Bitch Kitty Racing

I was sipping my Martini on a date with Esther the other night at a new French bistro that just opened up the street from my house. Over a mutual fit of the giggles and an opening salvo of frites, I noticed a woman at a table behind my date checking me out, and not in a good way. She was in a lively conversation with her dinner companion, also a woman, and would glare over at me disapprovingly from time to time, as if for punctuation. When Esther excused herself for a moment, she walked by this irritated woman’s table. The woman watched Esther for a moment, then looked me directly in the eye, scoffed, turned her head, and rolled her eyes.

Being male, I am well acquainted with that dance. To verbalize it, one says simply, “Men!” which translates to either: “All men are children!” or “All men are bastards!” depending on the context. But I didn’t know this scoffing woman. What was going on here? Was I being gauche by ordering French fries as an appetizer? Did she not like my tie? Did the slinky girl I was out with not match my jacket?

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As Esther sat down, both women at the opposing table turned to glare at me, still talking heatedly. Apparently my existence was a personal affront to them. I felt very much like I had just been caught looking at the lingerie section of the Macy’s insert in the Sunday paper.

The waiter brought the Vin de Savoie. “I’m sorry, Miss,” she said to Esther, “I forgot to check your ID.” She examined the required document and I hoped she wouldn’t ask for mine, a pointless formality I’ve always found quite stupid and vaguely insulting. It assumes the older person at the table needs to look young in order to feel validated and have high self esteem.

Screw that.

I don’t have to look young. My date looks young, and that makes me look rich. For empty vanities, looking rich is far better than looking young.

After we ordered, I asked Esther what a she thought about the table behind her.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Frosted hair, coral lipstick?”

“Yeah.”

“Twice my age?”

“At least,” I replied.

“Have you ever heard the line, ‘Men get distinguished; women get discarded?’ “

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that men get more attractive as they age, or become patrician, maybe. Perhaps it’s just that age isn’t seen as a detriment to their attractiveness.”

“Perhaps men become more masculine as they age,” I said, espousing a view I’ve previously espoused.

“That’s a good way of looking at it. But women aren’t viewed as becoming more feminine as they age. They become crones, hags, old maids.” Esther said.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “There are lots of attractive older women: Isabella Rossellini, Catherine Deneuve, Melanie Griffith . . .”

“And there are lots of crappy-looking older men, but women are societally viewed as less attractive as they get older, and men aren’t.”

“Not all women get left for younger women by their spouses,” I countered. “My grandparents are still together, my parents are both with people their own age, my friends parents, your parents . . . I understand that younger women might be seen as more attractive, but not every man is going to abandon his family for one.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s more like choosing teams in grade school. If you were choosing from a lineup for a potential mate, or sex partner, or whatever it is you bastards actually choose women for, and without knowing either of us, whom would you choose: me or one of the women behind me?”

“That’s not entirely fair, though. If I didn’t know any of you, I’d merely be picking a date based on attractiveness, and you are way better-looking than either of them.”

Esther clapped her hands. “Excellent!” she said. “You’re well on your way to proving my point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Run with me, here. There are at least thirty women in this room. Pick out the five most attractive ones.”

“Seriously? Okay . . .” Picking out other women in front of a date. Interesting. “Her, in the red cocktail dress.”

“Twenty-six,” commented Esther.

“The waitress,” I said.

“Maybe twenty-two. You sure you don’t like them young?”

“Okay, fine. See that woman at the bar, the one with the white shirt?”

“That woman has T&A for days. Even I want to do her. Be serious. I’ll shut up.”

So I seriously thought about it. I looked around the room and sized up all the women, trying to think with more than just my amygdala and make decisions based on rational factors like possible income bracket, profession, and car ownership. If I were seriously trying to choose a mate without knowing her, whom would I really choose?

“You’re overthinking it,” said Esther. “Just pick hot.”

I just went for it. “Her, her, and her.”

“Twenty-eight, thirty-one, and twenty-two.”

“Really?” I looked harder at the women. Esther was probably right. It was hard to tell from this distance without my glasses.

“Your fictitious team of women are all younger than you.”

“Yeah, but I just picked them based on how hot they were,” I said, immediately realizing I’d just hung myself. “I mean . . .”

“Uh huh. I know exactly what you mean. You mean that out of thirty women with a median age of forty all the ones you find hot are thirty or younger.”

“Well, yeah, but look at it another way,” I attempted. “If my instincts, my selfish genes are trying to reproduce . . .”

“Don’t intellectualize this,” said Esther. “The women you picked out are attractive. Just deal with it. I mean, really, why are you out with me?”

“ . . . Because you asked me out?”

“Seriously, now.”

“Because you can complete a sentence without using the word ‘like’ and I’ve never seen you wear flip-flops.”

“Really,” said Esther, indignant. “Is that all that separates me from all the other girls?”

“No, but it is what separates you from all the other twenty-two year-old girls.”

“Don’t get snotty with me. Just own up to it: age is a factor in your definition of attractive. You find me hot.”

I admitted it. “Yes. You win. I am out with you because you are hot,” I said. “And, as you have proven, I am attracted to younger women, at least out of the women in this room.” I wasn’t going down so easily, though. “But there is also this: you are available. Statistically speaking, there are more single women in their early twenties that there are single women in their mid-thirties.”

“That’s not really a factor here. Say those two women behind me are single as well. They obviously have more money than me, better cars, established careers, houses, taste, style, whatever. They are established. Why are you out with me and not one of them? I’ll tell you why: I’m younger and better looking. You have abandoned a woman your own age to be out with me based upon looks alone.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I protested. “Whom have I abandoned? I’m single!”

“That’s completely irrelevant,” said Esther. “You know why those two women over there are talking about out you? Because to them you are just another guy who is thinking with his dick and not his head; because if you were using your head you’d be out with one of them and not with me. To them you are in control, you have the power. They think you’re just using me for sex, that you only want my perky breasts and firm bottom. Or worse,” she said, “they think I’m trading hand jobs for tennis bracelets.”

“You sound a little bit pissed off about it, too.”

“I am a little. I like to date older guys, and I get tired of being viewed by people that age as a hapless little brain-dead slut being used by the big strong man.”

Thank heavens she had taken her spotlight off of me. One of the worst parts about being a smart fool is that you feel twice as stupid when you realize you’ve been eruditely justifying your ignorance. “Why do you like to date older guys?” I asked.

“Oral sex,” said Esther.

“Huh?”

“Seriously. Even if a guy is bad in bed, fifteen years additional practice will usually help.”

“You’re using me for sex?!”

She just laughed. “Not yet!”

“There must be something else,” I said.

“There are lots of things. When you date an older guy it’s like dating a man from a foreign country. No matter how strange what you do is, the foreign guy just blames it on the fact that you’re American, and the older guy just blames it on the fact that you’re twenty-two.”

“I would think that there would be a lot of other perks; the older guy usually has more money, a better car, takes you to nicer places, is more socially able, is more forgiving and less prone to weird emotional freak-outs . . .”

“There’s all that, too,” she said. “You take me to very nice places, Mr. Moroney. Most young men want to just hang out and go to a bar or something. You at least attempt actual dates. You also,” she paused briefly, “you treat me like more of an equal.”

That last sentence made my skin tingle. An equal? I thought about the girls I knew when I was twenty-two. There were some that dated older guys, but my little clique was never entirely comfortable with the situation. We always felt the girl was being used in exchange for feeling mature enough to handle an older boyfriend, and we always felt the boyfriend was frightfully immature. This was just a date, but I suddenly thought I could hear my jester’s mortarboard jingling softly over the clinking silverware, laughing diners, and glaring older women.

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