The wind blew furiously through Bob’s toupee as he gunned his bright yellow Porsche up the highway on-ramp. With his right hand he opened the glove box and began to fumble around inside for his 50 Cent CD and Kangol hat. Bob furrowed his leathery, wrinkled brow even tighter, wondering what a “bottle full of bub'” was.
Anyone whose father has ever gone through a mid-life crisis knows that after the fast cars and “urban” music come the flat screen TVs and lines of crushed Viagra off the nipples of half the country club staff! And finally: the younger woman, the proverbial jewel in his balding crown.
What is interesting, however, is not the obsession with youth, but rather the rather young and rather willing participant in his escapades in the high school parking lot.
How is this possible? I know that I’m not cruising bingo halls looking for a quickie, so who’s handin’ out all the intergenerational bootay? Yes, that’s right, bootay is being doled out like Centrum Silver, served up like so much post-coital Metamucil!
When I asked around about the appeal of dating someone older, the almost universal response was something having to do with “security” or “money” or “power.” It seems that the relationship of power to attractiveness is an inversely proportional one. I suppose that makes sense. There’s nothing like waking up and realizing that you totally just banged someone who lived through the Great Depression!
May-December relationships do happen all the time for various reasons, but I think the best is when you do it not for money, not for fame, not even for that corner office with the view. The best is when you do it for an A on your transcript! Actually, no, I take that back. The best is when you do it for that little Cr!
Strangely enough, I actually know quite a few people who’ve done just that. At the time, of course, they sing praises of geriatric intercourse, saying things like “It’s a more adult relationship,” or the old (emphasis on “old”) adage, “Lovers are like fine wines; they only get better with age.” Yes, it’s true that people mature like wine. As they get older, they become worth more, but they also need to be kept in dark, smelly rooms and rotated by a team of trained professionals. Although, at a certain point, those wines become so valuable that you’d gladly gulp them down, letting them spill all over your face and chin!
In any case, the MILF and DILF phenomena are old news — it’s the PILF (“Professor I’d like to [you know]”) that interests me. At Yale, it seems that overwhelming public disgust toward boning the elderly forces these affairs off-campus, or at least into graduate student lounges. Shockingly, I did hear about someone who was involved in a relationship with her professor and had him over to her dorm room for hookups. He would arrive at the suite in his dapper tweed suit, glancing saucily at his pocket watch and blood sugar monitor (okay, I embellish). He would also, I’m told, bring “hush presents” for his young nymphet’s suitemates. In return, they’d keep quiet and show him the respect that someone on Social Security deserves, referring to him as “Uncle,” a term which sets the stage for all kinds of lurid, incestuous fantasies! Omigod! Are you, like, totally having a flashback to, like, every Lifetime movie ever? Tori Spelling is, like, so brave. Seriously. Sometimes, though, even I must admit, there are some professors who are way sexy, like Rick James Superfreak sexy, like the Italian department. That’s one hot place! It’s straight up La Dolce Vita every Friday night up in that piece!
But let’s say you get slapped by, err, with an ugly one. Knowing that you are doing something wrong and that you have the upper hand might be part of the thrill. After all, you won’t be expelled for letting half the Humanities department get with you. Some of my friends also think that the allure is in reminding yourself of your own youth and relative attractiveness. To quote one of them: “I mean, it’s like, you look down while you’re naked and it’s like, fat ass, spare tire, back hair, whatever, I still look better than you, and you might die, like, tomorrow!” In that sense, you could be saving yourself thousands of dollars of therapy. That’s really all psychoanalysis is, anyway: lying on your back while an older man breathes heavily, reminding you that you’re beautiful. At least that’s what I’ve, um, heard.
If that doesn’t make any sense, think of it this way: it’s like shopping for vintage clothes, but instead of buying that stained, fringe jacket, you’re letting it hump you! The main problem with intercourse with someone considerably older is just that: they’re considerably older. Really, as you age, things start to sag, pucker and wrinkle. It’s like my friend said: “Well, women reach their sexual peak at about 35, so I guess up to that point it could be hot, but I don’t know, after that, it’s just a bumpy ride into menopause.” And then the grave.
As someone who has no experience with an older woman, the best I can offer is a naive warning: Stay the hell away! After “the change” sets in, it’s like a desert in there, only without the camels and marauding gangs of Bedouins! Salaam! For a more informed description I look to “American Pie” citing that young female genitals feel like “warm apple pie.” But what happens when this pie goes stale? My hypothesis is that after several decades of use, what was previously pie would now be akin to cobbler, or to continue with the food metaphor, something like the insides of a grilled cheese sandwich, pried open! Ew! What would Mother say? In the interest of good taste (couldn’t you tell?), I shall leave the penis untouched, for once (I mean, it is an old one anyway).
It’d probably be a good idea to remember that old people are people too, and that, yes, okay, occasionally their sex drives are in better working order than their actual sexual parts. But who knows? It might behoove you to hand out a couple of merciful wham-bam-thank-you-ma’ams, if only from a karmic standpoint. You’ll be an old troll too someday, and that sweet candy striper’s thighs may start to look mighty fine during your routine sponge baths.
Bradley Bailey can’t wait for tenure.