Old Fools Try to Seduce Much Younger Women

Egos never fade with age, not when people are born into the gender that boasts the most testosterone. Not having a biological clock and enjoying a higher pay scale are factors that afford men a whole new batch of spring chickens when the old cows have aged, their faces blemished with crow's feet, their boobs sagging and their libidos significantly diminished.

I've had so many dates, boyfriends and experiences with men of all ages and heard so many stories from other women that I really don't give a shit who thinks I'm a man hater for criticizing men's bad behavior. I'm not a man hater (there is sure to be a great man out there who is available and who hasn't found me yet), but if you observed these old geezers you would understand my disdain for their actions.

I sometimes wonder if my life would have fared better romantically had I not been so repulsed by the much older men who had pursued me in my twenties and even recently in my thirties. I guess it was the close relationship I had with my father that made me not want to view older men in a sexual manner.

Then again, I rejected men of all ages throughout my twenties. I once wore a fake engagement ring to work to fend off an entire floor of young stockbrokers who would make flirtatious catcalls at me every day at lunch hour. As my luck would have it (as always in courtship situations), one of the stockbrokers was related to a jeweler and could tell my rock was fake. So he could see I had just faked an engagement, much like other women may fake an orgasm.

Either that or my fiance was a cheap mofo who gave me a crappy ring and whom I would leave in a heartbeat for a man who drove a $100,000 car at 28 and could give me platinum - if he would ever even let it get that far. He was only trying to get laid, I'm sure. And as far as the old men were concerned (and probably the young ones, too), it made no difference if I were married, engaged or otherwise unavailable. Men are always going to try to get what they want at any age from any woman of any age - single or not.

I was in the tail end of my twenties when I was admitted to the practice of law in the State of New York - the year was 2005 to be exact. Inevitably, I would make my first court appearance on a motion. To render me assistance so I could one day go on my own, as well as offer moral support, I would have an experienced attorney accompanying me.

Unfortunately for me, I would have to fend for myself as my mentor would have a family medical emergency that naturally took priority over a court appearance, especially when another attorney was there. So I had to navigate choppy waters - a judge who was in a bad mood because of the submission of sloppy papers and some unscrupulous attorneys. A lot for a fledgling attorney's first time.

My first encounter in the judge's court room made me think I had not only my work but my whole career cut out for me. The judge was yelling at every other attorney whose case the clerk called. He told one respectful bespectacled female attorney with curly ash brown hair to "save (her) breath" when she mumbled softly. She seemed so meek she may as well have been a librarian instead of a litigator, but she managed to ire His Honor. A fifty-something male attorney with graying light brown curly hair, a mustache and glasses stormed out of the room after being reemed upon submission of his one and only motion for the day in that judge's chambers. When it was my turn, the judge was surprisingly pleasant. I had no opposition and was out in a few minutes.


Upon making my way out of the court room and into the vestibule that led out to the hallway, the fiftysomething male attorney surprisingly joined me. It so happened he had been waiting outside for me. He walked alongside me as though it had been predetermined that we were leaving together. He quickly chirped something I couldn't believe I was hearing.


"What?" I asked him.


"Do you want to go to lunch?" he asked again with a predatory leer.

I gaped at him, completely caught off guard.

"Are you married, engaged," he began, "Does it really matter?"

"I'm in a relationship," I told him curtly.

"I think you're hot. I love your outfit," he rambled on, ignoring my obvious rejection.

I now got a taste of what it's like to be hit on by an attorney from Bill Clinton's generation.  It was the end of innocence. I was in my twenties then but felt as though I were ten again only this time one of my girl friends' Dads was trying to pick me up.  Another attorney at my office reasoned that a man his age was hitting on a twentysomething in an attempt to reassure himself that he was still sexy after all these years. His attempt backfired because I just felt he was an old fool to blog about.

In my thirties, I've managed to attract wackier and more mature prospects to reject. Whenever I go into the city for a court appearance, a co-op closing or a networking event or just a night out, I always manage to have some guy approach me at the event, on the Long Island Railroad or on a subway train. If we have a great conversation, I agree to give them my number, but I wish some of them would never have approached me to begin with, like the oversexed older attorney I met in Queens Supreme during my first court appearance ever. I mean, I didn't even talk to the guy and right away his first words to me were to ask me out. You saw that!

On that note, I would like to revisit the notion that men are visual.


When I go to the Bronx, I usually take the LIRR to Brooklyn and catch the 4 so I don't have to get off and wait in a stuffy station for the shuttle crosstown at 42nd.  It's a long ride up there and back. On some days like the one in question I have to take the 4 for a co-op closing on Manhattan's Upper East Side. And on this particular day I managed to find a seat on the ride downtown toward Brooklyn with scores of women on their lunch hours and across from a ragged looking man with long wavy brown hair and a washed out T-shirt who was staring lustfully at me the whole time.


The man looked peculiar with piercing brown eyes and a sinister grin. He could have been a rocker from a now defunct 80's metal band, bankrupt from having spent all his millions on nose candy and reduced to riding the subway with a bunch of average everyday women like us - a far cry from the limos that once catered to him and his beautiful groupies. I was in elementary school when he would have been in his glory days as a thirtysomething rock star.

He continued to leer at me as the attractive young woman sitting next to me tried to hold back her urge to grimace. The middle-aged woman with a slightly graying bobbed hairdo across from me looked over at him and then shot me a glance as if to warn me. As we skipped past the stops between 42nd and 14th Streets, I heard the man mumble something to me in a British accent.


"What?" I asked, dumbfounded.


"I said," he continued in a frustrated tone, "There are a lot of romantic places to go here. Let me take you."


"I have a boyfriend," I snapped back hastily.


"Your loss," he muttered bitterly to me and stormed out of the sliding doors onto the 14th Street station platform.  It was a loss I would take like the good dating sport I was - always picking up the pieces after a rejection or a revolting sexual advance from a sleaze like him. Upon the jilted man's exit and the train's subsequent departure to continue on to Brooklyn, the women on the train collectively began to laugh.


"Oh my God! I couldn't believe it," I sighed and shuddered on the bench. I garnered sympathy from all of the women in our car, most particularly these two who had been watching my little ordeal and were cringing the entire time.


"What was his problem?" asked the young woman.


"Only in New York," said the middle-aged woman with a laugh.


"What a weirdo!" I exclaimed, "He was staring at me and drooling the whole time."


"I noticed that," said the middle-aged woman as she shook her head.


I didn't have a conversation with the coked up, washed out rocker. We most certainly did not introduce ourselves to each other. And damned if he were EVER to get my phone number! All he did was look at me and decide he was going to ask me to accompany him to some "romantic" places in downtown Manhattan. Weirdo! I'd expect that if someone were to ask me out, we would first have a substantial conversation lasting more than five minutes or so.


This adds credence to Greg Behrendt's claim that if a man really wants to be with a woman, be it in a relationship, as a fuck buddy or for a one-night stand, he will (or at the very least try to) make it happen. He is never too "busy" for a woman he truly likes to whatever degree it may be. So much for all those poor women who have what they feel is a wonderful date with a man only to have him never call again and resurface later on in a serious relationship with another woman. 


This tool wanted to haul my ass over to the "romantic restaurants" at the next subway stop, and he didn't even know my name. He was obviously "that into" me. That's what it's supposed to look like. He wasn't too busy for me even though he had somewhere to go. I just wasn't interested because he was a freak and not the good kind of freak. If I were to risk being fired for staying out too long for a midday date, I wouldn't take that chance for this reject. Both genders can play the rejection game at any age.


But the next guy almost made me commit a felony - partly out of frustration from being romanced and blown off by three young men in a row and on the one hand because I wasn't keen on the idea of having geriatric sex. In Newsday, I found an ad in the singles section for a party that boasted the potential to attract "thousands of professionals." The ad read such that I forgot I was going to a singles party and instead planted the notion in my head that I would be networking with professionals and just might meet someone great if I were lucky.


For the event at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan, I donned a fitted, half-sleeved gray dress that looked better than it had when I got it a year earlier because I'd lost a significant amount of weight. As I slinked by from one end of the restaurant to the the next I passed two elderly men. One held the other as if to cradle him.  He apparently had too much to drink or whatever he was doing, and his friend had been the more alert of the two.

The 28 to 49 pitch for the party had been false advertising much to my disappointment. There were no business cards exchanged and no hors d'oevres, just a meat market of graying people bumping and grinding fully clothed and a lot of liquor.


"Hey, sexy," shouted the less coherent of the two elderly men as he looked my way. I walked on.


The other side of the restaurant failed in my book of prospects for a polarly opposite reason - a bunch of much younger couples, perhaps college kids on their break from school who wanted to feel more mature hanging out at a ritzy place like Tavern on the Green. I met a few cool kids, but I really had to get going. As I wandered through the winding hallway, I bumped into the two elderly men again.


"Lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely," ranted the drunk 90 year old as he tried to pull my arm. He had apparently been high on Cialis or Viagra, whichever was his hard on drug of choice.


I shoved him away and walked on faster and faster. What guy uses "lovely" anymore to describe a woman he finds attractive? That's so 1940s. And if he doesn't call you "hot,' the more respectful alternative is to say you are "beautiful." (More on that later.)


It was then that I remembered it is a felony in New York and probably many other states to beat up someone over the age of 65. I guess one of the perks of being a dirty old man with age as a weapon is that if you desire a young chick your granddaughter's age you can just grab her and if she puts up a fight you can charge her under that statute. It's a situation where the courts apply strict liability. She doesn't even have to know you are over the minimum age to be found guilty. Her entire life is ruined.

That's what she gets for not giving you what you want. It was great for my sake that I had room to run away otherwise I might have done something to him I would regret later. There goes to show my claim in an early entry that men control the heterosexual dating franchise. It's at every age.  


No amount of money could make me marry a man that decrepit and infirm who is being disrespectful.  I credit the late Anna Nicole Smith who married J. Howard Marshall when she was 26 and he was 89 for having a strong stomach, despite her obvious desire for his multi-million dollar fortune. Apparently, she met her elderly husband when she was working as a stripper and he grabbed her silicone-filled breast during her performance. How romantic! It's been my experience that when a guy wants to treat me like that he disappears and I never hear from him again. And some bitch keeps him around long enough so he will die and leave everything to her!


As I was leaving Tavern on the Green fed up with yet another lousy singles encounter, I came across a group of sixtysomething divorced or widowed men who looked like they could be members of the mob.  They acted as though they'd be sympathetic to my plight. I could have been the daughter of one of them.



"What happened," a gray-haired man asked in a Brooklyn accent," you didn't have a good time?"

"No, I did not." I simply answered.

"You're never going to come again?" the other asked.

"Absolutely not," I said, "I don't want to be around these people."

"What happened?" the first guy asked, "Dirty old men?"

"Hell, yeah," I said, "This 90 year old tried to hit on me and I had to push him back. I wouldn't give him the time of day."

"How old are you?" the guy asked, "You look about 27."

"I'm 32," I said.

"You look great. I'm 62. Would you go out with a guy like me?" he asked. Here we go again.

"You're my mother's age," I snapped back and walked out never looking back. I wouldn't go out with him, but I'll admit he'd be better than the 90 year old for sure.

What if you did marry a wealthy old fool? He could easily turn out like the crochety old buffoon my friend encountered at Fairway, the gourmet grocery store in Plainview. We were out one day on our lunch hour. We're both attorneys representing banks in foreclosure actions, so given the economic climate of the times we are under a lot of stress.  So, we're looking for sustenance at the deli and my friend figures she will catch up on some grocery shopping in the meantime. She's retrieving rolls for later on from the roll bin near the bakery when she accidentally bumps into an old man who is fighting for a bagel.

"Do you think you own this place? Get out of my way!" he shouts in a rage, his eyebrows furrowed under his reading glasses, "Do you think you're the queen?"  My friend is the sweetest, most modest young woman you can imagine. She's so down-to-earth, hardly the kind who would think she was the "queen." Very different from some of the callous bitches I've encountered who men (like this old goat) treat like queens after blowing off some nice girls.

"Calm down," I yell as loud as I can in his direction. He probably didn't hear me, the senile old fool.

Eager to escape his geriatric rage, my friend grabs the first cart near her and as her luck would have it she enrages him even more.

"You're taking my cart," he fumes, "What are you, the queen?"

I grab her cart and push it toward her to aid her escape from this lunatic. You see? Ladies, avoid these old farts at all costs just like their younger counterparts from my previous blog entry.