I love the company of older women. By “older” I mean my generation. By “older” I mean you remember the Cold War and 4 TV channels. You remember that a big upgrade was from rotary to touchtone. You remember Jimmy Carter and Johnny Carson and VCR’s that were the size of a suitcase. You played the BeeGees and ABBA on your turntable. You had big hair. You’re not a millennial or Gen X or Gen Y or any other silly thing.
I love that you’re not afraid of men, that you don’t panic when a man speaks to you or throws you a compliment. I love that you accept that men are not perfect nor are they to be taken for granted.
You are not afraid to say what you like, how and where you like be kissed or touched. And if that activity isn’t just right, just so, you’ll direct me to what you want.
You’ve read books, you know history, you’re secure with your money. You have your own place. You don’t giggle when I kiss your neck. You’re offended by bad manners.
There’s nothing wrong with some gray, and I think those smile lines around your eyes are incredibly fetching. Anyone who thinks beauty is analogous with youth is an idiot.
Maybe you’re not 20 years old anymore but you can still catch a man’s eye, and
I would sleep with you in a heartbeat- that is, for at least as long as this old heart still beats.