DEAR ABBY: Your letters from women who are "faking it" to satisfy their husbands are hilarious! But there is definitely another side to the story.
For 48 years I was married to a wonderful woman. Every sexual encounter was an expression of love -- not lust. She initiated the activity as often as I did. Then she suffered a paralyzing stroke, so for seven years I bathed her daily and cuddled her as I laid beside her as her beautiful body withered away. Our love did not require the sexual act; holding her in my arms was all I needed. She has been gone for two years, and no one could ever take her place.
I am a shriveled 76-year-old man and certainly nothing to look at. Last year I joined a senior citizens group, and you would think I am Clark Gable! Widows swarmed like flies to garbage! The first woman I danced with outweighed me by 100 pounds and wanted to "dirty dance" with me. The first night I had three invitations to spend the night. I never went to another meeting, but I've gone on overnight trips with the group. Abby, women knocked on my bedroom door! If you could see me you would know how hard up they must be.
I would like to find a woman for companionship, and possibly later on sex might enter the picture. But every woman I've met -- even in church -- makes advances. If these old gals have been faking it with their husbands, why do they become sex maniacs as soon as their husbands are gone? -- NO BARGAIN IN MINNESOTA
DEAR NO BARGAIN: Please don't label all women who long for intimacy "sex maniacs"; maybe all they want is a warm body to cuddle with. You are apparently more attractive than you think you are. Rejoice and count your blessings. Every 76-year-old widower should have your problems.
DEAR ABBY: I recently attended my first major league baseball game. The batter lost control of the bat and it flew into the crowd, striking a young girl. They carried her off and the game continued.
We never heard any more about it. Was the child hurt? Is she alive? Who knows? Does anybody care? The game went on.
There wasn't one word about it in the newspaper, but there was an article about a "minor hand injury" suffered by one of the players. Now, that's what I call bizarre! -- "C" IN K.C.
DEAR "C": You call it "bizarre" -- I call it a matter of priorities. Whose? The reporter who covered the baseball game.
DEAR ABBY: We had to laugh when we read the letter from the "Schnorrs of Arizona," who objected to the use of their name as "schnorrers" -- moochers, freeloaders, beggars. Our name is "Schmuck" -- how do they think we feel? -- THE SCHMUCKS OF ORMAND BEACH, FLA.
Everybody has a problem. What's yours? Get it off your chest by writing to: Dear Abby, P.O. Box 69440, Los Angeles, Calif. 90069. For a personal reply, please enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope.
4900 Main St., Kansas City, Mo. 64112; (816) 932-6600