Sean leant in, whispered in my ear and ran his hand across my back.

My skin reacted to his touch. It wasn’t a shiver down my spine – more of a shudder.
It was dark, so I hope he didn’t see my expression, which I’m pretty sure must have been a mix of shock and horror. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. After all, he was young.
Very young.
Objectively speaking, I know that a 19 year-old is not a child. Sean has a car and a part-time job; he can legally drive, drink, vote, watch porn, have sex or join the army. But still, I can’t help but think of him as a little more than a boy and I was a bit freaked out. The whole thing felt like a child molestation situation – except it is me that had been molested by a child.
It was at a BBQ. The adults were chatting inside. The kids were running around like lunatics in the garden. The teenagers were outside too, manning the stereo and dancing. I went out to have a cigarette and Sean trotted over to chat.
Had I been flirting with him? No, of course not. Give me some credit! I wasn’t flashing cleavage or wearing anything that could be described as vaguely slutty either. Hell, I wasn’t even wearing much make-up. Maybe he misread the signals in a booze-induced fog of wishful thinking or perhaps at 19 you don’t need much encouragement. Maybe the fact that I’d been chatting to him for a few minutes was enough.
The obvious answer is that this column is to blame. Write a regular column about sex and you’ve got to expect the amorous attentions of horny teens, Ms. Sexton. But that’s not it. Or perhaps it is partly it, but not the full story. Sean is not the first youngster I’ve fended off within the recent past, and this is a new development.
In the last year or so I have noticed that the age range of the men who approach me has changed. I had 19 year-olds hitting on me when I was around the same age and up until my early twenties or so. Then they stopped. Now that I’m in my thirties, they’re back. It’s a little weird. What the hell is going on?
I suppose you could say it’s flattering, that like Ms. Jean Brodie, I’m in my prime. But then there is also a more worrying possibility… After all, I’ve been ageing naturally, if not gracefully, and it seems highly unlikely that I’ve gotten better-looking in the last few years. Perhaps to teenagers I look like a hopeless spinster and therefore an easy target?
Whatever the reason, at least it makes a nice change from pensioners. Ever since I was a teenager, the elderly have found me strangely appealing. When I say elderly I don’t mean older, I mean truly, objectively old; nor do I mean the suave silver fox baby-boomers types, who according the lifestyle sections of the newspapers, spend their retirement snowboarding and enjoying wine holidays in Italy. Nope – put me in the vicinity of a man with a bus pass and a zimmer frame and more often than not he’ll tell me I’m lovely, or worse, get handsy.
The same is true for the mentally unhinged. Crazy men love me, but that, I suspect, is my own fault – and a whole other column.
I have a few theories as to why I’m experiencing an onslaught of very young men, and sadly I’ve been forced to conclude that my personal attractions have nothing to do with it. Nope, I suspect it may be porn and Courteney Cox that are responsible.
For once, blaming porn seems fair. All those damn MILF sites! According to a new book, MILF is the third most popular sex-related internet search term. Since a MILF is anyone over thirty, I appear to have, through no fault of my own, accidentally wandered into this territory. Although, thankfully, without the kids, the dull husband or the 4x4.
Then there’s Courteney Cox. I watched one episode of Cougar Town, and although I thought it was dire, the show is popular. It’s already into the second season, which must mean that more than merry divorcées have been watching it. It must, as the parlance goes, appeal to a wide demographic.
Of course, young men have long harboured fantasies about experienced older women who would take them under their wing and teach them all about sex. Fair enough – I had much the same hopes of thirtysomething men when I was younger. But between MILF porn and prime time television, teenage boys seem to have decided en masse that older women are the way to go.
After a certain point, I think it’s not really the age that matters, but the age gap. As a general rule, I’m quite fond of younger men. But by younger I mean younger than me, not young enough to get pocket money.
My friend Dylan doesn’t get this. I was telling him all about my Sean incident. He thought the whole thing was hilarious, including the fact that I found it disturbing. As far as he is concerned, anyone over 18 and in full possession of their mental faculties is fair game.
According to Dylan, and I’m presuming since he’s been through this he speaks with some authority, a 19 year-old boy is a more than capable about making up his mind about sex. It’s not that I don’t believe this too. After all, when I was 19, I knew what I wanted or didn’t want, and the boys I dated were unanimously in favour of getting as much sexual latitude as I was willing to give them, and frankly not beyond begging for more.
My own rule is as follows: over 25, fine. Under it? No thanks. Well I say that, but it’s not strictly true. A while back I ended up snogging a 21 year-old, but that was fine because he was a friend and gay. As this was strictly non-sexual, it doesn’t count.
Then there was Pedro. Pedro was a mistake, a misunderstanding if you will, caused by faulty intelligence. I met him on the dancefloor. We were having a great old time, jumping up and down and singing along. He told me he’d come to Ireland to go to college. When I found out he was doing an undergraduate degree I asked him how old was. He said he was 31.
It was dark and he was Brazilian so I thought, healthy eating, plenty of exercise, sunscreen, yada yada, he’s been looking after himself. Then the lights came up. “No, no,” he corrected me. “I said twenty-one.” Obviously being a mature sensible woman, I did the mature sensible thing and
legged it.
I always suspected I’d end up as a cougar, but it hasn’t worked out as I imagined. For one thing, I thought I’d be in my forties; and secondly I figured I’d be chasing men in their late twenties, not beating off horny teens with a stick.
First it was the elderly, then the insane, and now the youth – like Cougar Town it appears I’m appealing to a wide demographic. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.