The hot bodies of twenty year olds. Who doesn’t like them? They’re young, they’re firm, they only have the whispery beginnings of stretch marks where they foolishly think, “What is that? Is that a scratch on the back of my thigh? It’s probably just a scratch, I’m sure it’ll go away.” I mean, these bodies weren’t even around when the original Full House began and ended, and were therefore not subjected to DJ’s asshole boyfriend Steve who totally drove a wedge between DJ’s and Kimmy Gibbler’s friendship like an asshole who gets in the middle of girls’ friendships and is like, “Whut? Whut? I didn’t do anything!” We all know what you did, Steve. We all know. God, I hate that guy.
Yeah, so I used to be a twenty year old with a hot body. I can say that and you can’t call me a conceited asshole for it, because it was twenty-two years ago and, seriously, I was quite the package. You know who was into me the most, though? Men twice my age. I used to think it was because I had that twenty year old body, but as I’ve gotten older and wiser, I’ve come to realize that forty year old men like twenty year old women for two reasons: One, being the aforementioned hot body, but far, far higher on the list than that is that twenty year old women are so, so, so, so, so, so, so stupid.
I should clarify the above statement by fine-tuning the word “stupid” to “naïve”. When I think back to the buuuuuullshit that I put up with from men when I was twenty, it’s enough to make me literally weep. I’m sure plenty of women are familiar with the game where they do something super shitty to you, and then convince you that it was either your fault, or not a big deal, or this is just the way men are so you had better get used to it.
Case in point: When I was eighteen, I dated a guy who was thirty-two. I was the epitome of emo teenager and he was a “man” with a “PhD”, so I believed everything he told me. After we had been dating for several months, and he had moved in with me in my bedroom at my mother’s house (because he was homeless), we were driving around downtown Delray (because he had no job) in a car he borrowed from someone (because he had no car) when he casually – and I mean sooo fucking casually – dropped this one on me:
“I was hoping my girlfriend might be able to get a stopover in Miami when she flies from Rome to New York, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, so that’s too bad. You two would probably get along great!”
Uhhh. Girlfriend? You mean, besides me?
I’m sure this is the part of the story where you’re like, “Oh hayulll no! I know you kicked him in the jimmies until they were strawberry jam!”
And you should think that, because that is quite literally what I would do if this story had happened when I was forty. That motherfucker would be hog-tied in an alleyway right now with his dirty underwear stuffed in his mouth as a gag and the many footprints of my sensible shoes permanently imprinted on his scrotum. He would wake up in a haze and shake his head to try to read the sign I’d put in front of him that says “Welcome to Mag-ghanistan, you punk ass motherfucker” and then pass back out into a pool of his own vomit.
But let’s stay focused here.
So as it turned out, this asshole had a girlfriend in Italy, where he had spent the last few months being a roving musical vagabond (bum), but he and the girlfriend had an “understanding”. I assume they had the same “understanding” that I had with him, where I paid for everything all the time and he secretly banged anything that moved.
What did I do, you ask? Nothing. I did nothing. I offered no objections.
I sat in the car, mostly in silence except to pretend to agree with him about how uptight Americans are about monogamy (he was American, btw). Then he dropped me off at home, and I split my knuckle when I punched my metal closet door and spent the rest of the night crying on the bathroom floor. Not because I was mad at him, but because I felt I had failed as a woman. Why wasn’t I enough for him? I was already giving him literally anything he wanted. The next day, our relationship went on as if none of this had ever happened. He made me believe I was wrong if I had a problem – as his girlfriend – with the other girlfriend that he had failed to tell me about. And I believed him. I believed that if I were “cool” enough to not be rattled by the bullshit he pulled, that I would be worthy of his love. His unemployed, homeless, carless, cheating love.
And I’ll tell you what – that shit was not an anomaly. One hundred percent of the older guys I dated when I was a hot young stupid thing were unemployed, homeless, and carless – because I didn’t know any better. I thought that it was normal for me to have to pay for everything. I thought it was normal to have someone ask to move in with me on the second date. I thought it was because they loved me, not because they were homeless. Hell, when I was sixteen and my boyfriend was twenty-five, I thought it was normal that he complained about the lack of breakfast options that I provided him when he spent the night. I remember his face, incredulously asking me how he was supposed to make it through the day if all I was going to make for him were blueberry muffins. He said, “A man can’t be sustained on muffins alone, honey.” And I didn’t laugh. Or punch him. I apologized and made him eggs. Forty year old me? That fucker would wish he were only getting a one-way trip to Mag-ghanistan.
Here’s the deal, dewdz. I’m not saying don’t date twenty year old women. Twenty year old women are awesome, at least I know I was. I could stay out all night dancing, dress strictly 70s from the thrift store and look cool as hell and not at all insane, and I was so willing to love and accept. Too willing for the men who showed up to take me up on it.
I guess what I’m saying is feel free to date twenty year old women, but you better fucking be nice to them. You better not take advantage of their naivete. You better never, and I mean ever, roll your eyes at the seemingly immature stuff they say, because they’re not immature. They’re just being the age that they are. They’re saying exactly the kind of stuff they should say, because they’re still practically kids, for crying out loud. Don’t ruin being young for them. And you better not fucking make them feel like any of the stupid shit you pull on them is their fault, because you know damn well it isn’t.
Oh yeah, and don’t try to put it in twenty year olds’ butts. They don’t like it.