I Insist

All of a sudden, women are old. Every woman is old. What’s the deal?

I hate getting old. They call it the “Golden Age.” Bull! It’s more like “Iron and Rust.”

It’s not so much the loss of physical power creeping in that gets me riled. It’s the gradual loss of selfish options assigned as the sole preserve of youth. In other words, like the old saying, youth is wasted on the young. Let me explain.

If you’re twenty-five and drool and leer at some gorgeous doll, you have youthful ardor.

If I do it, I’m a lecher, a dirty old man.

They even have an official ready-made statement to promote guilt, “She’s young enough to be his daughter.” That’s what they said about Clinton.

Of course, there are physical realities of nature. If you can’t survive your wedding night without having a heart attack, a relationship with a younger girl is probably not a good idea. Likewise, if they have to prop you up on a board to take your wedding picture.

But remember when you were nineteen? Every chick (excuse me that’s gender insensitive to compare someone to a barnyard animal)…every female….rather….seemed nineteen. This was a false but enjoyable perception. Romance and the possibility of it seemed everywhere, unlimited, like a forest of virgin trees—–a paradise.

Now, today, everywhere I go, I see forty-eight-year-old gals, forty-eight and up. Standing on street corners. Millions of them. What happened? The women at work, my co-workers, or at the market, they’re all my age plus.

The baby boom generation grayed (with one exception, a foxy thing who lives in the Sierra Foothills).


I hate reaching the age where women my own age all have children older than I was when I first had sex.

Carmel, California, is a good example. This little village on the picturesque coast is possibly the snootiest real estate on the globe (a good reason it attracts English and Asian snobs with money to burn). Every gal on Ocean Boulevard in Carmel looks like a dyed-blonde forty-eight-year-old ex-cheerleader with gold chain around the neck and expensive purple lam’e blouse, who, having sucked her former husband monetarily dry, like Dracula is in search of new victims.

I met one of these. I was in a posh club, Mission Ranch in Carmel, a place where mostly white people wearing expensive designer tweed jackets stand around with drinks in hand at a small bar, talk about money, roll dice and subtly sneak suggestive side-glances at each other—as though we’re important people (this is called making appearances).

A woman who looked like a forty-eight-year-old ex-cheerleader was at the bar. She knew the co-worker I was with (a man), but not me. She knew we worked for a newspaper.

“Paper…..boys!” she said, sarcastic, slightly drunk, dripping with venom, insulting our manhoods, letting us know how insignificant we were….like worms.

I couldn’t resist. I walked up to her, brought my face close, barred my teeth and inhaled through the nose in the most lustful way I could…..and said in a deep, slow baritone, “I insist you call me boy.”

Later, after we left, I learned she had left me her phone number.

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