I’m getting old. It’s not a question anymore, it’s a goddamn fact. I see it in the mirror—the roadmap of whiskey and bad nights etched around my eyes. I feel it in my joints when I get out of bed, a symphony of pops and creaks. And I hear it in the tired, monotonous drone of recycled dating chatter. The thrill isn’t just gone; it’s been dead and buried for years. All that’s left is a weary, bone-deep resignation.
The chase? The hunt? It’s lost its flavor. I feel like some old lion, scarred and sleepy on the savannah. I’ve had my three hundred kills, maybe more. I’ve hunted, I’ve conquered, I’ve feasted. Now, the thought of another pursuit just feels hollow, a game I’ve already played to its bloody, boring end. I’m Kobe in his last season, my knees shot to hell, trying to dunk on some 25-year-old with fresh cartilage. I’m Belushi, I’m Kinison, chasing that one last high, hoping for a triumphant exit, only to find the curtain dropping on an empty stage.
It’s over. And I’m okay with that.
So, I’m done. Done with the five-hundred-dollar romantic cabin getaways that buy you nothing but an obligatory, one-sided roll in the sheets and a long, quiet drive home. Done with the two-hundred-dollar steak dinners that end with a stiff hug at the door, a forced, plastic smile, and a half-assed, “I had a really great time,” before she vanishes into the night like a thief who just stole twelve hours of your life.
Done with their greatest hits album: the ghost of the ex-lover who was “the one,” the adult children from some other man’s failed campaign who despise you on sight, the litany of their past traumas laid out like trophies. Done with awkwardly introducing them to my own kids, only to have my son pull me aside later, his eyes full of that reluctant pity, and whisper, “Dad… she kind of reminds me of Mom.” That’s a knife in the gut every single time.
No. It’s time to find a good massage parlor and buy a goddamn membership pass. Time to bookmark the escort pages and just pay as I go. Keep it simple. Keep it clean. A transaction. An escape from the endless, overcooked theater of modern romance, the pretend courtship that ends in nothing but empty wallets and a deep, existential ache.
I remember my grandfather’s words, spat out between swigs of cheap bourbon when I was still a dumb kid. The old bastard knew things. “Listen,” he told me, “you don’t pay whores for the sex. You pay them to leave when you’re done. Best goddamn investment you’ll ever make.” And Christ, was he right.
Because when you strip it all away—when the gaslighting spandex comes off, the makeup is wiped clean, the push-up bra hits the floor—I’m left staring at the same unfiltered, terrifying reality: the ghost of my mother. The icon of every other boomer woman who missed the train, who bought into that American dream of lifelong monogamous bliss and wound up here, trying to sell the wreckage of their past like it’s still worth the full sticker price.
No, thanks. Grandpa had it right. No strings. No waking up next to a stranger wearing last night’s desperation like cheap perfume.
I’m saving what’s left of my relationship energy for something overseas, something non-American. A woman who will at least be honest in her deception. One who will pretend she cares, tend to my needs, praise my flagging ego, and love me unconditionally while she counts the days until I croak so she can inherit the whole damn show. It’s kind of like the American version, really. Just younger, prettier, and with less baggage.
In the end, maybe it’s all a farce. Love, companionship, the whole damn thing. Maybe the only honest transaction left in this world is the one where both parties know the score from the jump. No illusions, no pretty lies. Just a simple, clean exchange, devoid of the messy, emotional entanglements that come with trying to believe your own bullshit.
As Grandpa once said, looking into his glass, “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 just keep trudging on, don’t we? Looking for meaning in the meaningless, for warmth in the cold, and for a sliver of truth in a mountain of 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.
