Grown up

I’ve never had a penchant for older men. There was that fling with a mid-thirties legislative assistant on the Hill when I was twenty, though we both lied about our ages (I will never forget the look of horror on his face when he realized I was using a fake ID). But for most of my life, I’ve dated men—boys—my own age. Boys I shared school with, or a least a generation with. So busy was I seeking six-packs and social currency that I neglected the honeypot hovering above me: grown ass men.

New man, whom we shall call George, is 43 years old.

I’m 29. That’s 14 years my senior—a whole teenager between us.

I recognize that 43 is not old, but the difference between George and the boys of before is staggering.

George wore a button down on our first date, to an elevated cocktail bar. He unpretentiously ordered us both gin martinis with a twist. He asked me clever questions about myself and remembered my answers. He put his hand on my leg coolly, and did not move it an inch.

George has a curated home bar and can make no less than a dozen artisanal cocktails by memory. When I first visited his apartment, I was thrilled to discover his bed set was linen, clean and unwrinkled. In the mornings, he sends me selfies of him reading the New York Times in those pretty green sheets.

I’ve never seen his phone on a date; in fact, I’m pretty sure he leaves it in the car, even overnight. But he’s available to text anytime when we aren’t together, and if he isn’t, he lets me know in advance (we are not even dating). He uses complete sentences and full paragraphs in his messages, and responds to each detail I send. He includes too many emojis and I find this to be incredibly endearing.

George has never once made me anxious. I do not feel dysregulated by my crush on him because he seems to have aged out of withholding as a tactic to keep my attention. There is no intermittent reinforcement or breadcrumbing; he has made it clear to me that he’s interested and does not try to pretend otherwise.

He plans every date and sends me three detailed options to choose from. A tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hollyhock House. A new Afro Cuban spot he heard about. An apero picnic at his favorite overlook in Griffith Park. I cherry pick what I like, and he adapts. I do not lift a finger.

The same is true for our sex. George has exhibited an astonishing wealth of knowledge about female pleasure. I was concerned that I would drive the sex, the “young thing”; I assumed I would bring the energy, that I would do the work. But I was sorely (and wonderfully) mistaken. George knows what he wants, he knows what he likes, and he takes it with respect, but with assertion. I do not need to invent anything new; he has a full repertoire and is well-versed in using it to make a woman come.

My pleasure is centric, but in a way I’ve never experienced—unhurried, unselfconscious. He is sure of himself, and by god, he has earned that confidence. One night, lost in the bliss of orgasm, I sighed a strange question: Were you classically trained?

Classically trained in what? He laughed from between my thighs.

I couldn’t respond—he was at it again. But he already knew what I meant.

Even when dominating me, my comfort is a priority: a pillow between my knees and the hardwood floor, encouraging words as he shoves my head down into the mattress.

It is the least performative sex of my life; and yet I’m fairly certain, should we have an audience, we would receive a standing ovation. Rave reviews such as: “revelatory,” “prodigious,” “a wild, erotic thrill ride.” Five fucking stars.

When we finish (or I do; his stamina is shocking), he holds me. His fingers massage my scalp, his teeth nibble on my earlobe, his lips trace the curve of my neck. He is in no rush to go anywhere, and therefore, neither am I.

There appears to be something about breaking forty: sex becomes something not owed, but blessed with. Pleasing a woman evolves from passive enjoyment to a rare kind of worship. And the parts of my body he craves are different, too. He loves all the regular stuff—tits, ass, waist—but the curve of my belly is his kryptonite. The days on which I feel bloated, or unflattering, he cannot catch his breath.

But even though I’m younger than him, he calls me a woman, not a girl. He never fetishizes my youth. If anything, it’s me that continues to bring up our age gap… because frankly, now that I know how older guys fuck, it turns me on.

I like to surprise him with things that feel young and sexy, like nudes on a Tuesday morning. He’s incredibly vocal in his praise, like he can’t quite believe his luck—a tactic that works wonders on the girl awarded “teacher’s pet” superlative in high school. But if anyone’s feeling lucky right now, it’s me. I’ve somehow stumbled into a part-time gig with a zaddy, and it’s everything the internet promised me it would be.

It’s too soon to know what will come of our fun. If he keeps this shit up, I might have to date him. But one thing is above doubt: it’s oldies for me, evermore.