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My friend Domald is an old owl living in the biggest tree in my garden. In the lonely times once in a while when there are no family or friends living in my mansion, my conversations with Domald are the only thing keeping me from going crazy:)

When I can find it in my heart to cruelly wake him up in the daytime, we look at girls together, scanning the street from a big branch in the tree. My doctor does tell me I should not be climbing trees at my age, but what the heck, you only live once. Or twice, whatever. (Wait a minute, that would be an argument to live carefully, wouldn’t it? OK then, let’s say I live dangerously because anyone gets as many lifetimes as it takes to get it right.)

We sit there together, I sip from a cold soda, and Domald nibbles at the crumbs I hold out to him. I see a beautiful lady in the street, and I say to Domald: “Hey yo, check out the lambchops!” (Or “behold, Domald, the fair maiden in the horizon,” depending on my mood.) Domald will blink sleepily with his wise but day-blind eyes, and say: “whoooooo?”

So with this kind of intense training, it should suprise no-one that it was Domald who gave me warning one nice summer day. He had awoken early, in late afternoon, and I was relaxing in a lawn chair with a paperback copy of Zalnovski’s “Dialectic Resources For The Amateur Student Of Eighteenth Century Aesthetic Philosophy”. Suddenly I was alerted by Domald’s excited hooting from the oak, and I rose to peek over the hedge. Indeed, there was one of the fairest maidens I have yet observed. She was young, tall and slender, and had waist-long platinum blonde hair of the natural-born variety. Eyes blue like the Mediterranean.

I just couldn’t let it go, I threw on my shirt and followed her. Braving the from-the-beach traffic, I leaped through the sun-spotted streets to finally accost her, like the dirty old man some claim I am, by the entrance to the shopping centre. “Hello, young lady,” I said. “Permit me to speak to you for a moment.” She looked at me with her big, clear eyes, with an open expression, but wondering what was happening.

“I saw you in the street, and I was struck by your extraordinary beauty.” She looked at me, and then got that laughing expression in the eyes that only girls can have. Clearly she thought I was full of bullshit. There are two kinds of girls that don’t believe you when you tell them they are beautiful. (And ugly girls are not one of those types...) One is the girl with the low self-esteem, and the other one is the one who just doesn’t give a damn, she’s not interested very much in herself or looks in general. But when the latter type really is beautiful, she outshines the Barbie Girl type by several orders of magnitude. I quickly saw that this one was such a girl.

Desperate not to lose this one just from clumsiness, I plowed on: “I’m a photographer, and the founder of the Dirty Old Men’s Association International, and I have a proposal.”

She laughed loud and freely. “I bet you do! The 'Dirty Old Men’s Association International!'??” And then she really laughed.

Oh hell, I thought, now I’ve done it. I paddled like all git out, and convinced her to have a cup of coffee with me.

“So,” she said when we were well seated in my favorite café, “do you get a lot of girls like this? And always as young as me?”

“Oh dear,” I said, “what you must think of me! Really, please believe me, I have only honorable intentions. I have not been picking up young girls since I was one myself. Err, young that is, not a girl...!” She laughed again, and seemed to start believing me. So I explained to her about DOMAI, and how we celebrated feminine beauty, and preached that it should be enjoyed as a holy thing, not hidden like a shameful thing. She agreed with a lot of it.

“So,” she asked, “you figured that the best way to convince people that you are not dirty old men was to call yourselves the ‘Dirty Old Men’s Association International’!???”

I admit that stated that way it gave me pause.

But I soon recovered. “Ah, well, you see, that presupposes that we are fighting against something. We are not, we are fighting for something. We are not attempting to ‘convince’ anybody, for it has proven to be a fruitless exercise. If people will not look, convincing them against their wish will usually just breed negative emotions. Also, claiming that there is no sexual joy at all associated with ‘Pretty Young Girls’ for us would be equally untruthful. All we are trying to do is get people to take a fresh look for themselves, and look beyond the sex thing, and see the great and holy beauty that lurks beyond it.

“Take for instance the woman walking there,” I said and pointed (I knew that I would get nowhere using herself as an example). "Look at her for real and tell me if that is not one of god’s greatest creations?”

She looked in silence for a few moments. Then she looked back at me with a different expression. “You know, you may have something there,” she said to me. “I have never thought of it like that before.”

OK, in the end I never got her to model for me, she didn’t think her boyfriend would approve, but we separated as friends, and I learned something from our conversation, and I’d like to think that she did too.

And boy was she ever pretty...

When I got home I was late for a phone appointment, but Domald wouldn’t let me off so easily. “Hooooo!” he said from his branch where he was sitting in the twilight. And then he repeated it, winking at me slowly. So of course I had to tell him the whole story before I was let inside.

I got the feeling that he was disappointed in my performance, but hell, if he’s so smart, let him pick up new connections himself!


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