The BetsyG-Spot

Tip o’ the pen to Carole D. for the title.

By BetsyG

I’ve read about them: women of advancing age who seek to date much younger men. Younger here doesn’t mean a 10- to 15-year difference, which might raise an eyebrow but is no big deal. “Cougars” are women in their 40s and on who date men (and I use the word loosely) in their 20s.

I don’t judge them—much—as I understand their reasons for passing on men their age. Anyhow, while I may cringe when I see an older man with someone 25 years younger, it’s accepted, although when I really think about it, I feel more nauseated by the idea of a 20-something girl with a 40-something man than the other way around.

Perhaps because I have sons, including one who is approaching the age at which he might be cougar bait, younger men are not on my radar as potential prey; I don’t even find Hollywood heartthrobs of interest. The youngest I go for is Leonardo DiCaprio who, at 35, would look perfectly fine on my arm.

I won’t state categorically that I could never find myself attracted to someone who’s too young for me. In fact, I was attracted to someone in that legal but instinctively wrong age range. That was based not on raw, sexual energy but on healthy things that bring a man and woman together: common interests and a good vibe. Had we been within striking distance of each other’s age, we surely would have dated, but with two-plus decades between us, I wasn’t even interested in flirting.

Why? Part of it is pure instinct: it just feels wrong. Part of it is practicality: what is the point of getting involved with someone who’s just starting out, when I’m at this stage? We couldn’t possibly be in each other’s lives as anything but sex partners and…Oh!

Well, even if I were interested in casual sex, it would not be with 20-somethings. To my mind, boys that age should not see what life does to a body, should instead be shielded from the sags, the wrinkles, the age-related blemishes. They should be eased into these realities over time, not hit with them at once. Anyhow, I could never feel comfortable with my body in that situation, would never allow myself to be the freak show that satisfies some randy youth’s curiosity and gives him a story to tell.

However.

I can see how these things happen.

Kelley and I are at the second bar, having followed our new pals Seb and Tarren from the first. I am loopy from several Martini-style drinks I’ve downed something less than daintily, and no longer recall exactly who I am, in the abstract. I seem to think I am a grad student, like Seb.

Our conversation gets more intense and at the same time loose. We’re just a guy and a girl and we’re talking at a bar. His face comes nearer to mine, and I’m not thinking about how much closer to 50 I’ll be in three days, but about the early gift that is about to be planted on my intemperate lips.