
I always thought I'd grow out of my thing for older men.
I thought that the more I understood about how the world romanticises ageing men — for their increasing emotional stability, ability to 'show up', to be curious and present, not to mention their silver hair and rugged, worn, sexy hands… while women are made to feel disposable — that I'd get over it.
Instead, I find myself in love with a man almost a decade older than me.
I've never been into guys my age. It's been that way ever since I was old enough to have a crush. My first crush was six years older than me, in fact.
He'd finished high school as I was just getting started, he'd read books I'd never heard of, had been to underground bars in Berlin and swirled wine in his glass before he drank it. I thought he was everything.
But it wasn't just him. It was the older male characters in books, films, TV shows, the cultured ones who knew about cocktails and classic texts, who had caring eyes and a more grown-up body.
I didn't want to date the boys from high school, the ones that made fun of the girls that had pimples, that didn't want to admit they liked you.
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