And twenty is the new sixty.

It should definitely be noted that people other than myself express pity for the girls I date, but that’s more personality-driven, I think. And also I need to mention that by “older,” I just mean older than me. I’m not hanging out at bingo parlors to snag myself a taut sixty-two-year-old, even though there would be the bonus of a senior discount.

Motivated by the fact that most girls in their early- to mid-twenties are clinically retarded and uncompelling – and I mean that in the most pretentious way possible – most of the girls I end up dating are in their late-twenties to early-thirties.

Simply put, they’re just better. They are jaded enough to get out of that early-twenties true love/John Cusack movie true love hunt, so there’s much less drama. And they are much better in bed. Whether it’s from more experience or less inhibitions – older girls don’t ask you to turn the lights out, cuddling is truncated, e.g. – dating a girl who is older than me is far more fun than dating those who are younger.

But it’s their expectations where we run into a problem, because if they’re looking to date a younger guy, then they are dating me for all the wrong reasons. They have the image in mind of what it means to date a guy who is younger, and I don’t fit any of those stereotypes, which is a major issue.

This is why I start to feel bad; they are expecting that they are going to date some young, virile, sex-crazed, boy toy. That whole thing about a woman’s sexuality peaking in her early-thirties and a guy’s when he’s eighteen or something. If she is thirty-two, all she wants is a guy for sex, and a lot of it, but then they start dating me and realize that I have the sensibility of a seventy-year-old man.

It’s unfortunate. They finally snagged a twenty-five-year-old, they want to stay in bed all day, having non-stop sex sessions, with permission to kick me out whenever they choose, but instead they end up with a guy who thinks he’s twice their age. I’m down with the sex, but all night? Forget all night, after 11 P.M. is ridiculous. I’ve gotta get up early to go for a ten mile walk in the Santa Monica mountains on Sunday.

I can’t meet an older girl’s demands because I’m too busy living up to the expectations for a senior guy. Soccer games are on at 7 A.M. in L.A., which means I’ve gotta be awake at six and also have a bite beforehand or else the blood-sugar is way off for the day. Plus if it’s a nice day, that means I have to sit in a park for four hours and catch up on my reading. I’m impossible to reach because I refuse to buy a SmartPhone, and the more obscure the sport, the bigger of a fan I am. I wish I could spend recklessly as well, but instead I’m saving up to go on tours to World Heritage sites. Sorry.

Essentially it is the dynamic of a sixty-year-old man who has left his first wife to date a thirty-year-old. I just happen to be twenty-five.

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