Adult Language … Some Nudity.

One night a few years ago, after a couple of drinks on the town, I was driving home with my pal Lisa Medford.

She was complaining about men.

Or sex, to be more precise. She wasn’t getting any, or enough.

She was 75.

“I’m not getting laid, and I don’t know why,” she lamented, with a tone that suggested we might be at the beauty shop, our heads under hair dryers, or I was doing her nails.

“I mean, my [breasts] haven't fallen. My [buttocks] haven’t fallen. I just don’t get it.”

Lisa is unvarnished, wild in a way you admire in a woman.

She doesn’t hold back.

So if profanity and a bit of depravity make you squirmy and uncomfortable, especially coming from an older woman whom your Sunday Bible lessons taught you should know better, then read no further.

Lisa is a man’s woman, as long as they prefer the sassy, say-anything type who’s gonna tell you straight if you’ve got a toilet-paper tail or that you’re not flying right.

Lisa is old school Vegas.

All her life, she’s been an actress in search of an audience. She was the first all-nude showgirl back when the Strip was a male bastion, with the shots called by underworld types, where celebrity men ran around in rat packs.

Screen-legend Cary Grant once wanted her to bear his child. Later, she sold cocaine and worked as an assistant to a Las Vegas madam, chauffeuring call girls on shopping trips. Her image was even featured on a 50th anniversary casino chip at the Riviera.

Not along ago, she went for a medical exam. Underneath it all, she wore a pair of butt floss.

Now 82, she’s an aging siren still on her game, happily living alone in a local retirement community. Sure, she’s getting on in years, but her spirit still soars with all those memories — the sheer naughtiness of her past.

“I’ve always thought of myself as Errol Flynn with [breasts],” she likes to say.

Pure Lisa.

She's among a handful of female outliers I’ve known, femme-fatales with a standup comedienne’s wit, who seemed to have skipped the doll-playing routine as little girls and went right to becoming opinionated and outspoken and more than a bit dangerous, so just step out of the way, thank you.

Another was a newspaper reporter named Nancy Ray. She had a glass left eye, which always seemed to put you ill at ease, just the way she wanted you. Nancy never married and didn’t take shit from men -- not sources, colleagues or even bosses.

If you got in Nancy’s grille, she’d fire up her engine. And run you over.

“I ain’t no fucking lady,” she’d say.

Nancy passed away a few a few ago, and I can imagine her on her death bed, looking the Good Lord and his welcoming angels in the eye and saying, “Listen fellas, I’m gonna do this my way.”

Then came Lisa.

I met her in 2012, not long after she chronicled her life in a self-published autobiography, “I Can Hear the Applause: Adult Language … Some Nudity,” co-written with a neighbor who became curious about Lisa after she saw her in the front yard trying to fix a light. 

“She was wearing the shortest shorts, enough to make Daisy Duke blush,” she said. “I thought, ‘This is an age-restricted community. How did those legs get in here?'”

Lisa remains in contact with Cher, who she met in the old days. Once, not too long ago, she was backstage at a Cher event and ran into some flashy young showgirl.

She saw herself, oh-so-many years ago.

“Hey,” Lisa called out to her, “what are you doing with my ass?”

Oh, Lisa.

She still keeps a life-size cutout of herself as a 19-year-old, when she was a “Folies Bergere” show dancer and actress.

One day, she looked at the image of a girl now young enough to be her granddaughter.

“She was so naive,” whispered the retired stage diva. “She didn’t know anything.”

She was born Loretta Maloof, a girl with Middle Eastern blood. Her father manufactured women’s clothing in Los Angeles and had some tough guys as friends. 

Once, mobster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel came to the house to play poker.

He offered to braid Lisa’s hair because her father was busy. At age 7, she called him Uncle Benjamin — nobody called him Bugsy to his face. 

Bugsy botched the job and Lisa cried, saying that he’d ruined her life.

Now she looks back at Bugsy with fondness. “He was handsome; I knew it even then,” she said. “I’ve always had a thing for guys with big blue eyes.”

Once, her Dad grabbed her by the neck. She was too mouthy, too opinionated, he said. She argued too much.

But Lisa kept on being Lisa. She got hooked on gangsters, those gentlemen-clowns who made her laugh. One gave her father tickets to shows on the Strip, where she got her first look at the beauties with glitzy costumes, towering headdresses and 6-inch stilettos.

At age 12, the girl who had dreamed of becoming a lawyer, a private eye or a female Clark Kent suddenly set her sites on being a showgirl.

Years later, in 1957, she got her chance. She was working in a Los Angeles talent office when two Vegas characters offered her a dicey-sounding gig: 

Portray a “nude” statue in a Harry Belafonte show at the Riviera.

Lisa jumped on it. 

All her important real estate, she says, was covered with glitter and sparkle. Suddenly, she shifted her arms to reveal her breasts. 

The crowd went wild.

The job led to an 11-year career as a model and showgirl.

Men fawned, but Lisa merely yawned. She never considered herself a beauty: “I was 97 pounds and knock-kneed with a big nose, pimples, kinky hair and a unibrow.”

Still, Cary Grant thought she looked like Sophia Loren. They dated, and the 57-year-old heartthrob made a proposal: 

Get pregnant with his baby and he’d set her up financially for life. 

Lisa said no.

“But I spent nights crying, thinking ‘What if I had Cary Grant’s baby?'” she recalled. “Would my parents really disown me? But I didn’t want kids. He was basically gay, and I wasn’t in love with him.”

She still keeps a black-and-white shot of she and Grant having dinner. 

Later, she married a television director, but it didn’t last. Then she got crazy, took chances. Flitting about Europe, California and Nevada, she worked as a photographer and bank loan officer, drove stock cars, landed some bit television roles.

She sold dope.

“I have the retention span of a rhesus monkey,” she said. “Maybe it’s because my grandparents were first cousins. I have no morals but high principles.”

These days, Lisa drives a limo part-time. She's a Trump supporter. We're friends on Facebook and have agreed not to play put our political differences online, or anywhere else.

I love the pictures she posts of beautiful exotic birds.

That's Lisa in a nutshell -- a gorgeous, glamorous feathered creature -- one who's still proud of her flight path.

“It took talent,” said the old showgirl. “It was the look, the attitude, that said, ‘Don’t you wish you had the money to sleep with me? Well, you can’t have me.'”

Yet there is one decision she has second-guessed. 

“No matter how your life turned out, you have to sometimes wonder, what would have it been like to be the ex-Mrs. Cary Grant?” she said.

“You wouldn’t have to care about money today, that’s for sure. But then I wouldn’t be who I am today. I’d be somebody else.”

Man, am I happy she isn’t somebody else.

I’m glad she’s still Lisa, an opinionated woman with a taste for suitors decades younger. She avoids men her own age, she insists, because she doesn’t want to burp them, make sure they’re taking their medicine and then, finally, bury them.

“I always get the younger ones so they don’t die or just get boring,” she says.

That night in the car, all those years ago, Lisa imparted a bit of runway wisdom.: At her age, a woman can’t afford to pass up two things.

“One’s a ladies’ room,” she said. “The other’s a [wanton man].”

Oh, Lisa.