So, courtship. Remember that? Some dusty old word from a black and white movie. It’s over. Dead and buried. Now it’s all online profiles, swiping on faces like you’re picking out cheap cuts of meat. They talk about “vows,” about commitment, then snap it all loose like a rotten guitar string. You ask me, there’s been a goddamn decline – in personality, in character, in whatever values we once pretended to have. The very soul of sticking with someone? Vanished. Poof.
What happened to the natural order, the old traditions? A woman in a white dress, supposed to mean something, right? Virginity, virtue, some kind of special goddamn offering. “Here, this is for you, let’s make a life, have some kids.” Now? Now it’s treated like a common goddamn ailment, something to be poked and prodded by as many “doctors” as possible. Feminism, they scream. A woman’s choice. Fine. But then they want the same damn footing as a man, yet they’re the ones holding all the cards when it comes to the bedroom. The man? He’s just out there with his shotgun, blasting away in the dark, hoping something, anything, deems him worthy of a tumble.
I know, I’m rambling. But something about dating in your fifties, looking back at the whole damn history of it… it makes your ears burn when you listen to the bullshit people spin. And no amount of makeup, no tightening cream, can hide fifty years of hard miles, of use and abuse, on a face or a soul. I’ve been marinating in this shithole, this fentanyl-laced, blue-collar cesspool of generally uninspiring specimens they call Tucson, and it clarifies the mind, let me tell you.
The other weekend, a date. She starts in on her dating history, like it’s some goddamn badge of honor. “It doesn’t bother me to share,” she says, “so let me tell you about my adventures.” Common theme, isn’t it?
Then comes the technicolor story. Met this guy, first time, instant fireworks. Alcohol, atmosphere, stars aligning, whatever. “I’d just gotten out of a long-term thing with my husband,” she says, “freshly new.” Anyway, she meets this stud, and bam, back to his place. Hours of it, she says. Hours and hours. Couldn’t get enough. Next day, back for more. Again and again. Three times a day, for three straight months. “Incredible,” she calls it.
“But the reason I’m sharing this with you, James,” she purrs, leaning in, “is because now I want more. It wasn’t that he took me to Burger King, or that he wasn’t movie-star handsome. It was just a phase, a season of wanting… a lot of physical attention. Like a plate-spinner, no strings, no damage. But now, sitting with you,” she says, eyes all wide and innocent, “I’d like something different.”
Oh, here it comes. “I’d like something more meaningful. Dates with dinner and conversation. I want you to listen, like you are now. Don’t try to fix me, just open doors, let me be myself.” Standard script. “But,” she adds, voice dropping, “I want to date with intent now. And here’s the good news, James. Get this. You’re my intention. I think you could be the one.” Then, the punchline: “But I want to slow-roll this. I don’t want to ruin it with… intimacy. I want to take it slow.”
It’s the most goddamn asinine thing I’ve ever heard. Reminds me of these dating profiles. Saw one, woman was sixty-three, in a wheelchair, looked like she’d been sun-dried for a decade, smoker’s rasp probably built in. Her profile: “No one-night stands. No hookups. No friends with benefits.” And you just gotta wonder, lady, what the hell else are you bringing to the table at this stage of the game? I know, sounds harsh. But there’s a reason for things.
There’s a reason for the hair-dos, the lipstick, the push-up bras that promise heaven, the perfume, the shaved and plucked landscape. It’s a goddamn mating dance, a sexual signal. We’re not meeting at the library to discuss Plato. The initial spark is: I find you attractive, you find me attractive. Can we move on from there, or do we have to pretend it’s about a shared love for goddamn poetry? But no, at fifty-something, they want to turn the oldest game in the world into some high-value, artificially scarce commodity.
It’s like diamonds. If you found out diamonds were everywhere, five bucks a pop, would they still be precious? No. They keep the numbers down, create the illusion of rarity, and suddenly they’re worth a goddamn fortune. That’s what they’re trying to do here. “If we limit it, spoon-feed it to you, then it’s special.” Bullshit. You’re starting a relationship, supposedly, with manipulation right out of the gate.
And that, that’s what really sticks in my craw. If you’re going to “date with intent,” how about starting with no little white lies, no goddamn secrets, no strategy? I tried to tell this date, no man wants to hear your sexual highlight reel, especially if you’re then going to put him on ice. Just act like it’s scarce if you want, but don’t give me the goddamn instruction manual on why you’re withholding, especially if the reason is some other bastard you screwed silly three months ago.
That little firecracker of a date? Didn’t last. Crashed and burned in a cloud of smoky bullshit after about four outings. Her final shot was, “Everyone likes my sassiness, until I’m sassy, then they can’t handle it!” More games. More trying to make singular what’s just plain plural behavior.
I know, I know. At my age, I’m supposed to be more understanding, more “evolved.” Maybe because of my own checkered past, I shouldn’t be so judgmental. “Hey, women are like men too, they have desires, we’re all equal.” We’re equal in our capacity for bullshit, maybe. But no, we’re not the goddamn same. And just like there are so-called “high-value women,” I consider myself a high-value man. And there are some things I just won’t goddamn tolerate. This whole charade is one of ‘em.
