What I Learned From Sex With a Younger Man
The flirty, foggy fun of a 17-year age difference.
Illustration by: Olaf Hajek
"Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me—aren't you?"
In my case it was the opposite. An adorable guy 17 years my junior propositioned me: "I think you're totally hot. Would you be interested in us having a sexual relationship?" Formal, but charming. He was a friend of a friend, someone I'd always found funny and sweet. A buddy. Maybe I could...but then I flashed on the stereotype of the older woman—predatory, desperate. Thanks but no thanks.
I was nearly 50 and had told myself I was done with sex. Five years earlier, I'd ended a rocky long-term relationship, and while everyone else seemed to have Noah's Arked themselves off into committed pairs, I couldn't remember the last time anyone had even looked at me suggestively—which, if I was being honest, was a relief. In recent years, my body had abruptly morphed: My once-cute bellyette had devolved into a saggy pooch, and a stubborn old hag whisker had sprung out of nowhere on my chin.
I didn't count on his persistence. When we ran into each other over the next few months, it felt increasingly electric. I began to encourage him. I thrilled to his flirtatious touch-and-squeeze of my bare shoulder and responded by lightly drifting my hand along his arm; he'd drop a playful innuendo into our conversation, and I'd bite; we found excuses to stand close, to touch. I felt emboldened. After a group happy hour, he offered to walk me to my car, then leaned in for a decidedly unbuddy-like kiss, filled with desire on both sides. I was officially obsessed. The next week we had dinner, which ended with a sweaty two-hour make-out session in my car; it was a sweltering August night, the first time I'd ever literally steamed up windows. I'd forgotten the thrill of high school–esque groping, of feeling a hand slide up my thigh, slip into my damp underwear. I'd forgotten how it felt to be so aroused and, even better, arouse someone else, to be the object of ardor.
We met once or twice a week for carpe diem sexfests, erotic minglings of hot coupling and sweet cuddling. Because it was a no-strings arrangement, I felt utterly uninhibited, free to be shamelessly lewd. I loved shopping for getups that would turn him on, craved his "I can still taste u" sexts and his cunningly cliterate fingers and tongue, the pleasurable next-day tenderness between my legs. When he moved away for a job eight months later, I felt gratitude for what he'd revived in me—and not a second of regret. His lustful regard had made me feel deliciously, euphorically ripe, a sensation that stayed with me after he was gone.
Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.
In my case it was the opposite. An adorable guy 17 years my junior propositioned me: "I think you're totally hot. Would you be interested in us having a sexual relationship?" Formal, but charming. He was a friend of a friend, someone I'd always found funny and sweet. A buddy. Maybe I could...but then I flashed on the stereotype of the older woman—predatory, desperate. Thanks but no thanks.
I was nearly 50 and had told myself I was done with sex. Five years earlier, I'd ended a rocky long-term relationship, and while everyone else seemed to have Noah's Arked themselves off into committed pairs, I couldn't remember the last time anyone had even looked at me suggestively—which, if I was being honest, was a relief. In recent years, my body had abruptly morphed: My once-cute bellyette had devolved into a saggy pooch, and a stubborn old hag whisker had sprung out of nowhere on my chin.
I didn't count on his persistence. When we ran into each other over the next few months, it felt increasingly electric. I began to encourage him. I thrilled to his flirtatious touch-and-squeeze of my bare shoulder and responded by lightly drifting my hand along his arm; he'd drop a playful innuendo into our conversation, and I'd bite; we found excuses to stand close, to touch. I felt emboldened. After a group happy hour, he offered to walk me to my car, then leaned in for a decidedly unbuddy-like kiss, filled with desire on both sides. I was officially obsessed. The next week we had dinner, which ended with a sweaty two-hour make-out session in my car; it was a sweltering August night, the first time I'd ever literally steamed up windows. I'd forgotten the thrill of high school–esque groping, of feeling a hand slide up my thigh, slip into my damp underwear. I'd forgotten how it felt to be so aroused and, even better, arouse someone else, to be the object of ardor.
We met once or twice a week for carpe diem sexfests, erotic minglings of hot coupling and sweet cuddling. Because it was a no-strings arrangement, I felt utterly uninhibited, free to be shamelessly lewd. I loved shopping for getups that would turn him on, craved his "I can still taste u" sexts and his cunningly cliterate fingers and tongue, the pleasurable next-day tenderness between my legs. When he moved away for a job eight months later, I felt gratitude for what he'd revived in me—and not a second of regret. His lustful regard had made me feel deliciously, euphorically ripe, a sensation that stayed with me after he was gone.
Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.
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