How To Date Older Men

This … is … my … wheelhouse.

No, I don’t date older men, wise-ass. I am typically the older man in the relationship. And, don’t give me any grief about it. These are biological urges. I don’t choose to be attracted to young, fit women. You’ll need to blame a creator (if you believe in such a thing), or biology. I’m just following instructions left by my ancestors—when possible, tap young ass, most capable of spreading genes.

I’ve just grossed-out everyone who isn’t attracted to me. Fuck.

Forget it’s me speaking. Forget that I have an agenda. Imagine an older Clooney is your subject, and I’m his agent, offering you advice.

Unless you’re a teenager, an older man probably has less energy than you. Keep this in mind when he reacts to your suggestion about biking and hiking with a (more) wrinkled brow. I’m not saying break out the bocce balls or pinochle cards. Something in between, perhaps. How about yoga?

Girl, I know you love to get your dance on. If the “mature” fellow tries to keep up with you as you bounce around to Tiësto, he’s going to wind up sweaty and sore. You don’t want your friends pointing out his sweat stains. You could avoid this by offering a spare pad for his pits … ew, please don’t.

He realizes you enjoy Instagramming silly pet photos, watching TV with your feet curled under you (owie), and eating fresh fruit and Greek yogurt. You can do these things while he does his crosswords. Refrain from commenting on his reading glasses. In fact, be a good girl and keep a spare set in your Louie. Otherwise, expect a shrug when he’s handed a wine list.

If you don’t currently have a kind, old tiger in your life, and you’re considering bypassing the poodle puppy, you must learn the approach.

Act like a lady, but think like your Grandpop. When a delicious young treat expresses interest in Magoo, this is what goes through his mind, slowly:

  • Holy shit.
  • Where are the cameras?
  • Could this be surprise offspring?
  • Did I date her mother?
  • She thinks I’m someone else—a rich someone else.
  • How’s my supply of blue pills?
  • Dear God, if you would kindly look the other way, and allow me to peel down her panties before I die, I will stop saying “fuck” so often.
  • Where’s my ex when I need her? I’ll get someone to take a picture of me and this angel, then I’ll post it and tag everyone.

You’re probably somewhat intoxicated, and that’s OK. Magoo will do shots with you—just not sugary nonsense, and, for fuck’s sake, not blowjob shots. Be a trooper, order two shots of Irish whiskey and bring him a beer chaser. Do not drop that shot into your beer, young lady. Take a sip, chase with beer, then give him a pat on the hairpiece and kiss on the cheek.

Older dogs typically aren’t quite as overbearing and jealous. We realize you’re a flirtatious little vixen. All good. Just try to keep us from seeing or hearing about it. (That should be simple, with our numbed senses.) Also, please keep your shaggy-headed-surfer-dude ex away, or we’ll make him look sillier by challenging his intellect.

Look, if this is all too complicated, call me. Sure, I’ll walk you through it. Visiting hours are until nine. Buy me a glass of wine, and we’ll chat. I promise I won’t hit on you … much.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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