tans, hairpieces. They show pictures of their dead wives in bathing suits, taken a hundred years ago. All the men want to go to Viagra Falls. But is love possible in this 60-plus generation where Viagra is taken like candy? What about true romance and intimacy? I believe it is.

So tonight I doll in my usual black trousers, long sleeve top to cover the arms, and Joan Crawford style platform shoes I found at the Goodwill. I love high heels.

“Just don’t break a hip in those shoes. Don’t step in a pothole and fall,” my daughter, Bonny, warns.

“Not to worry,” I say.

“Gary and I do worry. You think you’re young.” Gary is her husband.

“I am. Any age is young.”

The cocktail lounge is dark and a few lamps are turned on. I blink several times, trying to get my bearings. I have a humongous cataract in my right eye and sometimes I think the floor is a step. I make my way into the lounge. Clint? I see this tall, spider-thin man with dark puffed up hair with an intense Semitic face. He wears a cool baby blue cashmere sweater, cuffs rolled up. Sleek jeans. Clint? Dream on.

I go up to him and introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Barbara.” Up close his tan seems sprayed on and his hair is dyed. His arrogant eyes slowly look me up and down.

“You look better in person,” he says, smiling and revealing teeth so white they glow in the dark. We sit at a table, and order lemon drop martinis.

He seems nervous. Hasn’t had a “real drink” in years, he says, complaining that his wife didn’t “allow” him to drink.

After he has two more straight-up vodkas, he talks a blue streak about the poor dead wife, that they hadn’t had sex in years and that she never understood him.

He brags then about his money, how much he gives to the schools in Israel, ORT, other Jewish organizations — that he “takes care” of everyone. “It’s time for me now,” he says.

“Ski?” he asks.

“No, I have this balance … thing.”


“Can’t see the ball on the right side — cataract.”

“Do you like sports?” he asks.

“I hate all sports.”

“You ad said you’re a boomer hottie. Are you?”

“That’s for you to find out,” I say.

“You’re the first woman over 70 I’ve dated.”

“Whoopty-do. We’re the new 50. Haven’t you heard?”

“Doc says I’m in perfect health. I’m interested in the Pamela Anderson–type only Jewish. With a doorman, a trust fund.”

“How did your wife die?”

“She tripped in the street and broke her hip then died. She was a klutz. They mis-diagnosed it.”

“When did your wife die?” I ask.

“Three days ago,” he says with a shrug.

I gulp my drink. This guy is a first-class louse.

“Sorry, but I have to go,” I say. “I have an appointment.”

I hurry outside, glad for the rain. I love rain. It offers so much hope, and there’s always hope for love. And you should see the stars; they dangle like diamonds.

“The Viagra Diaries: Everything is Possible After 60”
is a performance by Barbara Rose Brooker of monologues from her book about love and life after 60. 5:15 p.m. Nov. 23 at the Commonwealth Club, 595 Market St., S.F. $20,

$8 for members. Information: (415) 597-6700 or

Barbara Rose Brooker
Barbara Rose Brooker

Barbara Rose Brooker is a native San Francisco author. CW is making a pilot for a TV series based on her book "The Viagra Diaries."