I guess the oldest man I’ve ever dated was… 20 years older than me? Thereabouts. No. Hahahaha. I’m lying. It’s closer to 30.
That happens, right? To everyone? Sure. Of course it does! Cool.
Though I would say someone “older” is anyone, say, 15 years older than you, provided you’re an adult? I mean this piece on “falling in love with an older girl” has… a take on it. Guess how much older the older girl in question is? No, really, guess. I want you to guess.
4 years older.
The couple is the same age.
Unless… he is a teenager? Is her 13? Let’s speculate. The YOUNGER MAN reports:
She told me I kiss like I’m older. She said she was feeling very conflicted when I did so (I’m “too young”). She moaned my name when I fingered her. I was buzzing like a transformer. She’s older and pretty; of course it’s an ego trip. Power surge, baby. Black out. Ain’t bucking the hum this time.
He buzzed like a transformer? I think there is a strong case for this man being absurdly young. He might be 13. We don’t know. Illegal stuff could be happening. And then, I mean, this:
Where is the thin, pretty brunette girl who wears black glasses and black jeans? Why can’t I like that girl? She’s sweet, maybe a year or two younger than I am, and sincere. She has no family issues. She is eager to fall in love. She looks up to me. I’ve had my chance at that and it never interests me. Instead, I flirt via email, and then gchat with my editor. We work together. We can never be together. She is looking to get married. It’s a waste of time and seems like it’s nothing more than a distraction from our insanely boring office job. Then a hurricane, storm-of-the-century-type-situation hits New York and the next thing you know we’re drunk and she’s in my lap. I’m telling her how beautiful she is and how it’s great to find someone who has her shit together. She likes me but I’m too young. But I don’t comprehend that kind of rejection. It only computes for me when I haven’t left my apartment on a weekend in three months, I have a beard and I realize I’m depressed and it’s because of a girl who doesn’t like me. Let’s not get back to that place, ok bud?
I’m on the track in a towering, nightmare version of Olympic stadium. I’m talking lava fountains and storm trooper dudes guarding the entrances. Maybe a lion is eating someone near the long jump pit. The lights are on and the seats are filled with spectators. I’m on the track running, full sprint with my heart in my hands, blood splattering everywhere, but especially on my face. The crowd is hollering. They want to see souls squashed. She’s at the finish line looking scared, and I’m dying to hand off the pumping thing to her, regardless of the fact that she’s viciously shaking her head, screaming “No!” in horror (and maybe anger) and wearing heels that are perfect for both stomping and puncturing soft tissue material. But damn I want to get back in her bed.
“I’m talking lava fountains and storm trooper dudes guarding the entrances.” Oh, good GOD.
You’re going to be fine, kiddo. Also, if you were a woman and you wrote any of this the only comment on any of this would be OVERSHARE. Well, not about the dream sequence. I don’t really know what to make of the dream sequence. I don’t have a book on deciphering your lava-filled Olympic dreams.
In deference to this very, very young man, I am presenting the song I listened to every single time I broke up with someone in college. I’m doing so because this is the first time I’ve ever felt authentically older than anyone. Here you go, son. Here you go.