I turned suitably middle-aged this year and have found men in my economic, social and reproductive age cohort harder to meet on the street — so to speak.
This is because they are looking for 14- to 25-year-olds and are married (and are therefore looking for a side salad); or are 51, have always been single and don’t even have a child ‘in the bush”, as we say in Shona — so you are bound to wonder what is wrong with them.
But thanks to technology you can now meet a man who is in Mexico, Bahrain or even Tuvalu. (Where is Tuvalu?) Gone are the days when we just had to make do with the guy in the flat opposite or the very strange one in admin whose sexuality you can’t quite determine. On the net is a vast menu.
First, they are not shy to tell you how old they are. The older men get, the more desirable they feel. I am amazed at the honesty. Toby’s* profile says he is 66. A handsome widower. Looking for a woman aged 25-45 for a serious relationship. He promises lots of fun, travel, fine-dining and the best things money can buy.
I have seen loads of men over 65 or 70 on the net as well. There is no sell-by date where dudes are concerned. Inside every man is a Hugh Hefner waiting to pop out, it seems.
Rod, or Hot Rod as he nicknames himself, 58 years of age, is ‘happily married” but looking for a woman ‘full of life, to share joyful moments”. What am I to decipher from Hot Rod? That his wife has lost her zest for life? Has she become menopausal and struggles to enjoy endless bouts of sex? Or does she have cancer?
We will never know. Hot Rod remains sizzling on the web. Some guys tell me how many children they have, what their wives do, what they hate about them. I guess it is the same as in real life: the Married But Available guys spin all kinds of yarns about their wives at the café, or in cyberspace. Maybe their wives don’t know how to access the internet?
Almost all the men I have met are ‘athletic, sporty, enjoy hiking, very fit”. They seem very accomplished, as Jane Austen would say. They like classical music, reading, theatre and art. Wow! Mr Darcy lives in Cyberland! If these 59- and 76-year-olds are so sporty, who, then, makes up the statistics on male mortality from heart attacks? By ‘sporty”, do they mean rooting for Man-U in front of their giant flat-screens?
I also do that, but I would never dare describe myself as sporty. I simply support Liverpool while drinking mojitos and the only sweat I break is from fantasising over José Mourinho when I’m on my own. Should I put that on my profile?
Looking at their profile photos, I find it hard to picture any of these very high-income men hiking up an anthill in my granny’s maize field. I am pretty certain that by ‘athletic”, they mean their Viagra-induced libido is out of control.
As for their ‘love of the arts”, mmm. Classical music? Any darkie of my age who says that is very suspect, unless he can prove he was adopted as an infant by Italians.
Theatre? Do they mean what we plebs call acting/ekting? That I can relate to. I acted as Mary throughout primary school (never Joseph’s donkey or baby Jesus). I played Shylock, then Horatio. But I’m not sure men of that age would be impressed to hear me reprise, ‘A pound of flesh! Hand me my sword!” They’d clutch their balls in horror. Not the kind of woman they envisage massaging their feet when the arthritis sets in.
The reading bit is fantastic, if it’s true. I can see myself turning the pages with any one of them, from Jesus in Bolivia to Dave in Randburg. Oh, come! Oh, come! I mean that literally, boys.
But wait, what would we be reading? Their profiles don’t say. With some I can tell they read good, serious literature. The rest I am not convinced by, because if they’re serious readers why, oh why, would they be such bad spellers? And I just cannot bear the very bad grammar, man. ‘Why are you QUITE?” asked Paul. ‘I waiting your respond,” quoth Sipho. ‘Were are you?” asked Mik. ‘I love a WOMEN like you,” claimed Thabo. A polygamist in my inbox!
I shall stick to the sultan in Bahrain. He impresses me with his bling. The prospect of owning an oil well overrides bad English. I forgive José, the sexy-poetic Latino, all his grammatical errors: ‘I am truly loving you. When will you meeting me my angel? My mouth is wait you sweeet kiss. My body is paining your soft touch. Fly, fly, for me here in Buenos Aires.”
I could happily produce sextuplets for this man. If only I still had a uterus. Yes, José, I believe I can fly. Just for you.
* Names have been changed to safeguard my prospects on the net