(aka Pops Knows What He’s Doin’)
What is it with men and age? Stereotypically, we ladies are thought to be the ones with “accuracy issues,” but after many misadventures online I’ve learned one universal truth:
MEN LIE ABOUT THEIR AGE WAY MORE THAN WOMEN
When I first started online dating, I set out to meet a nice gentleman, relatively my age, who’d adore me. I quickly discovered that men my age were not interested in meeting me (They were too busy trying to hook up with Jessica Alba). My honey attracted bees sweet on erectile dysfunction medication claiming to be my age.
Beware the Antique Pinocchio!
Antique Pinocchio | anˈtēk | [pi-noh-kee-oh]
• small wooden doll with long nose representing fictional
character and protagonist of children’s novel The
Adventures of Pinocchio. Said doll is 75 years old or older
• dude whose profile says he is your age, but whose
appearance says he isn’t
If you encounter an Antique Pinocchio, watch out! If he looks older, he is older – a lot. Always remember:
TINDER’S GOLDEN RULE…
“Add ten years, ten pounds, and subtract three inches.”
Commit this to memory.
On Tinder, Bumble, and all the other sites, older men claiming to be younger has reached epidemic levels. I know this from hard-won experience:
“Tweety Bird” was “59” – a stretch for me age-wise as I was newly single, in my forties and with a young son. But hell, why not? I was entering a new world so I tried for an open mind. (Plus, I still had the warm glow of losing my re-virginity to a mature venture capitalist from England.)
re-virginization (riː|ˈvərjən |ī| ˈzāSHən)
• when a woman has been sexually neglected for so long that
her purity is restored.
Tweety Bird’s blurb was promising: Attorney, 6’1”, lived in Marina del Rey, lots of travel and athletic. His photos presented him as an avid cyclist: racing bikes, holding trophies, rocking cyclist gear – tight shirts, spandex shorts, bulging muscles, bulging other things – and the ever-present bike helmet in every shot. Awww, he’s safety-conscious too.
We made a date at a nice restaurant – one to which my ex would never take me.
But when I arrived, he wasn’t there. The bar was empty save for a tiny, old man – bald, with a tuft of hair sprouting from the top of his head. He wore a yellow Polo shirt and resembled the sweet little bird who thought he “taw a puddy tat.” Thinking I’d been stood-up and readying my quick exit, I noticed Tweety excitedly waving at me. Fuck!
I put on my best granddaughter smile and approached. He smelled like mothballs. Clearly he’d aged, shrunk five inches, and gained twenty pounds. He didn’t race bikes anymore due to “injuries.” The six-pack from his profile picture had settled into a solidly constructed inner tube.
Did I say FUCK already?
I ordered two martinis – extra large, extra olives – then sat in a boozy haze as he regaled me with stories of his pre-retirement days as a probate attorney; his golfing adventures, three cats, and 100-year-old mother at the old-folks’ home. (Apparently he’s quite popular at the old-folks’ home. The ladies find his cat stories enchanting.)
After a good two-hours of smiling, nodding, and praying for a quick and painless death, I remembered I had a young son at home to provide me with an excellent exit excuse.
“Look at the time!” I quick-hugged him, patted his back, got another nose-full of moth-balls, then got the hell out of Dodge.
That week, I received a stream of texts asking for another date. I told him we weren’t a good match. But why? He liked kids and kids like cats…
Three years later and he is still on Tinder, and still 59. Ladies be warned.
This exploit was followed by a 52-year-old rocker who was 70 if a day. Think of today’s Keith Richards… in a velvet jacket… but not successful… and not a musician.
Then there was “Lone Wolf” (his nom de plume), who claimed to be 65. But when Lone Wolf and I transitioned from Tinder text, to real text, to speaking on the phone (the prototypical stages of online courtship), he confessed to being 79 – though he “felt much younger.”
“feels much younger” ( | fēls | məCH | ˈyəNGgər )
• a group of words utilized by older men in order to rationalize
their fantasy of hooking-up with much, much younger women.
The stories are endless because older men assume money, travel, and a housekeeper will blind us. Dudes, we don’t work this way (although the housekeeper? Hmmm…). We are smarter, deeper, and will figure out your age as soon as you tune your radio to Barry Manilow because you think it will turn us on.
BUT ladies, if you do happen to come across an exceptional older man – one who doesn’t lie about his age but embraces it; who is wise, worldly, well groomed, and takes care of his body and mind, for the love of God SWIPE RIGHT!
He’s lived. He will take you to nice dinners, open doors, and order the best wines – because he knows wine. When you walk down the street, he will walk on the outside – because he is chivalrous. He will be well traveled, well read, well mannered, and even pay for your valet (!) He will make you feel young and beautiful, and appreciate your ass off.
Most importantly, he will be AMAZING in bed.
Because older dudes know what they are doing… because they’ve done it all…. many times.
I speak from experience: My first foray into the gramp-sexual world was with the above-mentioned venture capitalist, “just passing through.” He had a British accent, a swagger, six cell-phones (one for each continent) and he’d call me from each one. I was smitten, and grateful for the much needed attention.
But when he finally pulled the trigger and the text read, “Book a room at your favorite hotel. I’m coming to LA.” I was terrified. I’d been re-virginzied. I hadn’t had sex (aside from the ex), in fourteen years. Plus, he was old. Did all of his parts still work? Did he wear dentures? What would his pubes look like? Oh, lord, what would his penis look like? Why was I calling it a “penis” as opposed to a “dick?” Because he was old! Old dudes don’t have dicks. They have penises… Old ones!
I was sitting at the hotel bar, throwing back a martini or three, when he confidently strode in. He didn’t look like the ghost of Keith Richards, or Tweety Bird; he didn’t use a walker and wasn’t wearing a necklace of cats. He didn’t act weird, or nervous, or “old” – whatever that meant.
He merely wrapped me in his strong arms and planted a good one on my lips. He smelled like heaven and I nuzzled his neck. We ate at the bar as he regaled me with stories of his travels, horse farms, business deals, royalty, criminals, war battles, movie star affairs, climbing the Matterhorn, and riding racecars to the moon.
Then he took me upstairs to our suite and fucked me like a cowboy. He knew how to rope a steer and roped this gal good. At one point I took air – landing on the floor in a pool of sexual hysteria. Don’t know how he did it, but it was spectacular… and healing.
We did it two more times. And in the AM we went back to my place and did it again. Then he left – as quickly as he arrived – back from whence he came and on to the rest of the world. And he became my far away friend who I’d marry in a heartbeat if he’d only ask.
God bless the older man who owns his age, his stature, and his incredible knowledge of sexual positions, because you deserve the adulation, attention, and orgasms.
Ladies, if a dude lies about his age by a lot – run don’t walk. He’s insecure, fleeing reality… and looking for Jessica Alba. He probably has an STD because he believes he’s “immune at his age.” Plus he assumes you are desperate and/or stupid because he thinks you buy that he’s 39.
And bottom line, if he’s lying about his age, he’s lying about the age of his balls. And no woman wants old balls in her mouth – unless they are hanging off of an incredible older man.