The 25-year-old I was kissing last year finally asked me my exact age. I spit out the raw number. She gave me a grossed-out "You're my grandpa with benefits?" look then ended our relationship. The 23-year-old bachata dancer before her paused a lifestyle of steamy lesbian sex to make me her first boyfriend. The 20-year-old corn goddess I'm dating now calmed my fears that our blissfully perverted love might result in me leaving her widowed with a gaggle of children. She responded unflinchingly, "You'd better, because they'll be all I have to remember my jaguar by!" I'm embarrassingly satisfied with my fit and sexy life.
