Bitch Kitty Racing

Author’s note:

I normally eschew my own personal memoirs, and have actually rewritten all those that I posted on the old site to be third person nonfiction essays. Yes, there are still a few left here, but they’re really not all that personal. The problem with writing nonfiction is that for you, the reader, it not only has to ring true, it has to actually BE true. That level of intimacy scares me, to be perfectly honest, so I tend to avoid nonfiction personal narrative whenever I can.

“Why do older men date younger women?” is a real question from a reader (thank you for your confidence in me). How was I going to answer it? I have personal experience with the issue and could have over-intellectualized my reasons for a month of Sundays, but I think the real reasons lie in what I felt, not in what I thought. So the only way to answer it fully, and to the best of my ability, was openly, honestly, and plainly. The names have been changed, but that’s all.

The links provided to previous essays fill in the background, which is why I have provided them, but they do make the whole piece much longer than our normal offerings. I apologize for that. Your time is precious, and I sincerely appreciate the fact that you spend it here, reading. It might be easier for you to leisurely peruse a printed copy when you have more time—I know many of you read BKR at work. (To do that click: File > Print Preview from your browser window. That’s universal, by the way, though you probably already knew that. I didn’t until recently).

Personal Observations on Dating a Younger Woman

A little over a year ago I wrote Observations on Thirty-something Sexual Differences, a musing on single men and women of that age and how their needs seem to diverge. In it I inadvertently slammed younger women a bit, but as I usually talk about things that are of interest to the single Gen X, it wasn’t really an issue to me. Besides, would a twenty-one year-old notice?

I work in the restaurant industry and am surrounded by early twenty-somethings day in and day out; their lives and loves, their hopes and dreams, their unceasing drama. I’m supposed to have a handle on these people (whom I affectionately call my “retarded house cats”), and of course everyone is different. Like Peter whom I respect so well, Aaron who always makes me laugh, Erin who always has a smile and an ear for me, and my beloved Lisa with the unbelievably foul mouth, quick wit, easy laugh, and razor-sharp takes on everyone and everything around her. Some people are simply more mature than their years would belie. Some people are simply more interesting than their years would belie

They’re adorable!

But dating one of these kids? Oh, HELL no! I’m sorry, I love them, I really do, but their brains are not fully formed yet. They haven’t learned any impulse control. Their morality is fuzzy. They can justify anything. They aren’t worried about hurting other people yet because they haven’t been hurt by other people yet. They are pretty much obsessed with themselves, fashion, sex, drugs, and rock and roll—exactly like I was at that age. They remind me daily how utterly excited I was at twenty-two about absolutely everything. “I’m in a band! Look at my clothes! I have a motorcycle! I’m writing the Great American Novel! I’m in love! I HAD SEEEEEXXXXX!!!!!” There is no way I would ever want to get romantically involved with my twenty-two year-old self.

I still have an interest in fashions and modern music, but I’m far more interested in following them than creating them these days. I just watch my young coworkers and see what they’re doing. Sometimes I laugh at the resurgence of styles that occurred when I was in high-school, the renewed popularity of punk rock, mod haircuts, and all those ridiculous tattoos and piercings, like so many star-bellied sneeches! but not really. These young people are doing what all young people everywhere do at that age: defining their own identities. Who are they? What do they like? What are the limits of their freedom? What makes them different from everybody else? It’s an endless game of one-upmanship until the individual finds the security necessary to be an individual, to have nothing to prove. That’s why there is so much social rebellion in the late teens and early twenties, so much rejection of common culture and mores. “I’m dangerouser than you,” they seem to say.

I was completely relieved when I hit thirty and accepted the fact that I was a socially inept geek with a flair for irritating people. It meant I could stop pretending to be this imaginary person I wanted to be and work on creating the personal world I always wanted. So some more years passed and I finally became an adult.

Last spring I went through one of those slow motion breakups that are really a lot more like a cartoon scene where Coyote gets his feet stuck in concrete and Road Runner leisurely mills him into a paste with a steam roller. After the breakup I felt old for the first time in my life. I realized that I probably will never have children. Not that I ever wanted any, mind you, but the window of opportunity is almost over for me simply because a mentally and emotionally appropriate future spouse will probably be nearing the end of her safer and easier reproductive years. Of course it’s still possible, but not without increased risk.

Point being, I had become aware that I had reached a stage in my life where my age was shutting down certain possibilities, and not just children. For instance, I would probably never be a rock star. I mean, really, who the hell wants to start a band and try to make it big at thirty-six? I think I’d rather just take a trip to Paris instead. At this age, I know who I am and am comfortable in my own skin. I am confident in my abilities, yet know my limitations. Life may not be as exciting on a daily basis as it was when I was younger, but it sure is a lot more comfortable!

Then I met Esther and suddenly my life got very interesting. Suddenly, I was dating a younger woman, and it was exactly what I needed, it was simple and easy because I was able to keep my emotional distance. Everyone knows that people want different things at different times in their lives, and everyone knows that a twenty-two year-old girl is not ready to settle down, and everyone knows that these affairs should be as brief as possible, and everyone knows that at the first sign of attachment you turn around, walk away, and don’t look back. I kept myself in check. I lived from day to day and took the relationship for what it was. I enjoyed her company, I liked to listen to her prattle on, I came to appreciate her stance on life, I was fascinated by her exuberance and energy. I adored her, but I certainly knew better than to give her my heart, especially at my age.

Esther taught me a lot about the other side of the relationship, too; mostly that everything I thought I knew about what was going on was wrong.

Then, during a particularly romantic moment on a weekend getaway, my rational thought failed me and I told her I loved her for no other reason than it just so happened to be true.

She reacted like I just sold her into slavery.

Oops.

A few weeks passed, my wounds began to scab over, and yesterday I was at a football party with people my own age, both men and women, mostly single. It was at Annie’s house overlooking the lake, BMW in the driveway, built-in wine cooler in the kitchen, all the things life rewards you with for being a little older. I met a lot of new people, all very friendly and talkative, no doubt helped along by the mimosas.

Annie asked me, “So, what’s your status?”

“I’m single,” I said, still surprised by the word.

“Oh, I’m sorry, baby.” She petted me and kissed my forehead. “What happened?”

“She was twenty-two.” Suddenly four other guys were nodding at me with knowing looks on their faces and all the women were shaking their heads.

“What were you thinking?!” exclaimed Annie.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose I did it because I can.” (I did it because I can. Mark that last sentence, dear reader. It’s a piece of our puzzle.)

“I had one who lived in London,” Carl said. “I spent a lot of time flying back and forth.”

“Age is just a number,” said James.

“No, it isn’t!” I snapped. “Age is not something meaningless. We change and we grow. We’re different every year. We’re supposed to know better. We’re supposed to make rational decisions based on experience. I’m almost forty, damn it!” (Puzzle piece #2)

Suddenly Dierdre interjected: “How old do I look?”

“Thirty-two?” I said, fudging a little. Though ethnically Latin and utterly gorgeous, she really looked closer to thirty-seven.

“She just turned forty,” whispered Annie in my ear.

It was obvious Dierdre felt old. (#3.)

Then the men overrode the women for a few minutes, and it came out that three of the four had also dated younger women in their mid-to-late thirties, and the fourth had a buddy who did. It was agreed that it was hard to stop once it was started, that falling in love was inevitable, and that it was harder to get over than it should be. (#4)

I thought to myself, “What does these girls give us? We all know it’s wrong and never going to work, but we do it anyway. It’s like a drug!” (#5) Then I remembered two more of my friends who had dated a younger woman, fallen in love, and been hurt at love’s end. And as I write this I am reminded of my friends Wolf and Ignacio, both of whom actually married their younger lovers before the relationship went South.

Holy Crap! Am I in a cult?

Nope.

Goodbye, Esther:

Solving the Puzzle

We’re pushing forty, or perhaps a little beyond it. Jesus! That’s old! At least it is to our younger mind. We don’t want to get old and let go of all the pleasures and excitements of youth. We have not accepted our age yet. We may be going, but we’re doing it kicking and screaming, or at least punching a few walls as the bouncer carries us out. In our older lovers we see fine lines around the eyes, a slight thickening of the waist, the skin starting to slacken on the neck. We see ourselves in a mirror, and it scares us. In our younger lovers we do not find youth, but denial of age. We cannot be young, but we can be ageless.

In our younger lovers we see how powerful we have become, or at least compared to men in their early twenties. We don’t look old yet. We still have the potential to be in the best physical shape of our lives, and many of us maintain our bodies through exercise. While we don’t look youthful anymore, we do look like fully adult males of the species. And as fully adult males, we also have the financial ability to spoil our lover rotten. We give her presents, fancy meals, trips, clothes, anything we want. Notice closely that I said, “…anything WE want.” What does she want? We don’t take that into consideration because this isn’t about her, it’s about us. We are gorillas beating our chests and showing off, posturing.

Let’s also admit something embarrassing; young people are hot. We can hem and haw and tiptoe around the subject, but men and women both like the look of young people. The standard joke among my female friends about younger men is: “He was hot until he talked, so I taught him something else to do with his mouth.” If a man said that he would be ostracized from polite, university-educated, politically correct society, but it doesn’t change the fact that many men, and I think it would be safe to assume nearly all men, are sexually attracted to younger women, even the men who don’t actually do anything about it. Young women are attractive because they’re physically young. Rightly or wrongly, and no matter what anyone wants, and no matter what is fair or just, youth is a standard of beauty in our culture, especially for women. While beauty does not increase a woman’s value as a human being, it does increase her value to men as a mate.

Younger women are also emotionally easier than women our own age. Oh, dear God, it’s all so simple! There’s no future and there’s no past. You just live in the moment, right here and right now, soaking up affection like you would soak up sun in Mexico after twenty years of a New York winter. Neither of you expect it to last. In fact, you’re the only one thinking about where this is going at all. You think to yourself, “When I’m fifty-two she’ll be the age I am now.” You know damned well it’s not going to work, but you can’t give it up. It is like a drug, a very lithe, smooth, sexually willing addiction on which you eventually become dependent. Without it you will have to stare in a mirror forever and admit that you’re getting old and that your kingdom can be taken away from you by a rival, for the simple reason than you are losing your physical power with every passing year.

We want them for another reason as well. The odds of our seeing another youthful and gorgeous naked woman in our arms will get slimmer and slimmer as we age. The younger woman becomes more and more desired as she becomes rarer and rarer in our lives. Even just attention or light flirting makes us feel attractive and more manly. I know several cocktail waitresses who use this fact to make more money, lots and lots more. “We could get this girl,” is what we’re thinking. “We’ve still got it!” We eat it up, we suck it down, we bury our faces in the trough of it like pigs. It’s heavenly, it’s intoxicating, it’s cool spring rain washing the dirt from the wounds of a battered warrior after years away at the wars.

(Shut up, lady. Stop laughing. You asked me for an answer, and I am trying to give you one openly and honestly, and to the best of my ability.)

When it goes awry, like it must, you feel old and foolish. You should have known better. It totally, completely, royally sucks and it’s entirely your own fault. You can’t talk to your friends about it, because all they’re going to say is, “I told you so.” That’s it. That’s all the sympathy you’re going to get. They don’t know that you’re not just letting go of your lover—you’re letting go a portion of your life. Or if they do know what you’re going thorugh it’s even worse: you get to hear the “You Need to Face Facts and Grow Up” speech.

Fuck you, not right now, thank you very much. In fact, not ever!

Over beer and darts with Colin last night, who at the age of thirty-eight got his ass kicked by a lovely Italian girl of twenty-one, we compared our bruises and laughed together like two who’ve survived a particulary fiery plane crash. Oh, the lies we told ourselves, the lies we made ourselves believe, the sheer scale of the massive personal conspiracy we involved ourselves in to willingly and gleefully stay with someone that has absolutely no chance of living up to our expectations. She couldn’t! She hasn’t been alive long enough to know how! The depth and emotional maturity that we have gained is the result of age. How in God’s name can we expect that in a younger woman when we didn’t have it ourselves until five minutes ago?

“So,” I asked Colin, “What are we going to do when another one of our friends gets tangled up with a twenty-two year-old?”

“Laugh,” he said. “Buy ‘em beer after.”

I cracked up. “You’re an asshole,” I said.

“Experience is the best teacher,” said Colin.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said, suddenly serious. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs