I recently came to a realization about my sexuality: I like old guys.
Back off, pervs—I’m not ready for the golden handshake just yet. No, I’m using the term “Old Guy” loosely here. I’m talking about the distinguished guy, the guy who has earned a wrinkle or two and a few grays, the guy who can drive a hot car because he can afford it and not because it’s an extension of his persona.
Not that I don’t like young guys, because I like them very much. But they’re like those marzipan candies: They look pretty, sweet, and tasty, but I know if I eat one I’m gonna get a toothache. No, I like the old dudes, the silver foxes. And I put the blame for this squarely on the makers of Viagra—oh, and Anderson Cooper—but mostly on the makers of Viagra and their subliminal mind conditioning.
Have you ever watched a Viagra commercial? Every guy is trim and fit with just enough gray to make him look distinguished. They drive hot cars and sit romantically with their women staring at a fantastic view from the deck of what is presumably their (totally paid off) home. And this is all ironic, I realize, for the very fact that IT’S A VIAGRA COMMERCIAL! These guys obviously are lacking a little something that most girls want, but that those men can’t get without a little help. So why is it I’m so attracted to men of a mature age?
We recently discussed the topic with our friends over a very grown-up dinner that included pricey wine that appeared on a very expensive tab that both parties fought to pay. (That’s the stuff that happens when you become of a certain age.) If the makers of Viagra were doing a casting call, they’d want our friends Ron—same name as my husband—and Lynne. Lynne epitomizes the term natural beauty and is absolutely stunning. Her Ron is handsome and works in rockets and together they are the Wonder Twins—if the Wonder Twins weren’t a brother and sister superhero duo. At 49, Ron and Lynne are a super couple powerful enough to afford that top-shelf scotch and able to turn heads of anyone in the room with a single swagger.
Over dinner, the topic turned to the use of reading glasses. Super Ron pulled out his and handed them to my Ron to use. Super Ron said they are great while Wonder Lynne told my Ron, “No, don’t use them or you’ll never be able to see a thing without them ever again.”
I had an epiphany: “You guys are the Viagra couple!”
“Not yet,” Super Ron said as he puffed out his chest.
“No, I mean the image they project on the commercials.”
“You mean the ones where the couple is on the deck overlooking the sunset as they hold hands in a tub?”
“Yes!”
“Nah, in that setting, we’d just look at each other and think ‘This would be a good time to go to bed,’” Super
Ron said.
My Ron put on the somewhat hip-looking rectangular reading glasses. Coupled with his newly grown beard, which boasts a proud peppering of white that has as of yet avoided his head, I was smitten.
“You know, you kind of look like the guys from the Viagra commercial,” I said.
For most guys, that would be the furthest thing from a compliment. However, my Ron knows that those guys don’t really represent an impotence pill. They actually represent vitality, confidence, accomplishment, and leadership. That’s exactly why that image is used to push pills. That look is also derived from the look sported by some of the most rockingest—and arguably potent—men of our generation: guys like George Clooney, Bruce Springsteen, Bono, and that hunk of middle-aged deliciousness, Jon Bon Jovi.
Ron said my new obsession with old dudes is nothing new: “It’s not Viagra’s effect on you, you’ve always been that way. Like that thing you’ve always had for Harrison Ford. He’s an old dude.”
Then I thought about it and remembered the Harrison Ford conversation we had earlier in our marriage when Ron asked me why I liked old guys like Harrison Ford—who was so not old at the time.
“You know Harrison Ford, that Everclear guy you like, they are all old guys,” Ron said.
“So? They are still hot,” I said, defending my taste.
“Yeah, but you know what old guys do?” he asked. “They fart. Think about it: old guy farts.”
“So, all guys do,” I said.
“Yeah, but they also have old guy butts,” he said.
There was no arguing that. That revelation ended our analysis of my preference for “old guys” for at least the last 10 years or so until I recently took notice again and Ron reminded me that I’ve always felt that way—only this time, I’m ignoring the old guy butt thing much like Ron ignores the fact that many of his celebrity hotty favs have had major work.
So if women who like young men are cougars, then what am I? Who cares? Whatever it is, I’ll leave the candy to the cougars. I’ll have a slice of the aged beefcake.
Find out what else Arts Editor Shelly Cone likes on her blog at shellycone.com. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Oct 6-13, 2011.