There's just something about men who are old enough to be my father. Maybe it's their extra generation's worth of life experiences. Maybe it's that they've almost certainly been through a number of failed relationships and have finally figured out how to treat a woman. Maybe it's that they've essentially settled down and no longer really play the field so they're more likely to be faithful and true and truly cherish the woman they love. Or maybe it's that they just like feeling young by taking a young woman like me -- someone who's barely more than a girl -- and showing her off to the world...
I read her online profile one last time. I really had no need to read it, given that I practically knew it by heart.
Roughly six weeks had passed since I had first seen her profile on a dating Web site. What had initially prompted me to reach out to her was her age: twenty years old, roughly the same age as most of my students when I was teaching. Having taught at the university for seven years, I had been surrounded by young women in their late teens and early- to mid-twenties, and although I was nearly to the top of the hill, the students, and especially the young female students, had helped me to keep feeling young.
What I'm really looking for is an older man who is easily capable of both lavishing me with romance and pounding me like a cheap whore. Someone who'll literally show me the ropes and use them on me as well. Someone who enjoys the finer things in life but also finds a deep pleasure in a simple walk along a lake. Someone who's more than willing to tap into the relative inexperience within me and help me to grow into the woman he desires, the woman who willingly gives her heart and her body and her mind to him for his pleasure...
The six weeks of Web site messages, e-mails, IMs, blog entries, and traded photos had all come down to this: a single meeting.
I finally rose from the desk, looking at her profile picture one final time. Her face was both youthful and mature, her extensive travels across the country and throughout much of Europe having given her an incredible perspective on the world for someone her age. The dirty blonde hair served to highlight the rosy eyes created by the colored contacts, and her eyes pierced the camera in ways one likely would not have anticipated. In the picture, she was smiling, a coy smile hinting at having done something naughty, or perhaps thinking wicked thoughts, or anticipating something deliciously forbidden. The earrings she wore were dangling silhouettes of the traditional "mud flap girl," which certainly created a particular image of her in my mind even though I knew from six weeks of contacts what she was really like.
At last, I made my way downstairs, settling into the recliner with a book, awaiting her.
Not two minutes later, the doorbell rang. The moment of truth was at hand.
She was stunning. The dress she wore was simple, in a light shade of violet with low heels to match. A thin silver chain encircled her neck, the front of the chain barely reaching her collarbone. Instead of the "mud flap girl" earrings, she wore simple small crystals, one in each ear.
Most importantly, upon her face she wore a pleased smile.
She liked what she saw, and that was quite significant.
