Open Letter to the Man Who Wants Me Because I’m an “Older” Woman

I don’t usually feel old, but achievement unlocked: You have successfully made me feel like a hag with 76 cats and a set of hair rollers. Call me crazy, but I usually date men who make me feel special, and you made me feel like a bag of migrating wrinkles. That’s an impressive achievement in itself given that I barely even have any wrinkles. That’s not the worst of it, though. When you fetishise my age, you dehumanise me. You behave as though I’m nothing but my age.

You didn’t try to start a conversation with me, and I swear I have interesting things to say. You didn’t read beyond the age on my profile, and I promise that’s more engaging than a number. You didn’t ask me about my life, and I’ve packed so many beautiful things into all 42 of my years.

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You genuinely believe women will drop their panties the second you tell them you want them, or you would have sent me a different message. While you were so adeptly dehumanising me, you also dehumanised yourself, and therein lies the problem. You arrived in my inbox as a cartoon avatar with no personality to speak of. You presented me with one lousy kink in the belief that I would instantly become your cyber cum dump whore on the basis of one piece of information.

In short, you indicated that you valued yourself as little as you valued me. You behaved as though you were nothing more than a boring kink and a younger cock.

You’re allowed to prefer older women. I prefer older men. The difference between you and I is that I place a million assets between him and his age. I’m attracted to the sparseness of his language, the wisdom behind his eyes, the many books he’s opened, the many minds he’s explored. I don’t choose him for his year of birth. I choose him for who he is. In other words, I don’t fetishise him.

A fetish is an inanimate object worshipped for its magical powers. Sexual fetishisation is thus treating someone like something dead. In treating me as such, you made yourself seem like something dead, and I prefer my men in Technicolour, books and language and all.

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