IN WHICH MY INNER MISS HOT MAKES A LONG OVERDUE COMEBACK.
Arriving in the subway station for the train uptown, twenty-one-year-old New York University student Max and I were in for a long wait, considering the scarcity of trains at that hour. But guiding me to a bench he happily announced, “Great, we can sit here and make out some more,” which to my vast amusement, we did.
IN WHICH I RESIST A GERMAN TAKEOVER — AT LEAST, FOR NOW.
Max wanted to explore the East Village, so we paid the bill and strolled uptown. The fall chill forced me to zip up my black leather motorcycle jacket, which I wore over a tight black sweater, denim miniskirt, black leggings and almost five inch heeled Guess ankle boots, which Max’s height easily absorbed. He had his arm around me, like we’d been together for ages. I felt light and happy and what was that feeling? Ah, yes — young.
IN WHICH I SUCCESSFULLY PULL OFF THE NOTION THAT SIXTY IS THE NEW TWENTY. OH YES I DID.
Max and I were shoulder to shoulder at the bar of the Lower East Side watering hole Cakeshop, suitable venue for a hot ‘n’ sweet seduction. Years earlier, of course, I only had an interest in actual cake. Indeed, I didn’t even require particular quality — never too proud, even, to turn away a Hostess with the mostess — unpronounceable toxic ingredients, that is.
IN WHICH MY HEAT-SEEKING MISSION GETS AN OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT SUBSIDY. I COULD GET USED TO THIS …
In keeping with the hot spontaneity and adventure, I agreed to meet twenty-one-year-old German exchange student Max that very night at my favorite bar, Cakeshop, on the Lower East Side. At the very least I’d be having a great conversation with a cultured, highly educated European who spoke five languages; at most I’d be having a very interesting sexual adventure with a guy who might — just might — even be a virgin.
IN WHICH A YOUNG SCHOLAR APPEARS TO CARRY MY BOOKS — AND MY LIBIDO — TO NEW HEIGHTS.
It was Sunday afternoon in October. I was catching up on answering emails when a hot young twenty-one-year-old thang pinged into my OKCupid message box. Twenty-one going on seventeen — he looked so very young, despite a beard that appeared to have been grown precisely to counteract that impression.
Max: Hey there, you are gorgeous! I hope your day is going great! I’m Max, I’m an exchange student from Germany, at New York University for the year, studying Philosophy. I know I’m younger than what you are looking for but I’m a cultured European guy, and you are just very beautiful so I thought I might give it a shot. I’m not looking for anything specific, but you seem like an exciting woman! I think we also share a lot of interests. Anyway, I’d love to hear from you, I’m fun & open-minded. Maybe I can buy you a drink sometime?
At the time the lowest age I said I was interested in was thirty, so the fact that he’d come swinging at me at twenty-one was bold, interesting and well, exciting. It just hadn’t occurred to me to go that low — after all, considering my own age, comparatively, the guys I’d been dating already felt like robbing the cradle. Still, I’d gotten my sea legs with guys in their mid-thirties, then low thirties, then thirty and even tested the waters with the high twenties.
So to make the leap to twenty-one — well, though I had not considered it, now that it presented itself, what the hell? Perhaps it was the fact that he’s in college that made it so verboten — after all, college means “student,” and in the word game playing in MY head, at least, “student” does not bring to mind “adult.” Yet this child/savant wanted to buy me, Mrs. Hot, a drink. Far too intriguing a person — and potentially hot situation — to ignore.
Did this German brat plan a bratwurst — his — to accompany this beverage?
Yours truly,
IN WHICH HE CAN TAKE THAT PIEROGY AND STUFF IT, NOT ME.
As I sat in the back with Polish-American, late twenties Vincent, hot and hunky James Bond now started aggressively staring at me, and sometimes we locked eyes. I smiled at him, subtly – I was playing a game of letting him know I was interested, while taunting him by being with another guy. I was counting on seeing James Bond again, though I had no idea when or where.
IN WHICH MY POLITENESS PREVENTS ME FROM HEAVING A HO — WHOLEY UNSUITABLE SUITOR, THAT IS.
Vincent stood up to greet me. I noted how tall he was, a plus for me always, considering I was already on the tall side and liked to wear high heels.
At 6’5”, Vincent was still taller than me in my four and a half inch heels, perfect kissing/mating altitude match, I thought. Polish-American, his face was so young and fair, though, it was clear he could barely grow a beard — no matter how old he got, the stubble I found so hot on my preferred type would never make so much as a cameo appearance on this dude.
IN WHICH I HAVE A BRUSH WITH — APPARENTLY — HER MAJESTY’S BEST-KEPT TEETH.
In my clingy, scoop neck dress with the chichi Hermès equestrian print — a great setting for my 38DD girls — I braved the intimidating gauntlet of thirty and forty-something guys in suits at the bar, smiling and excuse me-ing my way to the back where the tables awaited. There were so many wolves leering at me in that cloud of testosterone and whiskey, I expected to meet Jack London himself.
IN WHICH I CONTRIBUTE A DOSE OF ESTROGEN TO THE MIX, THOUGH AT MY AGE I CERTAINLY HAVE NO INCLINATION TO SHARE.
Vincent, a twenty-seven year old real estate developer with an Ivy League degree in finance, had been chatting me up on OKCupid. Polish-American, tall and blonde hair, he wasn’t my personal TD&H physical ideal, but his messages were so refined and intelligent, I decided though no Mediterranean thoroughbred, his pedigree was nice, nonetheless. After all, I, Mrs.Hot, do not restrict myself to being attracted to any specific feature — were I to go that route, I’d only end up with the most two-dimensional cartoons of men.
IN WHICH I ASSURE I’LL NEVER BE PTSDED FROM AN STD.
I’d been sexually inactive for so long, some undesirable afflictions — like HPV (Human Papillomavirus) — were now so much in the public eye, young girls were advised to get vaccinated (free) against it. Now that I was getting poked again, I decided to get poked with the vaccine, even though it had not been studied in women my age: I, Mrs.Hot, was not about to get cervical cancer, to which it has been linked. I bought the very expensive vaccine myself, and my doctor gave me the series of shots.
I'm a gorgeous goddess of a certain age who transformed from shot to hot, a feminist playa refusing to go into the sunset without a Mojito in one hand and a tumescent, throbbing ... well, you know what I mean ... in the other. Because sixty IS the new forty or even thirty I will not be dying with my boots on, but with my Jimmy Choo stilettos, thank you very much. I, a sexually liberated woman, stand defiantly against ageism and sexism, adamantly asserting not only is it possible to maintain and even enhance our sexual allure as we ripen, we women have the same right as men to romp in the hay with playmates decades younger.