Over seventies dating

To escape this tedium, he said, he began to undertake what he called “voyeuristic excursions” around Aurora after dark.

“It’ll allow me to be completely frank with you, and I’ll have no problem showing you around the motel.” It was a typed document stating that I would not identify him by name, or publicly associate his motel with whatever information he shared with me, until he had granted me a waiver. I had already decided that I would not write about Gerald Foos under these restrictions.

I had come to Denver merely to meet this man and to satisfy my curiosity about him.

He said, “And so, being very curious about sex even as an early adolescent—with all those farm animals around, how could you avoid thinking of sex?

—I looked beyond my home to learn what I could about people’s private lives.” He did not have to look far, he said, steering the car toward the suburb of Aurora, where his motel was situated.

He left a message on my answering machine a few days later, saying that he would meet me at the airport baggage claim.

Two weeks later, when I approached the luggage carrousel, I spotted a man holding out his hand and smiling.

His parents, hardworking German-Americans, had had a farm.

He described them as kindhearted people who would do anything for him—“except discuss sex.” Every morning, he said, his mother got dressed in her closet, and he never witnessed either of his parents exhibiting an interest in sex.

“Welcome to Denver,” he said, waving in his left hand the note I had mailed him.

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