He Was Hot. And Dumb. Mostly Dumb.

This Week I Made a Mistake and caught a little crush on a kid.

Okay, not a literal kid — let’s calm down. All my kinks are 100% legal, thank you very much. But a guy in his twenties. About a decade younger than me.

To my credit, I don’t choose my flings based on personality or character. Strictly looks. And to his credit? He’s tall, dark, and ridiculously hot. Of course, he’s also a complete idiot. But what can you expect from a kid?

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From the start, it was clear there was a serious maturity gap. Not that we were having soul-searching convos about the meaning of life or anything — the plan was simple: light flirting ➝ sexting ➝ (hopefully) meaningless sex.

It’s worth mentioning here that I’m a chill, go-with-the-flow kind of woman. Not the type to pick fights for sport. I’m just a sexual person who knows what she wants. Or in less polished terms: I love fucking beautiful men.

And my little 25-year-old? He was painfully beautiful. And tall. There’s just something about tall men. It’s unfair, really — this biological preference for something no one can control and that says absolutely nothing about who they are. But it’s there. Some ancient evolutionary wiring, maybe. Tall guys probably had better luck hunting mammoths. Or picking the juiciest fruit. Who knows. These days, with economy class flights twice a week, height feels more like a curse than a blessing.

Anyway, back to the point.

I initiated the first date. I’m not into dancing around things. Shot him a straight-up message asking if he wanted to grab a beer. I could almost hear him raising an eyebrow through the phone, but he replied, “Sure” . Cool. Chill guy. Or just confused. Either way — step one: accomplished.

Or so I thought.

The day of our date, I couldn’t focus on anything — too excited. Time crawled, butterflies fluttered, and I kept picturing us sitting together at some dimly lit bar, wrapped in the kind of raw, animalistic intimacy that makes the world fade away. It was going to be amazing. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

On my way to the bar, my phone rang. A mutual friend. I picked up, hesitant. She said: “What did I just hear? You’re meeting HIM for a drink??”

Now, she knows all about the open dynamic between me and my husband. She even gets occasional updates about random men and spicy escapades. So when she asked that question? She knew. And I knew that she knew. And I also knew that he, the idiot, had clearly already blabbed.

In the short window between my message and our meetup, he’d apparently rushed to tell his buddies that some “old married lady” had invited him out. I can hear him in my head: “Dude, she’s hot, like really hot, but she’s gotta be like 40 or something” (I’m not, by the way). “Yeah bro, it’s kinda weird — she’s married — but I’d totally hit that.” - That’s how I imagine it went down.

So when I saw him standing across the street, tall, handsome, smiling — my first reaction wasn’t butterflies. It was rage. I swallowed it, telling myself I was here for one reason, and once that need was satisfied, I’d never have to hear this boy speak again. And the more he did speak, the more I clung to that hope.

He spent the whole night ranting about things I, too, once ranted about — before I grew the hell up. No commitment. No kids. No one understands me, and I don’t understand the world. He’s a “free spirit,” a citizen of the world, blah blah blah.

I downed cocktails just to make his presence tolerable. By the third one, I was buzzed enough to let him kiss me. Got him. He was in the bag.

And then everything went downhill.

The date ended with a kiss. Which was totally fine. Mainly because I hadn’t waxed. And also because the chase is the best part, and I already knew this one was going to be a one-night deal — unless his dick was made of gold and encrusted with diamonds (ouch?). No way I was sitting through another evening of teenage drivel.

What I didn’t consider was that while you can kind of ignore a personality mismatch in person… in texts? No such luck. And boy, was he insufferable over text.

We transitioned into the sexting phase, but it was way less sexy than you'd imagine. Not because he wasn’t into it — but because he was dumb. My jokes fell flat. Flirting didn’t flow. I had to explain my innuendos. But I wasn’t going to let that kill the vibe. I gathered my cleavage, sent some pics. He sent his. Dick pics. Even a dick GIF. (Didn’t know that was a thing!)

And that was our language. Photos, not words.

Any time we did try to talk? - Disaster.

Here, have an example: “How old are you, actually?” he asked one day. I told him.His reply: “Oh wow. You’re younger than I thought. So I’m not even your midlife crisis?” When I got pissed, he texted: “Take a breath. Moving on.” And then asked me to write him a fantasy of mine.

Breathe.

Well, my fantasy at that exact moment went like this: He’s sitting in a chair, shirtless. I walk up to him, run my hands down his chest. Muscular. I walk behind him. Lean in. Put my hands on his shoulders. Lips to his ear. And I whisper: “Your mom’s the midlife crisis, you little shit”— while choking him with my bare hands.

But I didn’t write him that one. I’d already put in too much time and effort to toss this one away. Now it was principle. I would fuck this guy. On his face, on his ego, on every part of him. And then? I’d be done.

At one point, he asked what turns me on. So I told him. Not something I can write here (you know… public blog, children may read). But I promise you — all my kinks are legal and harm no one.

His mature response? “Wow… you should probably see a psychiatrist about that.”

And with every word that dripped from his keyboard, my libido died a little more. My inner hard-on? Gone. Blood flow? Relocated. Can’t blame it.

Eventually, I decided enough talk — time to seal the deal so I’d never have to text this man-child again.

After he described (in great, porn-inspired detail) how he’d ravage me on my kitchen island, how strong and dominant he was, I wrote: “Sounds good. Wanna come over tonight?”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

More silence.

I could feel the sweat trickling down his back through the screen.

“I’ll check about tonight”, he lied. And I knew.

He’s a talker. All bark, no bone. He’s never met a real woman — grown, experienced, confident. A woman who just wants sex. No drama. No games. No feelings. Just flesh.

It reminded me of this stand-up comic I once saw in New York. She said she lives alone but isn’t scared. She’s got a plan. If someone tries to rape her, she’ll just hug him tight and whisper, “I love you... I want to have your baby” — and he’ll run screaming. (It was funnier when she said it, okay?)

And suddenly, I got it.

This peacock I was wasting my time on? He was terrified. Performance anxiety. He’s used to younger girls — ones who don’t know what they want, or what they're missing. Who don’t compare, who don’t know any better. Who just lie there and let him do his thing.

Later that night, he texted: “Tonight doesn’t work. Can we reschedule?”

I wasn’t even surprised. Just disappointed.

Today’s boys...

They really don’t know what’s good for them.