For the last 2 weeks I was working at the U of M bookstore in Coffman Union. It was a good job. I got to chat with my co-workers, get some exercise by walking around getting books off the shelf and help the mostly friendly students picking up their online orders. Usually I’m no fan of customer service work, but I actually enjoyed it this time around, owing largely to the amiability of the customers.
I also have to admit: There were a LOT of cute girls there. But they were about half my age, so what could I do? Just talk to ‘em, I guess. In my defense, we’re probably about the same age emotionally. Or not. I don’t know.
It’s not like I have much (if any) more romantic or sexual experience than they. Lord knows I haven’t fucked much. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 31. I haven’t even reached double digits in the number of times I’ve had sex.
I guess it’s not surprising when you consider what my conception of sex was. As they say in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, I “put the pussy on a pedestal.” I thought sex was the ticket to adulthood, to being a man, to no longer being a freak, which is what I felt like as an adult male virgin.
It was also the essence of romantic love, which I thought was the end-all be-all, the sine qua non of life. Superficially, sex is the only thing that separates romantic relationships from all other relationships, and I focused on that.
But what really kept me from fucking for most of the last two decades or so was my fear of rejection. I’m a sensitive guy, and my relationship with my parents (esp. my mom) was weak, making me desperate for a romantic relationship to fill that void.
Women, like most people, don’t find desperation attractive. I tried to hide my desperation through a guarded reserve and quietude. But this kept me from talking to women, much less asking them out. It also kept me from responding warmly on those rare occasions when a woman would flirt with me.
It just kinda sucks that, now that I’m finally emotionally ready to be “sexually active,” most of the women who are DTF aren’t “age-appropriate” for me. And the age-appropriate women wanna settle down. It’s quite a pickle.
Ultimately, this is just a preemptive defense against the naysayers I imagine hovering in the wings, ready to pounce on my cradle-robbing impulses. But I’m only worried about these nattering nabobs because I’m one of them. I will tsk-tsk someone (in my head) involved in a May-December romance.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize that I’m just hating on them out of envy. It’s also driven by bitterness and anger. I only really feel this way toward the friends I don’t see anymore, the ones who’ve drifted away. I resent them more for leaving me high-and-dry than for being happy.
I know there are plenty of guys who prey on younger women, exploiting their naivete. What I’m trying to say is I’m not one of those guys. Given my history, it’s clearly not in my nature, and I think my maturation and emotional healing have prevented me from heading down that road.
At the end of the day, though, I’m gonna fuck who I wanna fuck (with their consent, of course). And the haters can go fuck themselves. Age isn’t a measure of maturity (as long as the person isn’t underage). If you have a problem with me dating women half my age, I suggest you ask yourself what you’re really upset about. Because I doubt it’s me or the supposed exploitation of someone you’ve never met.
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