In Praise of Younger Men

For most of my life, I have made no secret about my love for older men. I have chronicled that obsession in short stories and novels while living it out in my personal life. The majority of men I have dated were older than me -- in most cases, by many years. In some cases, by decades.

It didn't take much thought to figure out why I loved older men. I simply love to learn and explore new things. I enjoy getting to know people who have a rich life of experience that has enhanced the way they view the world. They have been changed. Transformed. Seasoned.

That's what I was getting every time I dated an older man.

It's safe to say that younger men were rarely on my radar. Sure, there were moments when I would look at a fine young specimen and feel that lustful surge deep in my body, where nothing matters but the biological urge. There were times when I would be very intrigued by someone much younger than me, someone who seemed to have a very interesting life -- for someone who hadn't yet lived a "real" life, that is.

Yes, there were times when I was actually catty about dating younger men. I looked at the "cougar" types as women who were just playing with some young thing and didn't actually have any hopes for a future with their delightful little "cub." He was a toy for her, she was a learning experience for him, and that was that.

Don't get me wrong -- it's not that I was close-minded about young men. I wasn't. After all, no matter the age, we have all been younger. We have all been the one who knew we were mature enough, even if the rest of the world didn't think so. I had nothing at all against younger men.

They were just more suitable for other women, not for me. It was a matter of preference.

But then...

You knew there had to be a "but then" moment, didn't you?

...then I met him.

A cougar...Meow!

My old tendencies were alive and well. When he told me how old he was, I immediately filed him under the "look but don't touch" category. He told me a few more things about his life, and I grudgingly filed him under the "he sounds interesting, but he's way too young" category.

Then I sat down and talked to him.

By the end of that conversation, he had somehow made his way to the "I want to hear from him again" category.

A few short days later, he had moved out of all the old categories and was creating some of his own. Along the lines of "I can't believe this is happening" and "he doesn't seem to be that young" and "hey, if Demi Moore could make a go of it..."

Fast forward to a few weeks after that, and holy hell -- I was deep in lust and well on my way to falling in love with the young man who was almost a decade my junior.

Life with a younger man is a constant learning experience. There is nothing like a new and fresh perspective to shake up long-held ideals and beliefs. His youthful energy and enthusiasm touches everything, but especially our relationship. Rather than being set in his ways, his desire to explore everything new gradually shifted my ways, until I rediscovered the person I used to be -- the woman I was ten years ago, or even twenty years ago, when everything was bright and shiny and new, and the horizons were endless.

Sure, there are those who look askance at the idea of a serious relationship with a younger man. There are all sorts of ideas as to why it will never work out. The reasons always cycle around until they hit the crux of what they really want to say: It's about the sex.

They cite the facts: that a woman's sex drive is just hitting stride when she's in her 30's, that she has more fun in the bedroom when she hits her 40's, and of course, men in their twenties are in their sexual prime.

They cite these points and then give me that wink. You know the one. The one that says they know what happens behind those closed doors.

*grin* And who am I to say they're wrong?

But what they are wrong about is the unspoken belief that the younger man is just something to play with, someone to try new things out on, someone who can be molded and shaped and changed to fit whatever I desire. It is perhaps best illustrated by a well-meaning friend of mine, who laughed out loud when I told her about the man in my life.

"But it's not a real relationship," she said, as though it were a foregone conclusion. She continued to laugh until she realized I wasn't.

"But it's not," she insisted.

I just smiled at her.

She looked at me with wide eyes. "Right?"

No, I said. She was wrong. Simply saying it was real didn't do it justice -- it might be the most loving, solid and exciting relationship I have ever known. I spoke quietly, passionately, all through the rest of lunch and dessert and the appearance of the check. She listened and slowly began to nod, still somewhat unbelieving. I knew it would sink in when she had some time to really think about it.

Then she leaned over with a gleam in her eye and a naughty smile on her face and asked, "So, what they say about sex with a younger man...that much is definitely true. Right?"

I laughed out loud. Oh, my, yes. That's definitely true.

I'm craving a kiss...

Today I am craving a kiss.

There is that sweet moment of the first kiss, the much-needed touch of lips and tongue and breath after an absence, whether it be an hour of running errands or weeks of being miles apart. It's a soft and simple touch, a gentle hello and welcome back. It's a remembrance, a moment to bask in that familiar feeling and be grateful to have it again.

Then there is the second kiss, this one deeper, a stronger hello that basks in the familiar yet lets the excitement build. It's the kiss that tells me how the next one is going to go. Does this second kiss taper off with a little nibble and a smile? Does it end with that "just wait a little while longer" feeling that leaves me both satisfied and sweetly unsatisfied, all at once?

Or does it end with a deep breath and a little bit of a tremble, the sign that more is wanted, needed, sought?

At that moment, certain things go through my mind. Where are we -- is the privacy enough? How much time to we have? How quickly can we get out of these clothes? How soon can we get to the bedroom -- or should we even bother? There is the couch, the floor, the table with the lamp that is the perfect height to bend over and brace myself...

There is the wall behind me, the smooth wall that feels hard against my back as he kisses me the third time, his hand cupping my head, his other hand sliding under my shirt, finding the bare skin that he loves to touch, his tongue sweeping into my mouth and his moan filling my throat -- or is that noise coming from me?

By that time we're both so caught up in the moment that the questions of where or how or time disappear, and there is nothing but that sweet and clean taste of him, the scent of my perfume between us, the feel of fresh linen and cotton underneath my hands, the feel of his long, lean body pressing hard against my softer one and the quiet whispers.

I want you so much.
I can't believe you feel so good...
Do you want it here? Or there?
Let's go to the bedroom...
I have missed you so much...

But there are times when the kisses don't stop, where the urgency to get to the bedroom -- or to just sink down to the floor -- is put on hold for a little while, when the kisses become deeper and sweeter and filled with purpose. Our bodies are aching for more, begging for that sweet release we always pull from each other, but oh, those kisses...those kisses leave us breathless and wanting and almost faint with desire.

That kiss turns me to liquid inside, makes my knees weak, makes my chest ache and makes my whole body feel both light and heavy at the same time. It feels like floating, that moment when my arms are around his shoulders and his hands are on my bare back, pulling me close to him, a moment when time stands still. It is uniquely him, the kiss that only he can bestow, and it gives comfort and sparks desire all at the same time.

It's the kiss that feels like coming home.

That is my favorite kiss. That's the kiss I am craving today.