You know I’ve fancied ‘older women’ ever since puberty. ..
And yes in my younger years I guess the ratio erred towards sexual desire over those other, and supposedly more ‘fulfilling’, aspects that any form of personal relationship is supposed to bring us. Indeed I can tell you that at the age of twenty-six I spent the hottest afternoon of my life, to date, with a foxy forty-nine year old woman who proved there’s a truth in every cliché that’s ever existed on this subject.
But at the same time I did also realise I just felt more at ease with the older woman too. The conversations were more fun, the flirtation itself had that extra thrill and the allure in being around ‘someone’ perfectly comfortable with who she was, was utterly compelling. I’m not saying I didn’t try dating women younger than me too. I did. But it was never quite the same. Either I felt too awkward and hardly a ‘catch’ (and younger women are quite brutal in their affections if they’re not interested I can tell you) or I felt too removed or too ‘grown up’ which far from being a boast was in fact something of a curse instead. Sexy boy then I was not; and yet did they turn my head in any case?
I wanted, and I enjoyed, the company of the stylish, classy, funny, sassy, smart, sarcastic, quick witted, sharp eyed and devastatingly gorgeous older woman who brought me out of myself. I never sought an ‘education’ from this person. I wasn’t looking for one. What I knew came naturally, whether it was consummation or conversation, it was on level terms. Again I’m not boasting; it was.
My thirties were better than my twenties. In my twenties I was still vulnerable for reasons I need not go into; not quite the finished article since my teens, partly because as a much younger man attracted to older women, I didn’t meet such women as easily as I met those in my peer group; and since I was rather luckless on that front as I said earlier, I seemed stuck in some kind of sexual and emotional malaise. Consequently when I did get the chance to mix with those women I felt more ‘at ease’ with, initially there were mixed results. With some it was merely confident sex – well it was – but there was also one for whom, in my mid to late twenties, I totally fell for; although given my inexperience with this sort of thing, all I succeeded in doing was putting her on a pedestal that was far too high for me to join her on, or for her to climb down off. It was only later that I realised I was grateful for partaking in this folly they call infatuation; it was one lesson I did need to learn.
My thirties then, lesson(s) learned, brought me more but gave me less. More comfortable and assured with myself, perhaps mirroring in some respects how a woman blossoms into herself too post her twenties (in my opinion), I bestrode this decade of my life by getting everything I could possibly want without true care or emotional expense. What had never been easy previously was suddenly a doddle. In being ‘me’ as I truly wanted to be, I indulged in my association with fabulous older women in whatever adventures they wished to share. And no, it was way beyond sex now. These were just ‘good times’ without difficulties intervening. I wasn’t expending anything of myself in them though because there was nothing to expend. I never once expected to ‘love’ and so I didn’t, and it didn’t matter. I was playing catch-up to be honest. That was more important than anything else.
Morally I was questionable. Some were married; some were as good as married. Some perhaps wanted ‘more’ but never said, others ‘did’ say and so we parted at that point; I prided myself for getting what I wanted without ever taking advantage, for at least being straight; and if things started to blur, well it was time to call a halt; there is no pleasure in the expense of another’s pain, particularly when you can remember a time you were on that side of the dagger too.
And then… and then I hit forty.
And then… something happened.
In fact it had been happening for a year or more prior to that, but I hadn’t really paid much attention to it. Partly because I’d dismissed it as something that couldn’t happen anyway, something that was part of my old life that hadn’t worked. However it was there nonetheless, lurking, waiting, whispering until, even as the birthday candles were still smoking, it emerged insidiously once more and this time took firmer hold; thoughts of dating younger women; thoughts of fatherhood; thoughts of marriage; thoughts of doing what I should be doing.
But did/do I really want that? Possibly. Yes. And no. I don’t know. I can’t deny I’m now looking at younger women. But I know that’s just biology talking. Those whispers stem from my own body clock. Because we men have one too you know. Sure women can argue us chaps can reproduce at any time really; or that our window of opportunity is far wider at least. True. But do I want to be an ‘older’ dad. Not really. So it’s now or never. But dating younger women? And with an agenda? It doesn’t work. Also I’d not be doing it for that anyway. I’m coldhearted yes. But I’m a coldhearted romantic too. Whatever is supposed to happen, It’s got to be because I love her, and for no other reason than that.
Fact is though having taken the plunge and tried to date them, it’s not worked/or working. I’m just not in their zone. I’m not that kind of guy. I feel too old, too patronising, I sound more like their dad than their lover, which is not much different to how I described my relationship with them when I was in my twenties ironically. More importantly I find them attractive, yes, but not sexy, not heartstoppingly wow. And you know I walked away from someone I was supposedly enjoying casual relations with to pursue this, only to have lately discovered I am totally out of my depth… and thus probably completely obvious and unfanciable to those I’ve now decided to walk (date) amongst.
So what to do? I’m stuck. I’m torn. I mean I can honestly say that if I passed away tomorrow, I’d be able to ditch this mortal coil having had the privilege of having a dalliance or two with some of the most fabulous women imaginable; and most were older. And hey, rather than die, I can simply return to dancing to that familiar tune (if they’ll still let have that dance after my defection that is). Why not? I do it so well.
But is it what I want? At forty? Can I still get away with this? I used to criticise those women who always called the impermanence of these ‘unions’ but now I see they have a point. I still refute the fact that all older men should be tarnished with the same cynical brush in the same way that I’d refute the notion that all older women are merely desperate for a shag. Neither stereotype has any bearing. But aging I am nonetheless, and with this comes some decision making about where and with whom my future happiness lies.
And I can bring you, or myself, no satisfactory conclusion to this question.
I simply don’t know…
A TBW Member
