Dating a man half my age is a challenge in itself. The first thing to do is finding a man that young. I wasn’t searching for that. I was honestly searching for someone with the same interests as me. Had lived through Madonna’s first wedding fiasco, wore hair like the Flock of Seagulls, sat and watched the teardown of the Berlin wall. Someone with whom I shared history with.

I found that dating a man half my age was easy. He courted me. Nothing unusual about that. I’ve always been courted by men younger than me as the years have progressed. When I was thirty, I dated a man who was eighteen. Actually, I dated two guys that were eighteen. I couldn’t go to the bars with them. I also didn’t take them to Chuck E. Cheese or Circus in Las Vegas. We did do a lot of coffee shops, movies, the sights around the city, and talked a lot.

When I turned forty, I noticed that I was still attracting eighteen and twenty-year-olds. For some reason, they either wanted a daddy figure, or a man with a daddy figure. I haven’t decided which. Recently a young man came up to me and we were talking and he called me Papi. Which in Spanish is a term of endearment, equivalent to honey, or sweetheart. However, since I knew he’s been courting me and treating me sometimes as if I was his father. I decided to nip that relationship in the bud. I was not about to be his daddy.

One of the lucky men that I chose to be with, happened to be eighteen and I was forty-three at the time. I was hesitant at first, but he was insistent and I decided to take the plunge. No pun intended. I said yes to him. I had always said no to the other guys because I felt that ten years was a little weird. However, I did say yes to someone younger than half my age. Why not. A little fun wouldn’t hurt.

He wanted to just be friends with benefits. I agreed. I didn’t have to worry about dating, or cooking for someone, or taking care of dishes and being home at a certain time. He would text me, come over, we would have sex, he would leave. Sometimes he would come for seconds on the same night.

I thought I was in heaven. I’m having sex with a hot stud, and I don’t have to worry about a relationship. I kept working, kept going to my classes, and enjoyed the life of a single man. The best part is that I had sex. A lot of sex.

You would think this was a great thing. Right? No. It wasn’t. I wanted more. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I wanted more. I wanted the relationship that came along with sex. I wanted the fights, the makeup sex, the trips to nowhere, the cuddling that comes after. I wanted more than what he was willing to give and more than I was willing to accept from him.

I honestly couldn’t see myself in public with him. Or having a conversation with him. Or for that matter communicating at a level that was higher than sex. What would we do? He couldn’t go to a bar. We had nothing in common. He loved the outdoors: hiking, swimming, jet skiing, skiing, rollerblading, and other extreme sports. The most extreme sport I could do at my age is walking down the stairs.

I never felt so old in my life. I realized that I was not the hot stud I was before. I am much older, out of shape, and bitter from a hard life. Here’s a young stud that wanted my body and nothing more. What a conundrum.

He was what I always wanted, a hot stud in my bed having sex with me. And all I could think of was letting him go. I was exhausted physically, emotionally. I felt empty inside. The touch of a hard body can only do so much to a man. I wanted a relationship. I want a relationship.

Dating a man half my age was not what I thought it would be. I dreamt of heaven and in reality, it was hell. I want more out of life.