Reasons Why "I" Would Be, Without A Doubt, The World's Worst Playboy

Legendary actor, Richard Gere starred in one of Hollywood's most-successful films, "American Gigolo," a story about one man and his "job" of being on-call day or night for rich ladies to set-up dates with him and let him show them the time of their lives. And he got big bucks for doing this too. Plus lavish Porsches, in any color, and expensive clothing from noted designers. What a life, right, guys? You bet your last share of AT&T stock it was.

Allow me to ask you a rather sensitive question: "Did you ever, in your entire life, want to be like Gere, and life the life that dreams are made of, that of a playboy?" I did. You bet I did. When I was at the tender and able age of sixteen, I would have jumped at a chance to ditch high school and let whatever rich women I could find, allow me to treat them to some special attention and allow them to be the only girl in my life. For one night. You can't beat this for a job. Or had you rather work yourself to death digging ditches by hand? I think that the choice is clear.

When I was a sophomore at Hamilton High School, I was good friends with a true, real-life hometown playboy by the name of Bob Palmer. He had it all. Charm like Robert Mitchum. A body like Steve McQueen. And looks equal to that of James Garner. Talk about cool. Palmer wrote the book on "cool." He was the overall-envy of all the guys in his class as well as those in our high school. Some male teachers too. Why? He could get any girl. Anytime. Just by winking at them. There was something magical about his wink. And that was it. I saw this happen one day while I was getting my books for my next class out of my locker. Bob slowly strolled (never ran) over to this cute brunette who was new in our school, wink, chatted for about five minutes, and walked off arm-in-arm with her giggling and giving him looks of "I just adore you." Let me put it this way, there is not many women, married or single, today in Hamilton, Alabama that has not at one time, been with Bob on a date or spent a weekend with him in their home or in Birmingham, Alabama at some lavish hotel. This is the gospel truth, friends.

I ran into Bob two years ago at our local Huddle House and we spoke. Said a few things and I caught myself looking at him with the gray hair, deep wrinkles in his forehead and overall weather-beaten look. Then I smiled to myself. I knew the "who", not "what," made Bob look like this. Women. Lots and lots of pretty women. And throw in his habit of smoking Marlboro in the red pack and his love for whiskey, he had it all. A life of pure indulgence. No discipline. Deep down inside, I actually envy my friend, Bob Palmer. I wish he would write his memoirs. Can you say "blockbuster" of a book? A sure-fire script for a Hollywood film starring Colin Ferrel as Bob. They have almost the same lifestyle. Well, Colin does. Bob is not in good shape nowadays. And besides, Bob's record of female conquests would far outshine those of Ferrel. This I know.

Time was when in my younger, healthier days, I would daydream about being like Bob. A professional "ladies man." And drive the prettiest cars. Wear the best clothes. Have lots of dough in my bank account. That's right. In 1971, I came very close to leaving home and taking up the dark, sinful life of a playboy. But I knew if I did that, my mom and dad would never allow me to move back home. The shame would be too much for them to bear. I guess my conscience spoke in a louder voice when I was a young man. Louder than it does today.

My "blabbing" conscience was right. Very seldom is my conscience wrong. Is yours like that, guys? Just checking. My conscience pointed out to me in a cold, harsh, truthful way that "Kenny, you are a lot of things, but you are NOT a good playboy, so hang-up that dream of going out with a different lady every night. Now," and I listened. And obeyed.

I had some heated resentment at my conscience butting into my business and telling me what I couldn't be. It was none of my conscience' business what I wanted to be. My conscience didn't have to suffer long, dark lonely nights without female companionship. Nor did it have to sit alone in a car and only look as guys like Bob Palmer, with little or no effort, got any girl they wanted. Loved her for the weekend. And said goodbye to her Monday morning. Sure these suave guys took a lot of flack. Cursing. Threats and things thrown at them by the angry girls they had dumped, but I was willing to take that risk. I was bone-tired of just being "stag" all of the time. And what hurt the worst was seeing guys just like me getting dates with majorettes, cheerleaders and even the secretary of the 4-H Club. That stung. Just like a yellow jacket. Stung me to the bone. I can still feel that tingle in my heart from the stings that my lonely life gave me.

At least I am honest in my soul-felt confession of once-dreaming of the playboy life. And between you and I, I think that with some help from Bob, maybe more pro "ladies men," I might have had my own little group of pretty girls who shared me from night to night. I have always been an advocate of "you can do anything if you set your mind to it." But I didn't. I had to go and listen to my "buttinski" conscience.

The reasons "I Would Have Been, Without A Doubt, The World's Worst Playboy" are as follows. And you pretty ladies who are reading this, and you know whom you are, might get a box of Puff's a tissue with the slogan, "Puff's, what a difference," so when your tears start flowing like Niagara Falls, you will be ready.

Characteristics of a Playboy:

• Confidence
• Good looks
• Perfect diction
• Good physical shape
• Intelligent on most world topics
• Popular
• Well-liked

These are what makes a great playboy. Without these characteristics, you are "dead in the water." You know it, guys. And I know it.

I want to take each of these characteristics and give you how they affected my life.

Confidence

I had none. Na Da. Zilch. When I registered for first grade, the teacher asked me which hand was my right and left hand, and I had to ask my mom what to do? Now can you picture me as an adult playboy and having to get my lady for that night a cigarette on HER RIGHT HAND side of the bedroom? Talk about a one-time deal. She would not call me again for this reasons.

Good looks

again, I had none. Oh, my looks were fair. I had hair in these days. I kept it clean and styled, but I wasn't a patron of the men's hair salon for my hometown was too backward to have one in their town. Too sissy looking, was most of the men's remarks. I read one time in Hustler that girls and ladies love a man with GREAT-looking hair, not fair. So that was two strikes against me. I wouldn't have time to duck-out during a date with a rich, single lady to get my hair styled. Playboys are always on-time. And all of their time is spent on that one special lady.

Perfect diction

I grew up in rural Hamilton, Alabama. Even in 1971, with my patient teacher's help, I still had a lot of "uh's," "huh's," "ain't's," and other rural-based phrases in my vocabulary. Can you just see me talking to a gorgeous lady with tons of money, "Uhhh, say, uhhh, purty thang, errr, would ye' like tuh' go wiff me, uhhh, to the, err, uhhh, theater to-nite? Got a big show over thar!" Nuff said. Goodbye gorgeous rich lady. And I would be stuck alone again.

Good physical shape

How can I say this delicately? Not in good shape at all. In our Physical Ed. class, I could work at doing 15 push-ups, the exercise kind, not the ice cream kind. And I might get off 5 laps around the gym, but I'd have to sit down for a breather. What gorgeous woman who is a client of mine for the weekend wants a "sweat hog," as her escort? None of them. That was easily answered. I had once dedicated myself to losing about 20 pounds, working out on weights and then maybe I could have a good chance of being a country playboy. But the lure of doughnuts, cheeseburgers and mama's chicken and dumplings and her fabulous apple cobbler was too great. So much for the great physical shape.

Intelligent on most world topics

Okay, I will be blunt. I hated History. Geography and World History. I barely knew that Montgomery was the capital of Alabama. And Tokyo and Hiroshima were the two cities that President Harry S. Truman ordered to be bombed with the atomic bomb. Other than that, I was blank. A lady of distinction who hired me for the night would have to bring her own World Book Encyclopedia if she wanted intelligent conversation. Or her houseboy, "Ming," whose IQ was 200, for I was no "cocktail party conversationalist." Now if she liked animal shadows on the wall, I was the man.

Popular

Believe this or not. I was NEVER nominated for ANY office in high school--Most Popular, Most Likely to Succeed; Most Courteous and so on. It wasn't until 1970, in the 10th grade, before my classmates even knew my name. And me seeing them and talking to them everyday. Yeah. I would be a much-sought-after playboy alright. "Now whom are you again?" This lovely young single, rich girl would ask me many times during our date. What a lonely flop I would be.

Well-liked

Out of a class that had 65 people, I had eight friends. I wouldn't call me well-liked. Would you? That honor went, and deservingly-so, to Bob Palmer of his class that was ahead of me, and the football players which some didn't know if it was daytime or dark, and the class lawbreakers, the cigarette smokers, weekend drinkers and drug-users. They all got the nod for those popular offices. What woman in her right mind would hire me for my playboy services knowing that I was an obscure figure in a small high school? None. I think that says it all.

Now with that burden lifted off my shoulders, I feel, well, bad. I thought I would experience relief when I got this off my chest.

Looking back at the reasons why I would have been the world's worst playboy, I am now thinking that I might have been more successful to have set-up a kissing booth on the court square in the middle of my hometown.

And pay pretty girls $5.00 to let me kiss them.