Editor’s note: The Hatchet’s “In the Buff” sex column is written under pseudonyms. Tweet questions or comments at our male sex columnist, @CalvinTalksSex, or email [email protected]
He was charming. He was smooth, well put-together, and twice as handsome as he had a right to be. He bought my drinks and fended off two other predatory lurkers. He was articulate and witty as hell. He was 17 years my senior.
To be frank, I hadn’t had sex in a while and I was looking for someone to take the edge off the pervasive loneliness that hung over me in recent days. I badly needed company. So with these things in mind, I’d ventured out alone to place called Green Lantern, a gay bar just barely off the beaten track, hoping to find a remedy for one or both of my problems.
When I got there, I was a moth to the flame of his dark brown eyes in the dim glow of the bar. Clocking in at the ripe age of 38, this beautifully stubbled man had a set of abs that belonged on an Olympic swimmer.
How was I supposed to turn that away?
I would be lying if I said his age didn’t send up red flags. But he never pressured me. He did not aggressively feed me drinks, and I knew walking away was always an option. But he was a gentleman, and it was refreshing to flirt with a stranger who did not know – and probably did not care – about anything related to GW.
Never once was there a lull in the conversation. Never once did any part of me think I should leave “38” at the bar. In fact, after he laughed at one of my spectacularly nerdy puns, I kissed him. He took me to his place, and that was it.
“38” was not the first guy I’d hooked up with who was older. That honor belongs to “32.” He was charming as well, but it was “27” who ordered a bottle of Spanish wine and convinced me that we should go back to his hotel. The sex was out of this world.
“27” was confident, and I welcomed his advances because they were respectful but experienced. This was a man who knew how to please.
Sex with guys my own age felt more like a transaction. Boys and girls have sex to achieve a goal, whereas “27” was making art. One’s a mechanic while the other was a poet.
Never once did I regret any of these encounters. I would do it all over again without the slightest hesitation.
These are men who have their lives together, with careers and healthy social circles. Emotionally and financially, these men are stable and safe. They are precisely the opposite of the erratic, drunken and clumsy fumblings of college boys. If you want good sex, find those with experience having good sex.
Frat boys are fun. They’re hot, too. But rarely can these man-children carry a conversation beyond their preferred beer of choice or the last time they got drunk. If that’s your style, go for it. But if you want a better, richer, more fulfilling experience than what you’ll find on Townhouse Row, look for the ones with one or two grey hairs. It’s worth it.
Still, I can hear already the commentary of readers, mumbling not-so-quietly under their breath: “Daddy issues.” And if, dear reader, you want to discard these experiences, I won’t stop you. But truly, sex with older partners is not diminished to a simplistic summary of Freudian theories on Daddy.
It’s simply a question of taste. You choose blondes. I choose a receding hairline. You choose the first horny guy to become intoxicated enough to dance with you in the basement of the townhouse. I choose someone who has not danced in a club since the late ‘90s.
My point is that you can find fault with every sexual partner – and further, you can judge them every which way you like. But some men have more to offer than others. And frankly, I like what the older ones are selling.
Raise high,
Calvin
