I'm not what you'd call an incredibly sexual person. Not anymore, anyway. I'm still interested, mind you. I just have very specific preferences when it comes to sex. I'm in my fifties now (and hopefully wiser for the wear), so I no longer have the frisky energy of a younger woman. When I was young and hungry for sex, the world was my playground. I was out to conquer and be conquered. Age puts perspective on things.
In fact, it's that very lack of desperation that's freed me, sexually speaking. Having come to terms with the mature woman that I've become, I'm finally in touch with what I want. And what I want is younger men.
Fortunately, younger men seem to gravitate toward me, and I often find myself on the receiving end of some very flattering sexual attention. When I first noticed this phenomenon, I thought, Nah, what could these young dudes be seeing in me? I must be reading into it. Recently, a lovely man of about 23 approached me. He could hardly catch his breath while telling me how beautiful he thought I was. I laughed in his face. In my mind I looked more like an exhumed corpse than an object of lust on that bright (very bright) afternoon.
As he reached out to touch my bare arm in what became a seductively overt caress, I realized this guy was serious. And I must admit, it was an incredible turn on. He asked for my number and I gave it to him, still laughing. Did I really want to pursue this, or was this just a perfect moment unto itself? Either way, his attention thrilled me.
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Apparently, I thrilled him too. In his eyes I could see the sincerity of his request; he really wanted me. It was exhilarating to be desired by such a young man. I woke up to the realization that, no, he wasn't into the walking dead; he was interested in the woman that I sometimes forget I am. In our brief encounter, he made me feel young again. When I allowed myself to fantasize for a moment about this coming to fruition, I felt energized and beautiful in a way I hadn't in years.
Of course, the road that led me here wasn't a linear one. You've heard of the wisdom of age? Well, it's yours to have, but the price is harsh: you have to survive your forties. If you can make it to 50, you can probably assume the worst is over. By then, all of your stupidest moves are behind you, you've raised as much hell as you're ever going to and you've gotten your divorces out of the way. You've died hard and lived to tell. You got to watch your body unravel while your mind kept thinking it was 20. When women catch glimpses of their mothers in their own reflection, it's not necessarily a good day. I spent my forties going insane.
I woke up in my fifties and suddenly — like some kind of hormonal wipeout — everything was fine. I had a clear vision: This is my one and only life; joy is wherever I find it. And I find it in writing, in being a successful single mom, and occasionally, I find it in surprisingly hot flirtations with men half my age.
The first man I ever fell in love with was in his twenties, and he was indeed the poster boy for what I considered to be perfect male beauty. I'll never forget his soft face and flowing hair. The connection we had was strong and sexual. Memories of him will resonate with me forever. In my mind, I'm still that young woman. He's still the type of man I prefer, all these years later.
So, the question really is: Do I actually sleep with any of these younger men who fawn over me? Keep reading ...
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