you do the math

When I was twenty my boyfriend was sixteen.

When I was thirty-one, my boyfriend, the heretofore love of my life, C, was nineteen.

And that eight to twelve year age difference has pretty much stayed with me since. Take my age, subtract college, high school, and perhaps the last two years of middle school, and he’s my man.

I don’t admit this with pride. But I don’t admit it with shame either.

The first man who made me come was twenty. I was sixteen. I can remember one other guy after him I dated who was older than I. He was thirty-two and I was twenty, but since I was dating my sixteen year old at the same time, I don’t think it really counts.

I have dated some men my own age. Eff, for example, was only six months younger than I. Not nearly young enough.

When I cheated on him, and I did, it was with a gorgeous Italian dude with a gigantic Roman nose. He was twenty-two. I was twenty-eight.

Getting better.

I don’t know exactly why I like younger men. Certainly, not all of them have been prime rock-hard movers (Ernie was ten years younger and plush. Very plush). And many of them act a lot older than I do—C is now married with two kids; he owns a house. And a Range Rover. I have two pets. I own nothing I have to insure.

Ernie, Donny, C, are all fine, upstanding citizens. Donny and C have never smoked pot. Ever. Each of them pays his bills on time. They serve jury duty. They file their tax returns early. They just about always know where they put just about anything.

I’m like chaos in a g-string.

So it’s not that I like the irresponsibility of youth. I like the responsible youth. The more responsible the better, actually.

The oldest man I’ve ever fucked was forty-one, and that was almost three years ago.

I was forty. It was strange. We had so little to talk about.

(The biggest age span I’ve had with a man was seventeen years—he was twenty-five and I was forty-two. But since I had a threesome with him and his twenty-seven year-old friend, I just added them together and figured that at fifty-two, we only had ten years’ difference. The largest age spread of all was twenty years: she was twenty-two.)

I do find, however, as I get older, my tastes correspond. I am not like Wooderson who likes high school girls, admitting, “I get older, they stay the same age. Yes they do.” Guys in their twenties don’t interest me much. They’re nice to look at and sniff surreptitiously, but therein ends my fascination with them. And this is probably a good thing. I do teach college, after all, and no one needs me to go all Humbert Humbert on his nubile ass.

Though I do have such a strong work ethic that I don’t think I’d let a student get all hot with teacher even if I did find one estimable and comestible enough.

And lest you think I’m hot to be teacher, I don’t like the younger man because I like to educate him. In fact, even to the casual reader of my pretty dumb things, it has to be obvious that I delight in the bottom. Being one. Having one. And all that these states imply.

Nor are my younger men exactly on the edge that cuts; I don’t pick hip dudes. They tend to enjoy music from the then, while I listen to the now. They often eschew fashion (C was an anomaly here; he loves shopping). They are not metrosexuals. They go to barbers. They don’t surf. They dislike crowds and loud rock and/or roll. You’d have to pay them to listen to hip-hop.

They are not my desperate attempt to maintain relevancy in a world I outdate.

Was that too emphatic?

They tend to be geeks, my men. Engineers. Intellects. Chefs. They really, really look forward to completion in fantasy epics. They wish they were Aragorn. They imagine themselves on horseback.

They know how to tie knots. Because they practice.

I think, somehow, I found this younger manly niche because they are the ones with whom I am most comfortable. I’m not attracted to older men; I never have been. And men my own age are often hard to come by. Oh, no, not in that euphemistic meaning--I can come by anyone, if I want.

I mean simply that they are hard to find. And often when I do find them I find that what we have in common is being sentient carbon-based life forms with a right to trial by jury. Perhaps I missed some important developmental step. Perhaps, somehow, I lost a decade.

A decade was lost.

And so I date men who were in fourth grade when I graduated high school.

It’s cool, most of the time. Sometimes, though, I’ll say something, something like, oh, yeah, I saw Run DMC do “My Adidas” in ’86, or that I caught The Police on their Synchronicity tour in ’83, or that I had tickets to see Bob Marley in ’81 before he up and died on me. And for one fresh moment, I’ll see his eyes glaze over as he subtracts. He’ll realize that when I saw Run, he was a Freshman in high school, when I saw The Police he was just cresting into puberty, when I held the unrequited Marley tix, he was in Little League.

And it throws him. He feels the gulf.

And then it’s gone.

And then it’s good. Or it’s good enough.

Comments

[VV]

This post reminded me of a scene in Groundhogs Day. Bill Murray is sitting across a table from Andie MacDowell. While she lists things her perfect mate will be or do, Bill replies “Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. I think I’m pretty close on this one.”

I think I am pretty close on this one too. Too bad I’m married, too far from my ideal weight and I live in Texas. I guess it’ll have to wait for another life.

Did I mention that I do a good impression of Wooderson? Matthew and I do claim the same hometown. Except for the hair, our East Texas drawl is all we have in common.

[Danielle]

I feel like I've been going through CG withdrawl not being able to read your site everyday.

I've only loved one younger man. And he rocked my word. He was also a philosophy/polital science student. He's one of the most intelligent men I've ever met.

And he rocked my world.

Any man who is with my fuck salad is ok in my book.

[not quite ripe]

hmmm...so, if i separated my split personalities, would that make my 46 years equal to two 23 year olds?

[Catman]

Not at all relevant to the post but... Discovered your blog via Pinky over at agirlwitha.com, who commended you on you writing style.

And I have to say CG, you do write amazingly.

Eloquence is not the word.

[Alohalani]

Sometimes it's scary what things we do have in common.

[Catman]

Damn! "...your writing style..." of course, not "...you.."

:)

[fin]

ever been to comic con?

[jemima]

you teach college? since when? i thought you work in a pet store?

[chelsea girl]

I both teach college and work in a pet boutique. I also write for a magazine and, from time to time, teach civilians how to strip.

I'm a Ph.D. candidate. A writer. A tattooed love child. A little country, a little rock 'n roll, baby.

cheers,
CG