In Florence, I met a forty-five year old man, for the purpose of this story, we’ll call him Bradley. Strumming his cheap acoustic guitar, he walked over to me, smiling and watching to see if I was impressed. “I heard you singing earlier, you were good.” Bradley said in a low voice. He began his courtship ritual, asking me about myself, listening intently, he was confident and slow speaking. He asked if I’d care to sing with him. Although I could see where he was headed, I love to sing so I asked him if he knew how to play “leaving in a jet plane”. We sang the song together.
Afterwards, Bradley began his well prepared pitch, “I’m just travelling the world to see what the universe brings to me.” I don’t think I could conceal the disenchanted look on my face, though I tried. He asked to sing another song, we sang a version of “It ain’t me babe”.
Afterwards, he filled the air between us with grand delusions and spiritually enlightened talking points grifted from TikTok reels. Posing as a philosopher and lover, he told me my eyes contained a depth of soul that is like that of a much older and wiser woman.
I told him that I was forty-two. Bradley quickly remembered that he forgot his car was double-parked. He needed to leave immediately to ensure that it was not towed.
Bradley knows who his key demographic is, and it’s not a woman his own age. It is not a woman with the emotional maturity and life experience to decode his “philosophy” and reveal him as a bullshit artist. He wasted no time upon his return to our hostel, moving on to the nearest young thing with sparkling eyes and a credit card.
Men like Bradley depend upon naive young women to fall for their nonsense in order to financially support them while they attempt to “live life authentically”.
Although he is definitely full of shit, and lacks true authenticity, I can say that he is right about one thing, it ain’t never gonna be me, babe.
There Is No Title 