A few years ago, I was visiting a dear old friend and former colleague in London. As we were drinking tea in her lovely backyard like two civilized ladies, we began reminiscing about things we missed now that we are both of…a certain age. To my surprise (and delight to find out I wasn’t the only one), one of those things is male body hair.

Like me, my friend is single and lives with two cats. A cat lady. Throughout history single women who live with cats have been regarded with disdain. Something to fear (and kill!) – witches. Something to pity – lonely sad sacks with no children – unfulfilled in their biological role as female. Think what you want. I can tell you that as one who fits the description, this lifestyle is way better than being in an unhappy marriage. And perhaps it’s that content independence that challenges the happiness of those who adhere to traditional societal obligations. But hey, if you are truly one of the lucky ones blessed with your perfect soulmate – good for you! Hope you are enjoying your endless days of confinement together. Just please refrain from your judgy condescension and let us have our fun as we prance around the house in our cat socks.

And consider this, before we were lumpy old cat ladies, we were cat women. Cat women are sexy. Which leads me back to our garden conversation.

By this point we have moved from tea to prosecco and get into bawdy descriptions of our conquests as young cat women, cackling loudly enough to startle birds. Maybe we are witches after all.

We concur there is nothing quite like the sensation of a hairy chest when it first comes into contact with the skin of your own hairless bosom. When I’ve asked gay guys if they know what I’m talking about they just shrug. Maybe it’s not the same when it’s two hairy chests pressed together. Maybe this is an outdated kind of attraction, like something you’d read about in Cosmo from a bygone era. All we know is this, our days of hot dates and hairy chests are over.