I met T at a bar while out with the girls one night. He was a sight for sore eyes in a casual navy V-neck and chinos amidst sea of young, suited executives. We were at a 'laundry' - something my girlfriend P calls these places where we 'come to pick up suits'. It's not my scene, but I always have a good night with the girls. T had salt and pepper hair and hazel eyes that crinkled whenever he laughed. I wasn't really in the right frame of mind to make small talk that night but with T it felt like we've known each other forever.
Except, I was about to find out he was a whole lot older than I. I'd have guessed he was about 40, but I was only ten years off the mark. "You don't look anywhere near 50!" I exclaim. And I meant it. He would certainly be the most gorgeous 50-year old I know. "Are you sure?" I laugh, half expecting him to tell me he's just pulling my leg. With a boyish grin, he pulls out his ID. And there it was. 1960. I'm half his age. My father was 7 when he was born. This won't sink in for another couple of days. I tell him he looks amazing, and he crinkles his eyes at me and returns the compliment.
He offered me his number when we were leaving but this time instead of saying "I'll call you tomorrow", I gave him mine instead. I didn't think he would call but three days later I got a text from him...Squee!
We arranged to meet up for a drink. He took me to his favourite wine bar - a quaint little corner in the city that I must have walked past a million times but never paid any attention to. We say hello to his friend who runs the place, and find ourselves a little seat in the corner. It was cozy: pre-war architecture, cigar lounges and iron beams; the walls flickering amber by candlelight.
"The walls open," he says, observing me observing my surrounds. I smile and listen attentively as he tells me about the history of the building. I am transfixed by the sound of his deep, gravelly voice. Between cigarette breaks we talk about our childhood, ourselves, our loves. I was surprised how easy the conversation flowed despite our age differences. The generational gap only rears its head when he marvels at how frequently my BB goes off. It was P, checking in on me. Two bottles of wine later, I made up my mind about two things: a; I definitely like this man and b; we should leave. I feign fatigue, and refreshed my lipstick as he went to get the check. Outside, he closes in on me with his arms outstretched. I grin as he looks down to kiss me, and instead whispered "Why don't I walk you home?" into his lips.
I think we took a cab.
I think we overturned his couch.
I think he definitely knew his way around a woman.
I know it was the most physically demanding, exciting sex I've had this year.
I watch him lazily run his hands over me and slowly drifted off to sleep. This man was beautiful. I look at him for a while, slowly letting it all sink in, trying to convince myself this man is twice my age but it was hard - he had a better physique than most 30-somethings I know. I kiss his cheek and he opens one eye lazily and looks at me.
"You're quite vulnerable, aren't you?" I raise an eyebrow. "Right now. You're two different people at the same time. There's this other side I'm seeing."
I mumbled something incoherent into his shoulder and he held me closer. We stayed like that for a while. There are a million things going through my mind, not least of all how he could possibly figure me out in 5 hours. I hear him start to snore. It was 4am. I took one last look at him and decided I cannot stay.
