The accidental puma
A few weeks ago when I did the no-pants train ride, some of my fellow pants-free travellers and I all went for a post-ride drink which, as these things do, turned into a full afternoon of drinks, drinks and more drinks. One thing led to another and the long and the short of it is that when I finally made it home I wasn’t alone. Not bad work for a Sunday, I’m sure you will agree. When I told my colleagues at work this tale of drunkness and debauchery they all laughed, but I got a spank on the wrist from them all for being a naughty boy: my companion for the evening was pretty much a boy himself, being a mere 20 years old. It’s official: I am a cougar.
Actually, apparently I am a puma. Cougars are forties and I’ve still got a decade to get to that tickbox on the census. In any event, with ten years between me and this puma-bait it was fairly certain that it wasn’t going to turn into anything huge. We went on a couple of dates, had some fun and laughed a lot, and now that neither of us has called the other for a fortnight, I think it’s safe to say that the fling has been flung and it’s time to move on. So what have we learned?
Firstly, I’m hot! Who doesn’t love it when people mistake them for someone five years younger? And even if it’s all lies it’s always nice to hear. In either case, I was the one being pursued and we all like the attention, whatever the story that comes with it.
Secondly, I’ve still got it, baby! If I can pull a 20-year old, what else can I do? Whoever said that gay years were like dog years and thirtysomethings were really seventysomethings was obviously pig ugly and bitter about it. I may only be starting out in my thirties but that means I’m just warming up; I have no intention of spending the next decade winding down preparing for a lonely old age. (And just to be clear, this doesn’t mean that I’m going to be whoring it about like something straight out of Sodom; rather that I’m going to give life everything I have and see what happens.) I am a catch, and it’s only a matter of time…
But finally, 20-year olds are just not for me. Sure I had fun and if I could go back I would do it all again, but now that I’ve done it I realise that I’m not 20-years old myself, and I’m happy about that. This particular 20-year old was bright, charming, witty and handsome, but there was something about him that I can’t really put my finger on: I suppose he was just too green. When I was 20 I thought I knew everything; now I’m 30 I can confidently say that I don’t know a damn thing. The past ten years have been a greater learning experience than I ever imagined and as exciting as it was for me – and will be for him – I’m ready to move on. Whoever I move on with needs to be beside me, not ten years behind. But if he wants to tell me that I look 25, that’s fine by me.
23 February 2010 at 6:08 am
You go girl!
I recently went on some dates with a 22 year old. I agree that it’s certainly fun, but they’re not for me. Just don’t have that experience that us 30 (or close to) year olds have!