Feline Groovy: Why can’t older women play the same fun field as ‘silver fox’ men?


Grrrr… What’s that growling noise? Can you hear it?… It took me a while to realise that the sound is actually originating from Yours Truly, as I purr at passing men. Yep that’s right. Overnight I seem to have transmogrified from tranquil, middle-aged Mum of two, to male-hunting predator. Cougar-mode has kicked in.

Within minutes of meeting a good looking bloke, I find myself imagining him naked. At the beach, while pretending to be immersed in the latest Booker Prize winning tome, I’m actually surreptitiously perving at the nearest chiseled pectoral. In my early twenties I dated the world surfing champion, so am used to serious pecs appeal; been there, licked that. But in my experience, athletic types may have perfectly sculptured bodies – hell, you could bivouac in the shade of their biceps – but these guys are big for their brains, like dinosaurs, meaning you soon get bored with their pillow talk. So why my sudden obsession with burly blokes? I seem to have a chronic case of hetero hunger pangs – I want to put the ‘men’ into menu.

There are other disconcerting signs of Cougar-ism. I’ve suddenly started to wear so much leopard skin and jungle print clothing that I think I may need to take malaria tablets. David Attenborough could make one of his nature docos just by strolling through my walk-in wardrobe. My skirts have got shorter and my neckline has got lower. I’m now the reverse of an iceberg: ninety percent of me is visible.

As I dance the night away in discos, burning my (scented) candle at both ends, my sisters say I’m starting to look as though I just crawled out from under a stone…most probably Keith.

So, what the hell has happened to me? Well, I suppose turning sixty (or sexty as I prefer to call it) has something to do with kick-starting a craving for one last hormonal hurrah. And hormones are mostly to blame. With the rocket fuel of HRT, women my age are feeling younger, fitter, livelier, healthier, happier and dare I say it, hornier than ever.

Just because a woman can hide the primal engorgement of her libidinous organ, doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to discover the supple hydraulics of a Love God’s manhood on a regular basis. As young women we longed to meet the right man. But aged sixty, a woman’s thinking – have I had enough wrong ones?

And most of my girlfriends are feeling just as frisky. Many are addicted to dating apps like Tinder, Bumble and Happn. These normally staid career women, some of whom are now Grandmas, feel no qualms about making love to perfect strangers; except they don’t want them to be perfect – they want them to be really naughty and dirty and bad.

And why not? Why shouldn’t women be guilty of Acute Lust in the First Degree? Sure, there are worse things than celibacy…like hepatitis and death. Society allows women to feel their oats, but not sow them, yet wait too long and we’re criticized for ‘going to seed’. And where has being a Good Girl got you? Even your cat has forsaken you and taken up with the cardiofunk instructress in the flat downstairs.

Older men have always dated younger women. A “Silver Fox” is considered quite a catch; successful, confident men put the cash into cachet. So why can’t older women play the same enjoyable field?

Give free rein to your imagination and you’ll soon be having so many flights of fancy you’ll need to file flight plans. “All aboard. Your flight of fancy is ready for take off. Your exits are…” But who would want to leave? As you run your hands over his satiny, bronzed skin, gaze into those dreamy eyes and kiss those creamy pecs, remind yourself that growing old may be compulsory, but growing up is optional.

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