Short

There's just something about men who are old enough to be my father. Maybe it's their extra generation's worth of life experiences. Maybe it's that they've almost certainly been through a number of failed relationships and have finally figured out how to treat a woman. Maybe it's that they've essentially settled down and no longer really play the field so they're more likely to be faithful and true and truly cherish the woman they love. Or maybe it's that they just like feeling young by taking a young woman like me -- someone who's barely more than a girl -- and showing her off to the world...

I read her online profile one last time. I really had no need to read it, given that I practically knew it by heart.

Roughly six weeks had passed since I had first seen her profile on a dating Web site. What had initially prompted me to reach out to her was her age: twenty years old, roughly the same age as most of my students when I was teaching. Having taught at the university for seven years, I had been surrounded by young women in their late teens and early- to mid-twenties, and although I was nearly to the top of the hill, the students, and especially the young female students, had helped me to keep feeling young.

What I'm really looking for is an older man who is easily capable of both lavishing me with romance and pounding me like a cheap whore. Someone who'll literally show me the ropes and use them on me as well. Someone who enjoys the finer things in life but also finds a deep pleasure in a simple walk along a lake. Someone who's more than willing to tap into the relative inexperience within me and help me to grow into the woman he desires, the woman who willingly gives her heart and her body and her mind to him for his pleasure...

The six weeks of Web site messages, e-mails, IMs, blog entries, and traded photos had all come down to this: a single meeting.

I finally rose from the desk, looking at her profile picture one final time. Her face was both youthful and mature, her extensive travels across the country and throughout much of Europe having given her an incredible perspective on the world for someone her age. The dirty blonde hair served to highlight the rosy eyes created by the colored contacts, and her eyes pierced the camera in ways one likely would not have anticipated. In the picture, she was smiling, a coy smile hinting at having done something naughty, or perhaps thinking wicked thoughts, or anticipating something deliciously forbidden. The earrings she wore were dangling silhouettes of the traditional "mud flap girl," which certainly created a particular image of her in my mind even though I knew from six weeks of contacts what she was really like.

At last, I made my way downstairs, settling into the recliner with a book, awaiting her.

Not two minutes later, the doorbell rang. The moment of truth was at hand.

She was stunning. The dress she wore was simple, in a light shade of violet with low heels to match. A thin silver chain encircled her neck, the front of the chain barely reaching her collarbone. Instead of the "mud flap girl" earrings, she wore simple small crystals, one in each ear.

Most importantly, upon her face she wore a pleased smile.

She liked what she saw, and that was quite significant.

*****

"You really got all this from being a professor?" she asked, amazed after the tour of the house.

I shrugged. "Much of it actually is from a nice inheritance, or rather two inheritances both received at about the same time. But the writings I'd done as a grad student and especially as a professor have gained me enough notoriety that I can continue to write and be a paid talking head on television and maintain myself fairly nicely. In a worst-case scenario, I can go back to teaching. Right now, I'd rather not, though, because I like the freedom of how to spend my time now. I like being able to write all day if I feel like it, although I obviously can't predict when news will break and requires that I suddenly rush to the local TV station to join whoever's anchoring via satellite or at least join the TV coverage via cell phone. Plus I've got some decent investments which seem to be doing well despite the economy, so I have a safety net if needed."

"But most importantly, you have time."

"That I do," I admitted as we returned to the living room and sat together on the sofa. "I'm glad I do, because now I can really truly think about finding someone and being able to give her adequate time like she deserves."

She smiled again. In that moment of hesitation, we looked into each other's eyes, each of us assessing the other, making one more judgment, one final appraisal, one last instance in which to weigh the pros and cons.

Then, we kissed.

It did not take long for a hand to gravitate to her chest. Murmuring into my mouth, I felt her yield. Her caresses softened, and as my kisses began to trail away from her strawberry-flavored lips, she lifted her head to give me better access to her neck while arching her back to press more of a breast into my hand.

From there, our relationship was sealed. Even before we went out for our first meal together, I fed her my desire, and she ingested it all with relish. Only afterward, as she tucked my manhood back into my slacks, did we finally use each other's names:

"You taste wonderful, Kevin."

"And you performed wonderfully as well, Gina."

*****

There was talk. There was plenty of talk.

I heard the whispers as I meandered a bookstore. "He's dating that cheerleader." "What? A professor dating a student?" "He's no longer teaching, but still, that's creepy!" "You bet!"

I heard the whispers as I sat at my favorite coffee shop a block from the main entrance to the university. "Isn't he that former professor dating a cheerleader?" "Yeah, I think you're right."

I heard the whispers in line at the grocery store. "He's that talking head on MSNBC -- Kevin something -- who's dating a cheerleader." "Huh? Why would someone that old date someone so young?" "Remember John and Cindy McCain. There's like some twenty years between them."

The age difference did not mean much to me, and I could handle the comments behind my back, but what concerned me was how Gina might be affected. Initially, I kept those concerns to myself, making love to her as if I was once again a twenty-year-old stallion, showing her off at restaurants and museums and a local amusement park. But I soon realized that I had to address the situation with her.

"I know," Gina admitted as we lay on my bed in the darkness. "I know what others are saying and thinking. I hear it somewhat often. You know how us young students can be." I actually heard a hint of a sad laugh in her voice. "I've also been wondering just how well and how long I could put up with all this, and I see really two solutions: Deal with it, which'll make the next two years here difficult, or transfer elsewhere, hopefully with you."

"What does your gut tell you?" I asked quietly, almost positive that I already knew the answer.

She hesitated, then she sighed. "My gut says to leave. Alone."

I nodded in understanding.

At the end of the quarter, the night before Gina left the city, I bedded her one final time. It was not about fucking or making love. It was about saying goodbye, heart to heart. There were tears in her eyes as we undressed each other, and those tears continued to trickle down her cheeks as she attempted to swallow me whole. She sobbed softly as I sampled her nectar one final time, and we both cried openly as she impaled herself upon me, slowly rocking back and forth as we held each other close. Even Gina's orgasmic cry carried a great measure of sadness and grief, and I likely sounded the same as my passion rose into her for the ultimate time.

We now write and call and trade instant messages. While it is just not the same, it is as close as we can come now to expressing how we feel, but if anything good has come of this, it is that our short relationship has inspired a new book.