My Wild, Sexy, Age-Gap Relationship

I traded my supple, perky youth for a life of luxury

As a ninteen-year-old nymphish woman, I was acutely aware that young sprites like myself held a bounty of power at our springy, soft fingertips. I had long dark hair with effortless shine, breasts that did not require a bra, and skin that still had the fresh, rosy appearance of high school acne—the pinnacle of beauty. I considered dating men my own age—other nineteen-year-old college students with no jobs, no house, no car…and then I realized that I wouldn’t have to. In fact, I could trade the most powerful of things—my youth and fleeting beauty—for a lifetime of security with an older man. I would not stumble through my twenties with a man my age, teaching him to do laundry and make his own bed. Instead, I would couple up with a man two years older.

Enter twenty-one-year-old Eric—swarthy, muscular, and distinguished in a way that men my age could never dream of being. Instead of four roommates, he only had one. He was able to take me to lavish restaurants that I could never dream of going to with a boy my own age, including Stir Crazy, an innovative Asian restaurant that enabled you to actually customize your own stir fry. Boys my age could never.

It has been fifteen years since we met. We are now married. Being in an age-gap relationship with my husband, Eric, brings with it all the judgments in the world. When we walk down the street, now 34 and 36 with two children, people probably wonder “Was he watching Power Rangers when she was still watching Lamb Chop?” They wonder if, due to the aggregation of cohorts, he and I fall into two separate buckets on marketing surveys— 25-34 and 35-44. And they would be right—our experiences in life are worlds apart.

At this point, I’m used to the crazy things people say, like “What year did you graduate?” only to have to explain to them that I graduated in 2011, whereas he graduated in 2010 (don’t let that throw you off- we are two years apart, but I am young for my grade and he is old for his.)

But it’s all worth it to know that I have maximized my value as a sexy, kittenish, coquette.

I would be remiss not to mention the obvious financial security that comes with an older man. We got married at 24 and 27 (For a few months out of the year between his birthday and mine, we are actually three years apart. Our differences in life stages could not feel further apart on those months.) At the time of our wedding, I was making $50K in a tech sales job. He, on the other hand, was making $60K at a different tech job. I couldn’t believe women my age had settled for men their own age. I was living a life of luxury, with access to things that women with young husbands couldn’t dream of—bahn mi sandwiches, being able to order iced tea at restaurants, two-ply toilet paper…I often wonder why more women didn’t take this path. Sure, society might judge, but I would argue that an older husband is the best choice a young woman can make to maximize her value.

And let me be clear—when I say “value” I’m not just talking about looks. Young women are the most valuable for many reasons, which also include having tight pussies.

We still encounter moments where the generational gap is more obvious than ever. For example, he has never seen Spongebob Squarepants, and when I refer to the “You like Krabby Patties Don’t You” face, he has no idea what I’m talking about. In a way, it’s cute, knowing that he has lived a whole three years in the wild ‘80s, and I a mere one year. He lived through the Reagan presidency. I only have faint memories of George Bush Sr.

And the ‘90s—What was he doing when I was in the movie theater watching Aladdin with my parents in 1992? Perhaps he was also watching Aladdin, but most likely he was better-behaved during the screening and able to sit for longer periods of time.

I hope that we will continue to grow in the same direction. I hope that he will always see me for the most important things about me—the smoothness of my skin, the puffiness of my cheeks, and the perkiness of my breasts. Although 34 and 36 is a lot less outrageous than 19 and 21, we still have moments where I’m reminded of our glaring gap. I had to explain TikTok to him, walking him through the endless incorrect usage of “POV.” Of course, being thirty-six makes it difficult for him to comprehend such things. But in embarrassment, he expresses it by saying things like, “I’m trying to work, I don’t care about Skibidi Toilet.”

If you’ve made it to the end of this piece and still have no idea what’s going on, this is a parody.