I was 27-years-old. She told me she was 42-years-old. I found out later that she was 45-years-old. What did it matter? It didn't matter to me how old she was. I wanted her. Certainly, she didn't look her age nor did she act her age. She was zany. She was fun. She was everything that the younger women my age were not.
She was beautiful. She was sexy. She had dancer's legs, an incredible body, and she wanted me as much as I wanted her. I loved her.
Back then, there was a climate of change that made it acceptable for younger men to be with older woman. Suddenly, respectable mature women became lecherous cougars. Suddenly, the tables turned from the rich, fat, powerful men with women half their age to well groomed, good looking women who didn't want to age gracefully and who wanted some hot action on the side from a hard bodied, young stud to make them feel younger, wanted, and alive. Hormones raged everywhere.
Paul Simon of Simon and Garfunkel fame with his song Mrs. Robinson musically saved the memory that the movie The Graduate created on the big screen for every testosterone filled male to imagine when fantasizing about making love to an older woman. In the privacy of our bathroom or bedroom we stroked our excitement while envisioning Mrs. Robinson's, played by Anne Bancroft, shapely, nylon covered thighs when she exposed more than her personal life and more than her lust to Benjamin Bradcock, played by a nervous Dustin Hoffman. Suddenly, it was the cat chasing the dog.
"Meow!"