old (2008), Uncategorized

i am NOT your objet de fetish

For all the middle-aged men out there, please do me a favor and just stop talking to me unless you really are interested in me as a person, and even then I’m fairly confident I do not want to go on a date with someone old enough to be my father. I am 110% tired of being chatted up by grey-haired men, who talk to me about three things: my tattoos, my piercings, and my hair. And, oh, then ask me how old I am, whether I’m single, and either (a) whether I find older men attractive or (b) if I’ve ever dated someone older.

I was talking to Top Chef Fan (above, center, along with me and Sailor Girl) at Smilie Lady’s game night about how I seem to have become an objet de fetish for middle-aged men who have this fantasy about being with a certain type of woman, and how I thought I was saying “OK!” to go see Cowboy Junkies with Sober Guy as a friend but now he’s made me two mix tapes, follows me around constantly at the meetings we have in common, and emails me more than once a day.

[I’m canceling the concert plans anyhow, after confiding in Top Chef Fan that (a) none of this feels right because (b) it seems as though I’m just fulfilling this recently-divorced guy’s Suicide Girl fetish or something and (c) — most important! — I don’t like him, except as a friend, and even then he’s kinda creepy. ‘Cause, dude, if I want someone to fall head over heels in love with me, IT IS NOT some guy who’s approaching fifty and works as an IT guy for a bank and — even more important — considers his favorite band to be .38 Special. I mean, that guy’s lucky I’d even consider him to be my friend, right?]

But anyhow… Top Chef Fan and I were talking about all of this and how it’s really rather depressing to somehow find ourselves in this demographic, and I was additionally wondering out loud if I have “fulfill your fetish fantasies here!” stamped in readable-by-men-only ink on my forehead, and not ten minutes later this real estate developer guy is all over me — and in the five minutes Top Chef Fan left me alone with said Real Estate Guy (bad friend!), he asked my age, about my piercings, and how many tattoos I had, said my hair was very attractive, and alluded to our age difference. And I suppose he could have just been being friendly, but that does NOT explain his following my every move for the next two hours and even perching upon the arm of the chair in which I was sitting. (“Am I cramping you?” he asks. “You seem to be as far over as possible without being out of the chair, but I want to be close to you.” “I think I can hold my own,” I reply, turning my back on him to eat more cake.)

Honestly: I’m entirely prepared for getting older and having to get yearly mammograms and wearing orthotic devices in my stilettos and dealing with crow’s feet and remembering to wash my face before going to bed and wear eye cream and all that, but I really have entirely no clue how to successfully ward off 60-year-old men without being a bitchy thirtysomething. At this point, though, I do believe I’ll just have to take one (or several) for the team, so to speak. Sigh.

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