Photo Illustration by Luis G. Rendon/The Daily Beast/Getty
After my bestie Jackie and her dad, Henry, finish “tea” (British speak for dinner), I throw my toothbrush in a bag, mount my bike, and wave toodle-oo as I peddle away from the campground. Henry watches me confused, “Bloody hell? Where she off to?” I can’t hear Jackie’s explanation but it’s probably not “to fuck a stranger from Tinder!”
I’m a grown-ass woman in her 40s here on family vacation with my fellow hoebag in crime, Jackie. Henry is her dad, not mine, so I can do what I want here. Of course I don’t want this 81-year-old sweet British chap to worry about me getting murdered (though maybe I should be concerned about that). And I’d rather him not find out about my slutty ways. But I also don’t give a fooooork anymore. I’m a later bloomer who escaped the lily white hellhole of purity culture—otherwise known as The South—long ago. The opinions of Boomers no longer affect me or my elderhoe lifestyle.
Within three hours of arriving at this family campsite on the French Riviera, which is across the water from the billionaire hotspot, Saint Tropez, I’m already about to get laid. Thanks to Tinder Plus (best 20 bucks I ever spent!) and four hours in the backseat of Henry’s car getting here, I had plenty of time to ruthlessly vet tonight’s date.