Shuffling self-consciously in his seat beside me at the cinema, I sensed that my date was about to make his move.
I wasn’t sure whether he’d do the awkward arm-stretch-behind-my-chair manoeuvre, or ‘accidentally’ brush his thigh against mine.
Jerry was a wealthy, highly successful, intelligent, divorced chap who worked in the film industry.
He owned four homes around the world and, on paper at least, ticked every box going. He was scruffy with a scratchy-looking grey beard that made him look horribly unkempt.
So why on earth should I settle for an out-of-condition old codger like him just because society deems it appropriate for me?
Especially not when I still feel vibrant and youthful enough to attract the hot young Pups of this world? ’ sneered one anonymous troll, while others gleefully informed me that my actions meant I faced a sad and lonely old age.
At 65, my date (I’ll call him Jerry) was a few years older than me.
We’d been introduced by a mutual friend who thought we would be a good match.
He also suffered from a bad back, which gave him an old man’s gait.
The thought of being intimate with him repulsed me.
Many told me to grow up and date someone from my own age group.
While I could easily disregard the vitriolic views of strangers, many of whom I suspected were merely jealous or prudish, I did feel it would be sensible to put my experiences in perspective by dating some older men. Yet, as the conversation steered predictably down the safe avenues of favourite films and actors he’d worked with, my mind wandered back to those playful exchanges I’d enjoyed with one of my favourite younger chaps, during our wonderful sexy afternoons. Had my flings with younger guys led to me to set the bar unrealistically high?