For someone who loves to blog about love, life and opinions, I really do like to keep the details of my private life as private as possible. Note I used the word DETAILS. Of course I cannot blog about love or relationships or my life in general and not expect to be somewhat revealing.
Instead, I paint that picture with as many colors as possible, but with bolder sweeps of the brush, and very few minute details. Think a Picasso painting. Slight distortion without taking away from what you are supposed to see.
Let’s face it bloggers of any scope can’t blab on one hand and then call a time out for personal reasons with the other. Either commit or don’t. So I vaguely hold the line, doing a little of both.
I’ve also placed myself in the shoes of others and would hate to come across any sort of public blog that described me in detail based on one persons’, albeit honest, perspective. Especially opinions based on knowing a person so little, which has been the case with most of the characters I’ve written about. So I paint them with even larger brush strokes than I do my own life, blurring any details, making them completely anonymous.
I’ve wanted to write about The Cub for some time, but it’s been a very difficult subject to work on. It’s drawing a still life of a fast moving target. I respect his identity, and He – This – Us, whatever you want to call it, is still evolving. Some times in great leaps and bounds and in other times in such minutiae I have to wonder if it’s still breathing.
So what I write about with him is more of a sketch than anything. A skeleton drawing of maybe’s. And I keep him completely unidentifiable.
A lifetime time ago I briefly dated a man a little more than a decade younger than me. This was before Cougars were a common word. I had just ended a tumultuous relationship, and very much like now, wanted something a bit more fleeting, a bit less constraining. I needed to be rebuilt a bit. This fit the bill. He was charming, and there was an attraction. He fought very hard to get my attention, and I was flattered that he seemed to chase me with such exuberance. Of course there was the idea of dabbling in something that was so different as dating someone about 12 years younger than me. I’ve always been a collector of the absurd and the diverse.
Ultimately, we had little in common. Euphemisms I would spout off, he wouldn’t get. Music he might have liked, I hadn’t heard of. He had financial problems, and was like many men of his very young age, always scrambling to keep afloat. I suspect we both were very bored with one another very quickly, so after a couple of dates, we called it and simply walked different directions. No hard feelings. Sort of no feelings at all.
I think it was at this point I sort of made the decision not to date younger guys.
About six months ago I was approached by a much younger man (you can read about it here: https://singlefiledating.wordpress.com/2014/02/04/and-heres-to-you-mrs-robinson/) on a dating site I was on. I nicked him The Boy, and I was on edge about whether I wanted to ever give this another try. Like the one above, he seemed full of charm, and was attractive and sweet. Friends and family advised me to simply go forward. I needed to put a foot forth in the dating pool, and kept finding reasons to hedge. “Put the age behind you!” I was told. “Give it a try! The only way to get over one guy is to get under another!” both male and female friends told me. But for a list of reasons, his age nearly at the bottom and my emotional state at the top, I decided not to. This went no further, and I was okay with it. The fact remained that I didn’t bolt that door shut. I considered it, which was a big deal for me.
This time it’s been a little different. A mutual friend set us up. We had sparks from almost the first two sentences we traded. I’m not dating him because I am flattered by his attention. I’m not dating him because I’m freshly out of a relationship and my head is so far up my ass I can’t tell left from right. I actually forget about his age most of the time. He makes me laugh. He makes me blush. He makes me feel powerful and powerless in a matter of seconds. He’s successful with business and his finances, so a nice dinner isn’t an issue for him. His tastes run expensive and he isn’t afraid to express it without coming across pompous. His charm is a little old school, so I don’t feel like I am emotionally raping the babysitter. I suspect his musical tastes and mine might differ, but he won points in my book when he commented once how much he liked the Blues selection I was playing.
There is something invigorating and slightly intoxicating about dating a much younger guy. He isn’t quite as jaded. His stamina – in all senses, is so damn refreshing. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t ego fulfilling. I mean for God’s sake if I were a man who could have a fresher firmer woman of 20-something or a 50-year old I wouldn’t hesitate to answer. But those are my own insecurities that I have put on hold.
I asked him why older women, and he responded that they knew what they wanted. They had experience enough in all areas, that there were no games. (Unless of course they are the ones you want. *wink wink nudge nudge* — you knew I had to go there, right?) I have to admit he’s never had to question where I am coming from, and I don’t recall if I was that way 20 years ago. Probably not. I probably played a lot of emotional games back then. So his point is well made. I think I simply do not give much of a fuck of what others think of me anymore. I mean I want to be liked, but I don’t strive for it. It doesn’t crush me if it doesn’t happen. And I have no problem calling you out if I feel its necessary.
The age difference is large enough that if this were to go any further than it currently is there would be roadblocks. But fortunately we are very much on the same page in what we are and are not looking for today. And yes, from time to time I do see glimpses of his age. They make me smile, because they are just part of his growth. I’ve never been a man his age, but I once was a woman, who’s been told she thinks like a man, his age. Bonus points if you followed and got that complicated sentence.
So while I might not be able to paint a definitive picture of this cub, I can request a nice big ball of yarn, and a saucer of your finest cream. I think I might consider keeping this one for a tad.