So, shall we talk about dating? I’ve got a slightly different perspective on it these days. Let me start with I’m an attractive (I’m told hot), single, stylish, white (does it matter?), educated professional earning six figures; a property owner, world traveler; multi-lingual (yes, in all the ways you would hope for), free-spirited; a physically and psychologically healthy woman.
Oh, and I’m also 63 years old.
(Pausing here to let that sink in a moment)
Yeah, I’m old AF, and guess what: I still want it. A grandmother no less. A GILF is born. What. The literal. Fuck.
I’d been livin’ the dream of married life for 15 years until I came home from work at midnight to an empty house and no note a few years back. After 3-4 hours of frantic calls to local hospitals and police stations it suddenly dawned on me that my ex wasn’t lying in a ditch by the side of the road; I’d been ditched.
Fast forward through an ugly year that wound up with me owing him over $150,000 (I supported his ass in our marriage).
So, I curled up alone on the couch with a fuzzy blanket, cued up “How to Build a Sex Room,” and put a bottle of Chardonnay in the freezer. The scary part was that I was beginning to like it. A little too much. Okay. A lot. Being single was getting…comfortable. I knew if I didn’t push myself, though, I might never get laid again.
Enough with feeling sorry for myself! Time for me to get back in the game!
So, dating. It’s such a hassle, I told myself. (Generally true). I won’t even like most of the guys. (Most were nice). I’m not ready for commitment. (Still true). I’m too fucking old.
Not true.
My first foray into dating, though, was age-appropriate. I had been getting spammy e-mails from a site called “Silver Singles”. I would delete them and laugh disparagingly. Maybe I should forward this to my 84 year-old mother, I thought. What a bunch of old grandpas (as if). I’d chuckle scornfully. But when my grandson’s birth was imminent, I suddenly had a thought: Shit. I’m about to become a grandmother! Maybe dating a grandfather isn’t such a terrible idea.
Instead of hitting the delete button, I hit the join now for free button. I created a profile. I figured that with a bunch of old men, I would probably stand a better chance of getting a date. Compared with most women my age (screw false modesty here), I’m pretty spectacular.
I didn’t think I would stand a snowballs chance competing against younger women (wrong again) on an all-ages platform.
The response wasn’t a snowball. It wasn’t even a snowman or a snowstorm. It was a fucking avalanche.
I froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. It was too much, too fast. For someone who wasn’t really ready to date yet, I was overwhelmed by all the attention. It felt like a chore plowing through the profiles. Most of the men were grandfathers in fact. And some were surprisingly sexy.
But I began to sense in the process of looking at so many older faces that what I really wanted was a younger man. Preferably, much younger. Suddenly, it hit me: Holy shit! I’m a goddamn cougar!
Sweet baby, Jesus! It’s Tinder time!
(Victoria XO shares tales about the sexual adventures of a woman “of a certain age”. Prepare to have your mind blown and your stereotypes demolished. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty. The rest of the (future) stories relate factually to the reader.)
Things Men Carry 