I’m getting old. I see it in the mirror, feel it in my creaking joints, and hear it in the monotonous drone of recycled dating chatter. The thrill is gone, replaced by a weary resignation.
The chase? It’s lost its allure. Like an old lion on the savannah, with over 300 kills to my name, I’ve hunted, conquered, and devoured. Now, the pursuit feels hollow, the game played out.
I feel like Kobe in his final season, attempting to dunk against 25-year-olds with fresh knees. Or like John Belushi and Sam Kinison, chasing that last high, hoping to exit on a triumphant note, only to find the curtain falling too soon.
It’s over. I accept that.
I recall my grandfather’s words from my youth. The old bastard knew things. He told me, “You don’t pay prostitutes for the sex. You pay them to leave after the sex. Best investment you’ll ever make with your hard-earned money.” And goddamn, was he right.
No more romantic cabin getaways that drain $500 from my wallet for a one-sided, obligatory roll in the sheets that leads nowhere. No more $200 steak dinners that culminate in a stiff hug, a forced smile, and a half-assed, “I had a really great time,” before she vanishes into the night, a thief who just stole my time.
No more enduring their greatest hits—stories of ex-lovers, the ones that got away, the adult children they created with some other guy who now despise every man who walks through the door.
No more awkwardly introducing them to my own kids, only to have my son pull me aside, eyes full of reluctant pity, and whisper, “She reminds me of Mom.”
It’s time to find a massage parlor and buy a membership pass. Time to bookmark the escort pages and just pay as I go, keep it simple, keep it transactional—avoid the endless charade, the overcooked theater of romance, the pretend courtship that ends in nothing but empty wallets and existential regret.
Because when the gaslighting spandex peels away, the makeup wipes off, the push-up bra hits the floor, I’m left staring at the unfiltered reality—the icon of my mother, and every other boomer woman who missed the train, who once believed in the American dream of lifelong monogamous bliss and wound up here, selling the wreckage of their past like it’s still worth full price.
No thanks.
Grandpa had it figured out. No strings, no expectations, no waking up next to regret wearing last night’s desperation like cheap perfume.
I’m saving my relationship for something overseas and non-American, something that will pretend they care about you, tend to your needs, praise you, and love you unconditionally as they count the days to my death and inherit everything I own. Kind of like the American version, just younger and a natural beauty.
In the end, maybe it’s all a farce. Love, companionship, the whole damn thing. Perhaps the only honest transaction is the one where both parties know the score, no illusions, no pretenses. Just a simple exchange, clean and devoid of the messy entanglements that come with the lies we tell ourselves.
As Grandpa once mused, “We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t.” So, we trudge on, seeking meaning in the meaningless, comfort in the cold, and truth in the lies.
Author’s Note:
This story is a raw reflection on the wear and tear of age, the disillusionment that comes with experience, and the exhaustion of playing a game that no longer holds meaning. The pursuit of love, companionship, and connection—once exciting and full of promise—has lost its appeal, leaving behind a hollow pursuit of something that can never be fulfilled. The protagonist’s journey is one of quiet resignation, where the chase for fleeting affection and romance has turned into a repetitive and draining cycle of disappointment.
There’s a deep cynicism that runs through this piece, borne of countless failed attempts at intimacy and a harsh recognition that much of what we seek is rooted in illusion. The story exposes the transactional nature of relationships, where the reality often falls far short of the dreams we’re sold. It questions the authenticity of love and companionship, leaving the protagonist seeking simplicity and clarity, with no more room for games, pretenses, or romantic fantasies.
The message here is simple—sometimes, the most honest exchange is the one where both parties understand the truth without the need for false promises or expectations. The protagonist, like many of us, is tired of the lies, the performances, and the empty gestures. In the end, it’s about finding a way to live in the present without being weighed down by the past or the illusion of future happiness.
