My first hipster invitation: ‘I want to meet you for sex’
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Version 0 of 1. One of the dating site men who saw the cleavage photograph, before it was deleted everywhere, was a 24-year-old called Joe, an intense-looking man with a bicycle, a flat cap and a beard. He asked me to meet him for a drink: my first hipster invitation. My first reply was: “I’m flattered, but I’m way too old for you.” “I’m not interested in age and you looked stunning in that picture,” he replied. “Why did you take it down?” “Because I’m not really that woman,” I told him. “And thank you, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable dating somebody so young.” “That’s ageist of you, I must say,” he said. “Anyway, who’s talking about dating? I want to meet you for sex. I’m an experienced, generous, able lover. What do you say?” “I say you’re mad. The reality of a 50-year-old body is going to take you by surprise.” I scrutinised his profile again. He had an interesting face, and liked art, European cities, museums. He had a plain but faultless way of expressing himself and we engaged in a brief flurry of friendly messaging about our shared interests. Fundamentally, he was an urban male, which was refreshing: none of his photographs showed him conquering white water. My instinct said we’d get along. My instinct also said no, NO NO NO, not even a cup of coffee, NO, NO. Partly this was self-protection, because it was clear (perhaps commendably so) that he wasn’t interested in a relationship as such, and I might fall for him and fall hard, all alone. Nothing frightens me more than that. It wasn’t ever going to be anything other than mutual sexual gratification … of which I was badly in need, but I wasn’t about to reveal my 50-year-old body to a 24-year-old man, unless he was a doctor and circumstances were entirely professional, and even then maybe not. Despite the Sam Taylor-Johnsons of this world, falling in love with a man half your age seldom turns out well. Colette covered this pretty well in Chéri. “Won’t you at least meet me once?” Joe persisted. “Girls of 24 bore me to death.” “Be more discriminating,” I told him. “They’re out there, the women with similar interests to you; you just need to put in the hours.” “I know plenty of pretty girls with similar interests,” he said. “But I don’t want to have sex with them. Won’t you at least meet me, just for a drink?” “I’m really flattered, but no,” I said. “I wish you luck, though. It’s been fun chatting.” Closing the laptop, there was food for thought: the sweet, appealing Joe had offered and I’d turned him down. It didn’t seem to be sex that I was looking for. No-strings frolicking had been handed on a plate more than once now and I had not taken the plate. What was it that I wanted? Was it that most cliche-ridden thing of all, everlasting love, holding hands in the street like the lovely old people who live on my road and dodder along together holding on tight? At a bookshop that afternoon, I dared myself to chat to a man on his own. It’s easier to talk to strangers in bookshops than somewhere people are moving, like supermarket aisles. Men in bookshops are fairly slow to react; they’re standing, lulled by words and thoughts, their flight impulse slowed to reading speed … and, in general, people who can’t stop buying books are open to chatting with others of similar affliction. I was having a splurge, and had piled eight volumes in my hands, balancing them against my chest and chin, and realised that the reader of One Hundred Years of Solitude from the coffee shop was standing in front of me, in a leather jacket. I said, “When you can’t carry any more, it’s probably time to pay and go home.” I smiled. He smiled back. But then he returned to browsing. I swept past, close enough to smell his fragrance, and turned on one heel and grinned like a lunatic. “I’m bringing a Sherpa next time,” I said. He didn’t acknowledge this. I went down a level to the ground floor and paid up, feeling utterly dejected. “I don’t really want a lot,” I told the universe, while standing queueing. “I can be flexible. I just want someone funny and loyal. Everything else is negotiable, I swear.” “The thing is,” the universe said, “that despite what you say, you have far too many expectations.” • Stella Grey is a pseudonym @GreyStellaGrey |