I’M TEMPTED TO MAKE AN EMERGENCY KALE RUN.
On my date with decade-older Gerard, his disappointingly unhot appearance proved to be the least of it. That’s because he reeked of cigarettes, from his breath to his clothes. Who could be impressed with his skinny jeans when his entire persona screamed smoked ham? I heaved an interior sigh: my date was not only aged, but quite simply, cured.
I MEET A MAN WHO SETS MY PULSE RACING — FOR THE NEAREST EXIT.
With sixty-seven-year-old Gerard, I felt I’d found a gentleman: he’d said when he came back to New York he’d like to take me to dinner. A dinner invitation is rare in the world of online dating, and usually comes from an older man, whether from old school manners, or a bid for brownie points, or just a plea for mercy — making up for a gap in attractiveness, for example. Because though Gerard was interesting, his personality would be doing valiant battle with his physical appearance: his photos were simply not hot.
(Mrs.Hot is writing a book! The latest inspiration, empowerment and entertainment returns soon.)
I CONSIDER A FUTURE IN A BATHTUB IN THE CIALIS COMMERCIAL.
But lest you believe, dear reader, that I only enjoin — and enjoy — the attentions of the hot, young and hung, I am open to men of all ages. I take no pride in prejudice: I’m an equal opportunity slut. As long as he’s not a downright fossil — that would petrify me!
After all, my stated age range for online dating is 18-70, so when a sixty-seven-year-old art dealer/concert violinist messaged me, I gave him the same look-see I give to all in my in-box. Whether he would get into my box, as it were, would depend on my impressions on our first date.
IN WHICH I ENJOY A BODICE-RIPPER — THANKS TO A DAY OF CARBS.
I love the beautiful message of Thanksgiving, and not just because for a change I’m eating — and not dating — a turkey … or because I let myself gorge on a carb heaven of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pecan pie.
For me, Thanksgiving’s not a singular day, but one which I celebrate for the next 364 days of the year. Because gratitude doesn’t need to be an isolated act in a moment prior to pigging out, where we join hands and suddenly feel thankful: gratitude is a state of being, an essential ingredient of a life filled with positivity, fulfillment, love and, yes, joy.
IN WHICH I CONSIDER VITALITY TO INFINITY — AND BEYOND.
It’s true that age is just a number, and it is our energy that vibrates outwards that determines a life — or non-life, for that matter. As I’ve said, I believe I’m a wise, experienced twenty, and I vibrate that same vitality — the best match for me is either someone young, or one who vibrates at an equally youthful rhythm. Because, especially now that sixty is the new forty — or even thirty — we need to jettison the tyrannical limitation of a number and all the prejudices that go along with it, in favor of a better, more valid measurement: vitality.
CHANGE YOUR SAME-OLD FOR NEW-YOUNG.
When I need a pick-me-up, one of my favorite things is to go down to Chinatown for a bracing hit of foreign culture. The exotic sights, sounds, tastes and smells blast me out of the familiar into another world, replenishing, reinvigorating, and rejuvenating me. By the time I leave, all five senses have had a party, and I leave with a goody bag of strange new veggies, fruits or finds from the candy store. This is the power of the new.
THE YOUNG ARE THE RESTLESS.
It’s human nature to look for happiness outside ourselves. I’ve certainly done it.
Consider this yourself. How many times have you thought, “I’ll be happy when ….” Fill in the blank. “When I weigh what I did in college.” “When I get a new job.” “When I quit my job from hell.” “When I retire.” “When I have a boyfriend.” “When I have a husband.” “When I get a divorce.” “When I have kids.” “When the kids go off to college.” “When I get a new car.” “When I sell my car from hell.”
IN WHICH HE’S LONG LASTING AT LONG LAST.
Max’s stab at stabbing me had been a cruel tease, shooting too soon in a silent orgasm which evoked all the expressiveness of a Bergman character. And no, I don’t mean the Grim Reaper, though he might well have been a voyeur on a scene involving a guy pushing adulthood banging a woman pushing “senior citizen”-hood (society’s obsolete rule, certainly not mine).
IN WHICH THIS COWGIRL GOT THE BLUES.
Max had the get up and go you’d expect, with sky-high libido and circulation to match. This was partly due to his everyday need as a young man; but also, his ardor indicated an apparent dry spell in the romance department.
IN WHICH I TAKE UP POLE DANCING.
Max sighed with pleasure as I rubbed him teasingly between my legs; meanwhile I leaned down and kissed him so that I was simultaneously paying him uptown AND downtown lip service. Up and down I maneuvered him across me, keeping to the outside, exciting and tantalizing for both of us. Max squirmed under me, practically panting with desire. Gradually I brought the very tip into me — just a little, and just now and then.
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.