He was attracted to the smell of student loans and high interest rates emanating from my vaginal walls. Each shift in my walk smelt like accountability and mother approved juice. My milk shake brings all the young boys to the yard.
Rock with me on this for a second.
I miss the days of fooling around with men whose arthritis would act up when the weather was shifty. Their long time living was a fortitude that I enjoyed lounging in. Between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three I was childish and blooming. I was eager to be ripped away from my silliness by men with mortgages and careers, fucking them made me feel valid. I figured that I had to be somebody smart and mature in order to be pulling these fully grown ass men. Nevertheless, I was game goofy, unaware that the ripeness of my insides was signaling to the loins of older men and once the fruits were picked there wasn’t much work left to do. They’d mosey on to harass the apple trees in another woman’s yard soon after, and if the trees were plentiful they’d stick around. I always lost to an older bitch with a green thumb.
I am becoming the older bitch, my green thumb is still in question.
Peering back at my early twenties as my thirties creep up, I can see that my allure wasn’t brains and I won’t even say that it was completely the newness of my pussy, but my youth was a part of the draw. There is something about the energy and wild love you receive from a young broad. The young gal is open to hanging out at your house on the first night, “to get to know you” and won’t complain when you guys are ten kick-it sessions in and still no official date has happened. She is the no-pressure chick. The kind one who understands that of course you have to fuck your baby moms in order to see your children and she is also okay pretending to be the homie when the baby mom pulls up at random. The young fun broad is down to call into work sick just to run around with you because its a retail mall job and her main focus is fun, lots of it. There is a sense of free and I’m-just-here-for-the-good-time to her nature and a grown ass man would like a little of that added to his life, at least for a time.
The new, older, reasonableness and fully-grown version of of me is now attractive to men whose only responsibilities is college and staying out of
juvey jail. I dated this one cat who was shy of twenty-three and all he would do is go on and on about how different I am from the other girls he has dated. I was the first mother he ever dated, college educated, with a career path she is trotting on, so yes I was different. I didn’t have to be begged to get on top, I know how to make myself cum, I never overstay my welcome because I have shit to do, and I don’t beg him for more because he is a child and I already have those. Its a steal to a young man. I am now a young mans game.
One night after intimacy, my young partner pillow talked me to death about his mom, who he lives with, saying she was giving him static about putting in on the rent and that he just couldn’t understand it. I pretended that my bed was a judgement-free zone and that I was like all the other young broads his age who thought his logic was logic. He pecked me on the lips and asked for another round. I declined, did the whole, “so what are you about to do?” thing to get him out of my house and once he left, I blocked him.
It was in that moment I knew that it was time to step my pussy up. My pussy is not a playground (well it is, but you know what I mean). For awhile entertaining younger men was great, it taught me a lot, but there comes a time where you want to talk to a man who knows a little something about living. I needed all my salt and pepper playas to step to the front of the pew in single file. Single being the operative word. It’s nice to just date someone who gets it. It being; the kids, finances, and just life. When the 90s bops come on and we can sing it all the way through in the car together I will know that he is the one.
So, I cut off all of my young hoes.
They say you attract what you are and I questioned if maybe I was afraid to make myself present to older men for serious courtship because I was fearful of being serious. I’m not at the age where it is cute or passable to be ignorant of certain realities and maybe I was partly afraid to be in any situation that I couldn’t control. I control the narrative with younger men, its rare that they intimidate me intellectually or challenge my maturity. It’s easy to trot around the nightclub strips downtown and talk to the young boys because I know that I am the catch for them. It’s easy to give my number to the milk breath cutie at the mall because he isn’t going to hold the fire to my ass. I realize that I have to either be the older broad with the green thumb or keep slumming with college kids, but there’s no in between. An aging confused broad isn’t a good time anymore, its just questionable and borderline sad.
I began scrolling through my phone and deleting the numbers of the men who pacified me with only sex and casual banter and new dance moves they’re working on to go viral.
There is beauty in growth if you can hang on to your grin while moving forward. Analyzing your patterns could be the life or death of happiness. Cheers to letting go of my young hoes and becoming better because of it.