IN WHICH I’M AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY SLUT FOR YOUNG ‘N’ HUNG, OR OLD ‘N’ BOLD.
Those of you dear readers paying attention to my blog may have noticed I went from dating Atticus, aged sixty-five, to Justin, aged nineteen. Subsequently, on my trip to Greece, I would pursue my romantic pursuits with men in their twenties, thirties, forties and fifties.
Now, if you have deduced — from my wide ranging taste in men of all ages — my equal opportunity approach to sex and romance, bingo. After all, it is only right that as I celebrate myself at every age and refuse to limit my own possibilities, ever, I accord that same potential to all men. It would be hypocritical to promote my own freedom while putting restrictions on others’ — and if there’s any Glamour Don’t for me, it’s hypocrisy — such a buzzkill to a beautiful mind, body and spirit. Truth is consummately hot, and always will be.
As I have blogged about before, humans should not have a chronological age number, but a vitality number. At no time has this been more àpropos than now, when sixty is the new forty, or even thirty. For my part, I was as convinced at eight that I was twenty, as I am now that I’m twenty, and this youthful commitment is reflected in how I feel, how I look, and how I act. And to have the wisdom and life experience of my age, with many other qualities throttling at a vibrant age twenty, is as hot an existence as I could ever imagine.
In fact, it’s not at all an existence, which implies mere survival — it’s a bona- and boner-fide Life à la Hot, the one we were all meant to LIVE. There’s a reason we don’t “survive” life or “exist” life — we are here to live it, and that means no limitations.
Besides, just as every age in my life has come with its benefits and perks, men bring something marvelous to the table — and the boudoir — at every age.
Twenty or eighty, as long as they’re a SEXagenarian at heart, I always welcome a hot meal of male.
Tuck in my napkin — I’m already drooling.
Yours truly,
