Sex after 40 years old: one woman’s testimony | #dating | #elderly | #seniors
I am 46, I have two boys and, until a year ago, I had been with my husband for 27 years and married for 16. We met when we were 18 and 17 – I was a year older – he was my second proper boyfriend and I was never unfaithful. So in my life I had slept with two people. I was very much in love. I thought I had the best husband – what a catch, everybody loved him, clever, driven and handsome in a warm, rugged way – but then we had our first bump in the road.
When I was 40, I caught him chatting up a girl that worked for us in a nightclub. When we got home, raging drunk, he beat me up, badly, thug-kicking me on the floor bad. But I had two small children and I loved him very deeply. I didn’t tell anybody. We kept going. After a few more aggressions on nights out we agreed to both stop drinking for the sake of our marriage (I know.)
Five years on and he was being more and more distant, more stressed with work, talking endlessly about a female lawyer the business – our business – was using. I asked him if he was having an affair. I expected the usual denial: he said no, but he had met someone, he said, while on a skiing trip to deal with stress, earlier in the year. He had met a woman and he was leaving me for her.
“Don’t do this, not to the boys, don’t, don’t, don’t. You don’t love me?” I said. “You won’t be there when I die? I’m screwed.”
“I’ll go in the morning and come back for my stuff next week.”
I spent all night dry retching in the bathroom. Life was fucked, my boys’ childhood fucked. I am 45, middle-aged and fucked.
No one talks about the older woman fantasy. But it’s real and I want women my age to know you are worthy of attention
I went to my father’s the next day and left the boys with him. My mother had died a few years before and she was everywhere in the house. She died like a warrior and through the death rattle she told us over and over: “I want you to know I love you.” I decided if she could put us and our feelings first while she was dying, I could do this. Fuck being an unhappy sad divorcée for two years. I was going to be happy for my boys. Fuck being the victim; he can be the victim.
I needed to start putting good things in my life. I was totally driven by a desire not to be a walking cliché. I didn’t want to be the sad, tearful, scraggy-haired divorcée, crying on the corner of the bed three years later, not able to have sex with some well-meaning man. But the thought of dating the local single dads was not fun: they were a motley crew. I set myself a challenge to go somewhere for a week, have three dates – just coffee, just talk – and be in the company of a new man for the first time in 27 years.
Three weeks later, and having lost 11kg since he’d left me, I got off a plane to New York (I had friends there from a former career). I got a taxi to my friend’s tiny one-bed apartment in the West Village. I went out for a run along the Hudson River and when I got back I collapsed on the bed and sobbed, hard, for the first time since my husband left me. I sobbed for about three minutes and then my mother popped into my head. I wiped away the tears and downloaded Tinder. I had never even looked at it before, so I googled what to do, wrote a profile and put in a couple of pics. I set the age at 40 to 50; I was 45. An hour later I had a running date for 7am the next morning.
We met after a bit of searching at the subway station and ran around Central Park. I felt alive, plugged in. He was nice, 43 years old, good-looking and quite interesting: he had invested in a company making pharmaceutical grade marijuana. He wanted to see me again that day so I agreed to meet him at MoMA. It went well, but when he asked for a dinner date too I was glad I had already made plans to see my old friends. I wasn’t attracted to him enough to want to keep seeing him. Plus, I had promised myself just three guys in New York.
That afternoon I met my former boss. He is very clever and funny and there had always been an attraction. To be honest I was kind of hoping he was single. (He wasn’t.) We laughed a lot, we laughed about Tinder, and he started messing around with my profile for me. Then he asked me the question: “Do you want to just meet people or do you want to get fucked?”
“I want to get fucked,” I said.
“OK. Put the age settings way younger.”
I laughed. I knew I was looking better, had lost the weight, felt attractive for a 45-year-old, but I couldn’t imagine that younger men would want someone like me, mum-age, wrinkles around the eyes.
Nevertheless, I changed my desired age range to 28 to 35 and started swiping again that evening. The minute I lowered the age, the likes flooded in. A lot of them were hot – really fit, really cute – and the notifications were beeping like a supermarket checkout.
I changed my desired age range to 28 to 35 and started swiping again that evening. The minute I lowered the age, the likes flooded in
I couldn’t believe it. I matched with a 30-year-old guy who looked like a catalogue model. OK, I thought, I could have sex with him. So we started messaging. He asked me how open-minded I was.
“Kind of,” I replied.
“You are very attractive.”
“You remind me of my mom.”
“Would you be open to some role play?” he asked.
“Well, one time I was in my room masturbating when my mom walked in.”
Not that open-minded! Unmatch.
Maybe I’m only attracting perverted younger guys who want to fuck their mothers, I thought. But I kept going. I got a couple more matches very quickly. It was a massive rush and so flattering every time a beautiful guy would like me and match. I was starting to get excited at the thought of meeting one.
The old me would have thought: what about when I get undressed and my tummy is not taught and my breasts aren’t perfectly perky? But I told myself that they can see on your profile you are 45, so they must expect some signs of ageing.
I matched with “Oliver”: he had an incredible smile, boy-next-door good looking. He was athletic in build and Welsh. We could chat easily and he suggested we move to WhatsApp, where the messaging was easier. I learnt pretty quickly that means nudes can be exchanged.
He sent me one immediately, with his penis blanked out: he was fit and definitely sexy. I took a couple of pics of me in my underwear from flattering angles. He said he was really into it. I couldn’t believe it. We arranged to meet the next day for coffee.
When he couldn’t make it because of work – he said he had a lot to do before a trip to San Francisco – I was actually really disappointed. We kept talking. I was finding it hard to know whether to believe him or not, but decided to take what he said at face value. He was running out of time and flying the next evening. He offered to come to the apartment the next morning with coffee and an erection. I was super turned on: he had sent me the uncensored pic and let’s just say it was very exciting.
He offered to come to the apartment the next morning with coffee and an erection
He didn’t show. He had slept in. I went for a run. I went shopping for lingerie. I now really wanted sex before I left New York and I wanted to look hot when it happened. I wanted it to be sexy and good. Two hours later, Oliver messaged: he could sneak out of work and see me. I sent the address.
Outside, it was raining hard. I kept checking myself in the mirror. I had showered, removed all body hair, moisturised, but no make-up – it’s just not me – and hoped for the best. I put on the lingerie and a silky dressing gown. I had bought condoms. This young man was really coming to have sex with me. No meeting first, no coffee, no finding out if we have chemistry. I was a tiny bit nervous that he might not want me, but I was mostly just excited.
The door buzzer went. I buzzed him up. I looked through the peephole to see a well-dressed 31-year-old boy. I opened the door and he came in. His short fair hair was dark with rain. No talking at all; we just kissed. It was unreal and very, very hot. He looked finer, prettier in real life. We undressed him in the tiny bedroom and found lots of hair all over his runner’s body. The sex was good, really very good – not off the scale but hot and dirty and wet. This was good. I felt good.
It was actually so much more than good. It was a massive revelation: I had no idea I had it in me to do that or that a young man would want me. To enjoy having sex with me, to look at my face, with its wrinkles, and find me attractive. This was headline news for me, for any women my age. I wanted to do it again. He left that evening.
I really didn’t know if it was just a fluke, but then came “Jackie”. I had matched with him and I really thought it might be catfishing because his photos were professional, like he was an actor or a model. He was 6ft 3in, blonde, had a six pack and he was 31 again. He was close. Less than a kilometre away. We started messaging.
“Would you like to suck me?”
“Yes, I’d really like to meet you. You look amazing.”
“I’m not sure if I want anything else, just for you to suck me.”
“Oh, I would really like it if it was reciprocal?”
This was not sounding great for my self-esteem.
“Can we try and see if I want to do more with you?”
“I don’t think it’s going to work. My friend is arriving tomorrow. I want to spend time with her.”
Our conversation made me feel like a bit of a desperate cougar. I wasn’t really up for that. Shame. He looked beautiful in his pictures.
The next day, my best friend did arrive and I was grinning ear to ear. I told her I had had sex and talked her through the learning curve of the last 62 hours. The next morning we went for a run and on the way back stopped at the tiny café under our apartment.
A tall, younger guy caught my eye as he walked in and I was amazed: New York has a population of 8.39 million and here were six people in the café, two of which were me and Jackie. He had walked into the café underneath our apartment.
I had my back to him but could check that it was him in the mirror on the wall. I mouthed to her, “It’s him! It’s Jackie!” I discreetly pulled up his profile on my phone and showed her under the table. We both stared at his neck and back as he waited for his coffee to go. He was a god. The most beautiful all-American man, straight out of the Kennedy family but bigger, more statuesque, more sublime. My friend looked me in the eyes as he walked out: “Message him right now!” she said.
He held my hair tight, held my throat and at one point he took my jaw and turned my head
I waited all of three minutes and then I did just that. The message read: “I think I may have made a mistake.” We did meet and it was not at all one-sided. In fact, he asked me constantly if I was having a good time. I was. Jackie was dominant and I really hadn’t experienced that before. He held my hair tight, held my throat and at one point he took my jaw and turned my head, forcing me to look in the mirror at us both. For the first time, for really as long as I could remember, I liked looking at my body. I didn’t feel inadequate, unattractive, old. This was new and I loved it.
We saw each other again and it was good then too. The experiences were totally positive for me. I was lucky. I knew it was kind of risky meeting people like that, but it changed my life. I had been desirable to someone and seen, touched, admired. There was this total revelation: that I was not only attractive, but attractive to very hot, younger men. I know that women my age don’t think this is remotely possible, because no one talks about the older woman fantasy. But it’s real and I want women my age to know you are worthy of attention. You don’t have to settle for a pot belly and an attitude. You can have a fun, confident, sexy young man at your feet and you both win.
I want all women my age who find themselves alone to know about this, to live this full and sexy gorgeous life. I have no plans to be in a relationship with a man my age anytime soon. I’m going to carry on my adventure for a while longer.
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