Batman And The Blame Game: How NOT To Date An Older Man

Young girls date older men for a number of reasons.

Power? Sure.

Money? Often.

Daddy complexes? Yes that definitely happens.

Whether these flings turn into relationships depends very much on how and why you approached the situation in the first place.

Some of us are genuinely attracted to the silver Fox who orders Macallan to his table, while others are just fans of the wealth and/or erotic transgression he represents.

Either way, once the first liaisons are over, you'll establish pretty quickly whether this is a mutually beneficial arrangement, or the roots of a real connection.

Call me cynical, but I think the former largely prevails.

The Old Brit in New York

It was summer in New York - sticky and far too hot, and I decided to accept a mid-week date from an older man, mostly to just get out of the apartment.

We’d met at an event a month before at Soho House, where he was giving a speech. I was 23, he was two decades older.

My mother had, innocently enough, made the introductions, but after a few minutes' preliminary chat, I fled to meet friends.

Later that night, he handed his business card to my mother and told her to pass it on to me.

My mother refused to do the legwork. She distrusted his intentions and was, perhaps, a little envious; he was a magnificent public speaker, after all.

In the absence of his contact details, I Googled him, got lucky with his blog email and set up a date.

Despite initial nerves, the prospect of a date with a fortysomething businessman (who remained 39 for the duration of our 5 year contact) was exciting.

The sense of impropriety in the age gap encouraged me to treat this like a fantasy - I donned my highest heels and my smallest dress and headed out.

He arrived sporting a shabby backpack, a very different image from the suited, dominant public speaker I’d lusted over.

I cringed, disappointed that he’d strayed so far from the script.

A Meal of Two Halves

As we climbed the stairs to the restaurant, he comfortably rested his palm on my right bum cheek and the power-play was back.

The meal started with some semi-intellectual chatter, but by the time we were one bottle down, he was telling me I could be a model and asking if I wanted to come “party” with his friends in the Village.

We hailed a taxi. Two minutes later his mouth was on mine, hand up my skirt.

I enjoyed it for the cliché that it was.

The cab pulled up at a brownstone members' club - a glamorous place strewn with velvet upholstered chairs and oak surfaces.

Not So Private Members Club

We headed straight to the back garden, avoiding the crowd and continued heavy petting. I was grateful for the lack of observers.

Soon, his friends joined us outside, delighted and amused by his young twinky.

The conversation turned to peacocking of their own - apparently, they were "big" in the film business.

One of them admitted he was friends with Christian Bale (er, BATMAN, to you and me) and before I knew it, they were seeing if he wanted to join.

Wetter than a Backstreet Boy, I could barely conceal my glee. However, my frenzy was picked up on by the old man and he started to get edgy.

Was he intimidated?

Ten minutes later, I was being whisked out of there, much to my dismay.

Sofa Sessions

Attempting to regain some of the power, I insisted we stay at mine, a student-style flat outside of Manhattan that I shared with five others.

We arrived 40 minutes and $100 later.

I informed him we’d be sleeping on the sofa. We both got naked and passed out.

The next morning my flatmates left for work, passing the bare arse of a 42 year old on their way out. We stirred 30 minutes later and decided to graduate to the bedroom.

The sex started and all was okay— he was passionate, I was into it.

Five minutes in, I felt I was drowning. I looked to the ceiling for leaks, but it seemed the water was falling in rivulets from his face, neck, chest.

After having to wipe my eyes twice, I grabbed the pillow from under me, and smeared the length of his face with it. He seemed apologetic, but kept going, then gave up.

I gagged and ran to the shower.

We blamed the hangovers, I blamed his age and general fitness levels.

We waited for the train and he attempted to regain his footing with some sharp remarks. I switched off, allowing my hangover to blur the situation.

I saw my older man once every three months after that, for a long time - for dinner, rarely sex, and grew fond of him the way you do a slightly over-friendly family friend.

And what's the takeaway here? 

Old men and young girls don't mix? Balls, it's pretty exciting stuff.

The message here is that if you're going to date an older man, don't just pick the first one who grabs your arse.

It's possible to have both the erotic spark and find a character you actually get on with. They too will get bored of the role play, so be respectful to both parties and find a sugar daddy you can love.

Failing that, find a hottie with a body.

Nana is the newest addition to our Yahoo Lifestyle blogging team. She's runs a bespoke dating service called Social Concierge.

Check out her full bio HERE.

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