I’ve always had a ‘type’ when it came to dating. When I look back now, I clearly see a pattern. There were five before I married the ‘best’ one. All six of them (husband included), are similar to each other in a lot of ways. Sometimes I think they’re the same, just different versions of each other, rather modified ones. Just like the ones that come with online softwares.
So far, my type has been men who are simple, with medium height, not necessarily with a great body or looks, but someone intelligent in their own sweet way. The ones I have dated have been successful in whatever they were doing and were hard working. Being with someone like this always got me motivated and helped me also pursue my dreams.
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The men in my life have been voracious readers, well-traveled, and who stimulated me on an intellectual level. They have been the serious kinds, the ones who are always reading something without paying too much attention to how they look or how their women look. We had some pretty hardcore conversations, the ones that leave you thinking and wondering about the mysteries of the world. They’d constantly teach me new things, and I yearned for their company to satisfy my thirst for overall self-development and growth.
So I ultimately married a cardiologist who was happily married to his job. I always wanted someone like that, who’d keep himself busy with work and wouldn’t interfere with what I was doing with my life. Just that, in my case, I was bringing up two kids. So I had given up my job and a career ten years ago, and now I was a full-time mommy to two kids, ten and six years of age.
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Our life was pretty mundane. We had a set routine; breakfast was the only meal we’d have together as a family, and then the husband would drop the kids off at school. I’d stay at home until the clock ticked and then rush with a systematically planned schedule for the kids once they were back. Monotony was our family’s middle name. This went on until the kids finally got a summer break from school, and then we’d head out on a short family vacation.
My husband is 46 years old, to my 38. It couldn’t have been more perfect; we barely fought because we barely talked. We had reached a state where we understood each other perfectly, and didn’t need to make conversations until absolutely necessary. We had sex once a week and perhaps thrice a month, and that was enough for both of us. We didn’t consider physical intimacy to be something that made our relationship stronger. We were strong despite that, pretty strong.
Although I won’t deny that there were some days where my body craved for more than what I was getting. I’d indulge in self-pleasure then, and it worked for me. But soon, these some days outnumbered the others, and I craved sex. I wondered why he didn’t feel the same, because whenever I initiated it, he’d say he was tired and needed some rest. After a few tries, I stopped. And I never brought it up either, because having conversations about how we felt, wasn’t what our relationship was built on.
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The frustration was building up but I tried to focus my energies on other things. I worked out harder at the gym, clocking in close to two hours working out. Not that I needed to, but I wanted to sweat out my frustrations. Two pregnancies had robbed my body of the luster I possessed once upon a time. I had loose skin hanging all over, a slightly protruding belly, and my boobs weren’t perky anymore. They sagged all the way down until they united with my protruding belly. But, since starting my routine at the gym, I had regained some semblance of a curvy figure, and I was proud of it.
And just like that, one day, I came across this absolutely gorgeous man. The kind every 19-year-old girl dreams of. He’s the guy I’m guessing Katy Perry mentions in most of her songs!
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A perfect little man.
His flirty smile, dark, handsome looks, and a slight dimple in his left cheek made him all the more alluring. Not just that, but there was an inexplicable something in his demeanor that made a lot of women go gaga over him, me included. He was probably half my age! He gave unsolicited advice to all women in the gym about working out, and they took it happily. But I hadn’t dared to seek him out, let alone talk to him. It had been years since I flirted and I knew that I couldn’t anymore.
Flirting with a guy at the gym is a cliché, but it was my cliché and I was okay with it.
One day, I told myself enough was enough and mustered up enough courage to walk up to him and see what might happen. You see, I wanted his eyes on me. I wanted to see the look of admiration of my body that I had worked hard to achieve.
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And in an attempt to grab his attention, I walked past him, picked up some weights and started lifting it in a way that even the janitor at the gym knew it was wrong. I did it on purpose, and like I had expected, the cute guy came to my rescue. And that was it; I knew I was in love with a younger man. Or maybe not; I was in lust with a younger man – for sure.
The next couple of days, he taught me how to ‘lift’ weights, and soon we had exchanged numbers. He was exactly the opposite of my husband. He was young, reckless, fun-loving, adventurous, trying to make a living by playing the guitar at the odd gig he could bag, and had a dark sense of humor that appealed to me a lot. Something I didn’t know I would be appreciating.
I had obviously been dropping a lot of hints, and somehow I thought he wasn’t catching any of them. Until one day, we kissed in the basement parking lot of the gym. That one tiny kiss had stirred up all my hormones and they went haywire. I invited him over to my place the same day when my kids and husband weren’t at home. Although he was a bit hesitant when he saw the ring on my finger, I was able to successfully distract him from his dilemma.
And we’d done it.
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Although, at first, I felt that it was only physical attraction and lust that I felt for him, as days went by and we began seeing each other more, I realized that I had gone and fallen in love with him.
Being in love with a younger man was different; it was fun, and I felt in control. All those years I spent being happily married, now started seeming empty; I was disillusioned; my heart had been longing for this kind of love, and only now that I had it did I realize what I had been missing. The love of a man who was open-minded, carefree, and an absolute animal in bed. The kind who never hesitated to express his feelings for me. He spoke a lot, and a lot of it didn’t make much sense. He was so far removed from my type, that I found it refreshing.
But what the heck, I began to see myself in a new light. I had begun to appreciate myself and accept that my needs weren’t insignificant, and that it was alright to have physical needs. It was alright to have pointless conversations and a good laugh. That it was okay to crave things that I wasn’t getting in my marriage.
At home, things remained pretty much the same. Nothing had changed; the same old routine, same old things to do and say! I now did all of that with a little twinkle in my eye. If you looked at me, you’d know at once that there was a marked change in me, but sadly, my husband never really looked at me. He could never tell, and all he knew was that I was now a happier person, and he thought it was because of yoga! I knew that this would never bother him, and truth be told, I loved him too, but it was a different feeling with the other guy. It felt new, I felt like a completely new person. It was madness, but was totally worth it.
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I was now in love with a younger man too. For some real strange reason, I never felt guilty; I felt like I deserved this slice of happiness that I’d carved for myself. I knew I deserved more love, and now I got it from this fellow. We’ve been together for almost six months now, and I know someday soon, he will wake up and think that this is crazy. Until that day, I know he is mine, and I will take it as it comes. I know he won’t be satisfied with the half relationship that we’ve been having, and that he’d need and want more, or he’d just want out. That day, my heart will break into little tiny pieces, because I don’t have the answers he’s looking for. And I’d have to let him go. I don’t know, maybe I’d go with him, leaving my own children, to lead a life that now seems more fulfilling.
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How can I be so sure? I don’t know, I’m not.
The last couple of months have been fantastic for me; I never thought I had it in me even with those sagging breasts and stretch marks and the million other flaws that I see when I look in the mirror. But when I’m with him, I feel younger, happier, more carefree, more alive, and more everything. A part of me has always been longing for all the things he gives me – a sense of security, trust, affection, and love. I have it all with him, and I’m happy that I’m in love with a younger man, for however long it will last.
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