So I have been giving my father no end of shit because he is a gentleman of advanced age dating a woman only a scant couple of years older than me. This is because, well, it’s icky to watch your father date someone your age. It’s just ICKY.

Still, they look to be pretty happy, so I’ve been slowing down a bit on my shit-giving, and the time has come to admit the other reason I’ve been a little more forgiving toward my philandering father.

For the past six months or so, I’ve been having an on-again, off-again fling with a 21-year-old guy. On when I’m not dating anyone, off when I am.

The girls are now giving me virtual high-fives, and the guys are probably rolling their collective eyes.

We met at the local watering hole. I was pretty damned shocked when he started talking to me, given the fact that he was both young and ridiculously hot. I just don’t attract those kinds of men. Young, maybe. Broke? Almost definitely. But not ridiculously hot.

We came to find out that night that we were both steel mill people, since I was a past employee and he was a current employee, so we sat and talked slab haulers and steel heats for a good couple of hours, enjoying ourselves over beers as I tried desperately hard not to stare deeply into his ridiculously stunning eyes.

I wound up going back to his place, because at the time I’d thought, “Why the hell not?” I was unattached, moderately drunk, and let’s face it, opportunities like that didn’t come along every day. He had a nice house he’d just bought in a sub-division about five minutes away from mine. We sat at his kitchen table drinking beers, when I finally popped the question.

“So. How old ARE you, anyway?”

“21. How old are you?”

I very nearly choked on my Miller Lite, and then I asked what I knew to be a Very Stupid Question for a woman my age. “How old do you think I am?”

“Oh, I don’t know. 25?”

“Bull-Fucking-Shit.” For me to look 25 would take about 12 syringes of Botox, nine hours of lipo, and a damn good tummy tuck.

He swore up and down that he thought this was the truth and then gave me a weird look. “How old ARE you??”

“I’m 36. (This was before my birthday in December.)”

“You are NOT. Let me see your ID.”

“Let me see YOURS.”

We exchanged IDs and goggled, me because I was about to schtupp a man born when I was in high school, and him because well, I was old enough to be his mother, probably.

“How old did you think I was?”

“I knew you were young, I figured about 25, 26. I didn’t think 21! Jesus!”

“Does that bother you?”

“Frankly? No. Does it bother you that I’m 36?”

“Nope.”

People, I forgot what it was like to be intimate with a twenty-one-year-old man.

I just plain forgot, but Dear Heavenly Father, I hope I never forget again, because it’s freaking fabulous. I forgot what a twenty-one-year-old body looks like. It looks better than Michelangelo’s David, people, because it’s REAL.

Also, with twenty-one-year-olds? There are SEQUELS.

TMI.

We had a great night, but I figured that was that, so as he was getting ready to drop me off at home, I joked, “So. You want my number, right?”

“Of COURSE I want your number.”

I laughed. “You don’t have to BS me, seriously. It’s cool!” But he insisted, so I gave him my number, knowing that it was ridiculous and that he would definitely never call me.

He called me the next Friday.

He called me almost every Friday thereafter.

I rarely saw him, because more often than not I was either seeing someone or he was calling me a little too late during the evening, and I was nobody’s booty call. So I ignored the calls and texts and sort of laughed it off, answering only very occasionally if I was going to be out late and felt drunk and adventurous.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking, “I can’t be this hot 21-year-old’s booty call… why?”

Friday night I went to a bar with my dad and his girlfriend. To say it was vastly boring would have been an understatement. The crowd was older, and I was fighting off some seriously geriatric dudes.

That sounds ageist, and I’m not, really. I *like* older men. I like *talking* to older men, but they always want more. Hell, I wish I was attracted to older men. It would make life easier.

I decided to text – let’s call him Troy, as his real name is not far off – Troy from the bar to see what he was up to.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Picking you up in a half an hour.”

“K.”

At one point during the night I think I said something like, “I just wish I could take your picture, because you are SO fucking cute.”

I know. Heh.

I arrived home at six AM, just in time to get a good hour and a half of sleep before the J-Man woke up.

This whole thing is totally sick, but Oh My God, I am having so much fun.

SO much fun.

And thus begins my rapid descent into cougardom.

I would moan and whine about how I am going to hell, but the truth is, I don’t care one little bit.

Hope your weekend was equally happy.

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