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My Facebook account keeps asking “What’s on your mind?” Here is what’s on my mind:

What a weekend! I used the dating app that comes with my new phone. You know, the one that asks you to describe your entire life in 160 characters inside a heart-shaped box. Using cookies, it directed me to a local lass who lives less than six blocks from my house. (Full disclosure: Twice divorced, I live with my mom.) “Who R U?” I text.

She’s a third-grade teacher which to me sounds very down-to-earth and meaningful. What she doesn’t tell me and I find out when I get to her place is that she’s a döpfelgänger for Natalie Wood. Natalie’s real name was Natasha Gurka or something and this woman is also of Russian derivation which doesn’t bother me, so was my grandfather. Of Russian derivation.

Outside her house, the birds are tweeting madly. As you remember, the sun shone on Saturday, a very Spring day. I ring the doorbell. It chimes like a cathedral. She throws open the door dramatically, and I all but drop my bouquet of flowers, I am so startled by her innate good looks. Accustomed to being gawked at, she gives me a rueful smile and says “Come on in!”

She serves me coffee in a Russian tea cup. We’re sitting on the couch and she keeps slipping in my direction, little sliding motions as she drops a lump of sugar into my coffee with a dainty silver-plated tweezer, her free hand running through her stunning black hair, while I try to hold a cogent conversation, explaining that I spent last weekend at the airport looking at British aircraft from World War Two. In the rain. They flew in especially for the day. Very exciting.

Until she pulls at my shirt collar and kind of reels me in. And plants a big, wet kiss on my mouth. She has a tongue like a serpent, very large and muscular. I’m going crazy here with excitement. Very erect. It’s been so long.

She smells great, but I have to admit that there are all these little white moths in her house, they are in the drapes, the carpet, and they are making my skin crawl. Her property is like a zoo with all the wrong animals.

“Let’s go in the bedroom,” she murmurs seductively, running her fingers over my shaven head.

“I really admire the fact that as a third-grade teacher, you master so many different subjects,” I explain plaintively, as she unzips me, checks the goods and rises to her feet.

“Come on!” she admonishes me.

I end up grasping the Swedish flag in one hand and the mattress cover in the other, while she rides me like a wild stallion.