with Horton Doolittle
Hey friends! Thanks for checking out my guest blog here on Men On Pause. I’m sure you’re wondering why the hell I'd write a piece for a publication with a name this asinine. I’ll let you know at the end of the article. If I remember.
Last week, my friend, Liz Coash, sent me a text. She’d written a hugely popular column called “Is He A ‘Nurse’ Or A ‘Purse?’ Navigating The Over-60 Dating Scene.” Something about this piece — something I can’t remotely comprehend — struck a chord with thousands of ladies out there. Her post got nearly 16K reads. And my God, did the ladies dogpile on men. Big time. You should see the comments section. It’s packed with stuff like this from older women: “This is why I don’t date. The world’s champion idiots will look at me for three seconds and go, ‘You need to lose weight. Fuck that.’” Fortunately, there was one commentator, a guy named Kurt, who was willing to take one for the team: “You clearly have a bad attitude about over 60 men. I think you should probably not try to date anymore. It's not cute making generalizations like that.” Liz was pretty sure that “Kurt” was actually her father, with whom she is estranged. The syntax matched his perfectly.
Boys, if you were imagining older ladies have your balls in a vice-grip, you could be right on that. I’m highly recommending you read Liz’s article. Get a lay of the land before you try getting laid. Then come back to my story.
Turns out that some of Liz’s male readers — I’m talking paid subscribers — challenged her to write a piece on the over-60 dating scene from the male perspective. Since she couldn’t bring herself to “stoop that low” (her words), she thought I might be the one to take this on. I was only too happy to oblige, being a gentleman and all.
Every few weeks, after I’ve put back a few glasses of my favorite San Antonio bag-in-box port, and have sent yet another cheerful text message to my daughter Madison — who I am well aware will not be responding as she is currently “taking space” from our relationship — I cruise social media and invariably stumble across many bitter, hysterical articles written by sixty-, seventy- and eighty-something women. I guess when gals hit ninety, they no longer give a shit about men, because these Silent Generation women truly seem to be silent. Maybe they’re dead. Who knows? Younger women take note: Silence is golden.
The highest form of communication between a man and a woman is the shared silence that needs no explanation. — Ernest HemingwayLove that Hemingway quote! My sentiments exactly.
Liz, who is the editor of Men On Pause, tried to get me to remove this quote, claiming that many of Hemingway’s female characters are portrayed as manipulative, nagging, and weak. My response to her request: “Hey, the guy won the Nobel Prize in 1954. That’s got to count for something.” Liz’s response: “Ah, no, that award is now considered meaningless. It’s basically men giving awards to men.” I’m so confused. Is there something wrong with that?
These ladies — the ones who read Liz’s stuff — they whine endlessly about men my age. They claim we’re lazy, looking for free maid service, or that we’re looking for a mommy replacement. She suggested I was personally looking for anyone willing to put out — for you-know-what — in exchange for a cup of decaf Sanka. Wow. That’s low. Even for Liz.
Balderdash, is what I say! Total, unadulterated poppycock.
As a Tier II Clearance man of The Real World, a lifelong student of feminine psychology, and the proud author of an unpublished 400-page manifesto on modern courtship, I feel it is my duty to set the record straight on older men and dating. Older men are not looking for a caregiver. We want romance and sparkle, and our “baseline visual attraction” is women in their 20s. Think Natalie Harp. Pretty, slim, large breasts, feminine dresses and high heels, longish blond hair, plump lips, nice round bottom. A woman like Natalie is the natural preference of all men, though those of us who are more open-minded may be willing to settle for a woman in her 30s. Basically, men want a woman who understands the timeless, natural order of things — namely, that a man in his golden years is like an exquisite, rare vintage. He deserves to be handled with reverence, soft lighting, meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and minimal backtalk.
The tragedy of our modern dating world is this: women our own age have completely disqualified themselves from the running. After extensive discussions with my circle of friends — eligible, high-value males from the local Elks Lodge — we have ascertained that the over-sixty female population has degenerated into three distinct, un-dateable archetypes:
The Hag: These are women who have decided to “let nature take its course.” They have silver hair, have quit bothering with shapewear, are into sensible orthotics, and have zero interest in the NFL. They believe in equality in the bedroom and in the kitchen. They are not interested in hunting and hand you a can opener when you ask, “What’s for dinner?”
The Slag: These are women who’ve had the audacity to live a full life before meeting us. They know what they want in the bedroom, and they have expectations. These women refuse to shower men with much-deserved praise when they manage to perform four minutes of uninterrupted missionary position sex before their sciatica flares up.
The Nag: These ladies are the absolute worst. They possess strong opinions, know how to read a financial statement, and will not stop asking basic, hostile questions like “Why did you leave your wet towel on the cat?” “Have you emptied the dishwasher?” Or, when you can’t get it up: “When was your last prostate exam?”
A Study in Contrasts
Now, I want to introduce you to five noble, misunderstood silver foxes — men who’ve been unfairly villainized by our local spinster cabal, otherwise known as The League of Women Voters. That brings me to this hard fact: women should never have been allowed to vote. For 144 years, American women deferred to men to run the government and make all the decisions. Things went ever so smoothly back in those days. Am I right, guys? Fortunately, the evangelical right has taken up the issue of “household voting,” and in some parts of the country is calling for the 19th Amendment to be repealed altogether.
Oops! Got off track here — back to the discussion at hand: older men and dating.
Here are some hard facts to get the ball rolling — peer-reviewed data I put together while waiting for my soup-of-the-day in a sourdough bread bowl at Panera:
91% of men over the age of 60 are at the undisputed peak of their physical and sexual magnetism (think Sean Connery, minus the sleep apnea mask and knee brace).
88% of single women over 55 are dangerously “inflexible,” according to certified medical professionals. This is because of “their refusal to listen to a 45-minute breakdown of box score stats without rolling their eyes,” among other things.
96% of mature women lack basic maternal compassion, as evidenced by their refusal to help a gentleman locate his reading glasses when they are resting plainly on top of his head.
100% of men who seek out vibrant 20-something-year-old women are doing so purely out of generosity, offering their immense life wisdom in exchange for light housework, Lululemon leggings, and youthful vitality.
And so I bring you, from the front lines of male romantic martyrdom, five tragic accounts of great men who tried to give mature women a chance, only to be crushed by their bitterness.
Carl Custer, 71: “I need someone who matches my vibrational frequency”
Carl is a retired pediatric dentist, an alpha male, and a visionary who understands that age is merely a social construct. He loves the feel of a Costco polyester-blend camp shirt, which he unbuttons to his navel to display his magnificent tuft of silver chest hair. He drives a lemon-yellow convertible that turns heads at every red light, especially when oil leaks from the valve cover gasket onto his exhaust manifold, creating black smoke.
Carl’s Philosophy
“Horton, it’s not about superficial beauty; it’s about vibrations — spiritual connections. Women my age are constantly dragging the room down with talk about osteoporosis, their families, and European river cruises. I can hardly suppress a yawn. I am 38 in my soul! I need a wild, spontaneous partner who wants to jump on a plane to Cancun at a moment’s notice. Older women are simply too set in their ways. They have their own ideas of what constitutes a good time, and aren’t willing to surrender to the masculine flow.”
The Tragedy of Santa Barbara
Carl generously decided to treat Mia, a 42-year-old yoga instructor, to a spontaneous, high-energy weekend in Santa Barbara where he hoped to introduce her to his youthful prowess. But did Mia appreciate his romantic gesture? Not in the slightest.
Due to a minor administrative oversight by the boutique hotel, the air conditioner in their room had a slight hum, and Carl’s delicate constitution had been temporarily disrupted by a spicy street taco. When Carl experienced an absolutely normal, masculine bout of acute gastrointestinal distress, in combination with his having misplaced his bottle of blood pressure medication, he reached out to Mia for basic, nurturing female comfort.
Carl spent a mere four hours of their romantic overnight writhing on their king-sized bed in his soiled boxer shorts, groaning vulnerably while politely asking Mia to apply a cold compress to his forehead. He also asked her to call his daughter to verify the dosage of his Lipitor, and to run down to the corner Grocery Outlet for some stewed prunes.
Instead of stepping into what should have been her natural feminine role as a healer, Mia had the audacity to put on lipstick, a cute A-line denim skirt and cowboy boots, and tell Carl she was going out to get a margarita, leaving him to suffer alone! Though this was their first date, Carl gently pointed out that a true life partner would have prioritized his recovery over going out on the town.
Mia enjoyed salsa-dancing for several hours, then called an Uber and went home, leaving Carl to “fend” for himself, which he did with the help of the adult entertainment channel in his room.
Unbelievable. A man shows genuine vulnerability, and an older woman judges him as weak and thinks nothing of deserting him.
Doug Drysdale, 68: “A woman ought to take pride in her appearance”
Doug is a distinguished widower who gave thirty-five years of loyal service to the commercial insurance industry and 44 years to his wife, Debra. He is a man of refinement who believes that standards matter.
Doug’s Philosophy
“Is it a crime for a gentleman to appreciate elegance? My late wife, bless her soul, never let me see her without her hair and makeup done, and she was always in a pretty dress with matching pumps. Of course, I never got to see her in her natural state, but that’s how she was — a class act.”
“The 62-year-old women on these dating apps wear denim jackets and cargo pants, have gray hair and no makeup, and sport flat shoes. And when did it become a crime to wear nylons?”
“Where is the mystery? Where is the effort? Where are the womanly wiles? If I’m investing in a forty-dollar meal at The Olive Garden, I don’t want to feel like I’m having lunch with my high school geometry teacher.”
The Calamari Incident
Doug had set up a romantic evening at a local bistro with Brenda, a 62-year-old retired architect. Doug is a practical man who doesn’t believe in wasting money on vanity items, so he arrived in a comfortable, well-loved polo shirt — which had a tiny, harmless mustard stain from his lunch at the ballpark — and he wore his favorite boat shoes, which carried the authentic, rugged aroma of life on a herring factory trawler.
Sitting across from Doug, Brenda looked frankly intimidating in her sharp black blazer and expensive silver jewelry, with her svelte physique and undyed hair. Immediately recognizing that Brenda lacked a gentle guiding hand, Doug generously offered some constructive — and loving — feedback about her appearance over their calamari appetizer, which Brenda was sadly allergic to.
Doug leaned across the bread basket, held her hand, and told her, in the most caring voice imaginable, that her “crow’s feet” were quite prominent — perhaps she had not noticed this since it seemed clear she didn’t own a mirror. Doug suggested that a modest application of dermal filler and some heavy night cream could easily restore her youthful glow. He noted that his wife, Gladys, had done just that when she was in the final throes of her Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and it had done wonders in terms of making her look more alive and vibrant, even when she was in excruciating pain and experiencing organ failure.
Brenda stared at Doug in disbelief.
Did Brenda say, “Thank you, Doug, for your honest aesthetic guidance”?
No, she did not. She looked him dead in the eyes — completely ignoring his distinguished ear plumage, which adds tremendous character to his profile — and said, “Doug, you look like a laundry hamper that gained sentience.” She then threw her napkin on the table and marched out! Doug was left entirely alone, forced to explain to their shocked eighteen-year-old hostess that older women have completely lost their capacity for gracious self-improvement.
Martin Swerski, 66: “They’ve got too much baggage and big opinions”
Marty is a dynamic former regional logistics coordinator with an encyclopedic knowledge of virtually everything. He is a natural leader who understands that women secretly crave a man who can take charge of the conversation.
Marty’s Philosophy
“It’s simple evolutionary biology, Horton. A woman’s biological imperative is to seek guidance from a dominant, knowledgeable male. But women over sixty have completely lost that instinct. They want to argue! They want to debate! A man comes home from a hard day of managing his stock portfolio and playing a round of golf, and all he wants is peace (and a piece of ass, truth be told), not a panel discussion. Younger women appreciate a mentor. Older women think they know better than the experts.”
The Coffee Debacle
Marty took Susan, a 60-year-old former appellate judge, out for an educational coffee date. From the moment they sat down, Marty took the reins like a true gentleman. He gave Susan a fascinating, comprehensive twelve-minute briefing on the municipal court system's fundamental flaws, followed by an illuminating masterclass on the thermodynamic properties of the Americano he was drinking.
Instead of listening quietly and taking mental notes, Susan waited for Marty to pause for a breath and then aggressively attacked his thesis. She claimed his interpretation of constitutional case law was “laughably illiterate” and boasted that she had “written three legal treatises on that exact precedent.”
Marty, maintaining absolute composure, correctly diagnosed her behavior on the spot: she was suffering from severe, post-menopausal status-anxiety. He told her plainly that her aggressive intellectualism was deeply un-feminine and explained that her high-powered career had alienated her from that maternal warmth that comes naturally to normal women. And then, rather than apologizing for having emasculated him, Susan stood up, slapped a five-dollar bill onto the table, and said, “Keep the change, Marty. Use it to buy a clue.”
Marty spent that evening on Facebook alerting all the other men in town to Susan’s hostility. Our lodge brothers universally praised the poor guy for dodging a massive bullet. Whew!
Gerald Shanker, 69: “I need a low-maintenance gal who loves the outdoors”
Gerry is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. He lives in a cozy suburban home where his two-car garage serves as an active research-and-development laboratory, housing four vintage lawnmowers, a kerosene tank, and sixty-two neatly stacked banker boxes full of assorted copper wiring.
Gerald’s Philosophy
“Women my age are entirely too high-maintenance. They want reservations at fancy restaurants with cloth napkins. They want you to hire a licensed electrician when the light switch next to the kitchen sink sparks every time they turn on the light. A simpler solution: don’t turn on that darn light! Problem solved.”
“I just want a sweet, down-to-earth gal who appreciates a hardworking guy, doesn’t mind a little engine grease, and knows how to pitch in without complaining when I need help digging out the sewer lateral pipe on the side of the house.”
A Wood-Chipper Evening of Romance
Gerald invited 58-year-old Claire over for an authentic, rustic, homecooked meal. Showing incredible resourcefulness, Gerald laid out a box of premium saltines and a can of vintage chili. When he realized his can opener was missing — having used it earlier to scrape gasket sealant off a carburetor — he dug through the tool drawer, found a flathead screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer, then used the two to open the can right before her eyes. Pure masculine problem-solving in real time! Now if that doesn’t turn a woman on, they are likely a lesbian.
Gerry then treated Claire to an exclusive, behind-the-scenes tour of his workshop, culminating in a demonstration of the 1974 commercial wood-chipper he had almost completely restored. This was the same model famously seen in Fargo. When Gerald yanked the pull-cord, the magnificent machine roared to life with a triumphant backfire, discharging a harmless cloud of industrial carbon and spewing motor oil across the room.
Unfortunately, some of this motor oil landed on Claire’s white silk blouse, and the power grid in Gerald’s cul-de-sac suffered a blackout.
Instead of laughing off the adventure and offering to hold up the flashlight on her phone while Gerald tried all eighty-four of his unlabeled circuit breakers, Claire threw a temper tantrum! She walked out to the curb, called an Uber, and took off. Just like that. Not even a goodbye.
Three hours later, there was Gerry, in his garage, eating the room-temperature chili straight out of the can. Claire hadn’t even bothered to warm it up for him and put it in a proper bowl — which Gerry pointed out was perfectly doable, as he had a gas range and could light the burners with a match. Instead of giving Gerry a chance, Claire took off!
You can bet Gerry will not be calling her for a second date.
Stan Helmsley, 64: “Older women just radiate scarcity mindset”
Stan is a biohacking pioneer, a cold-plunge enthusiast, and an elite pickleball competitor. He wears five-toed ergonomic running shoes for everything — from his daily athletic activities to formal events. On any given day, Stan can be seen drinking his potent slurry of wild algae and bone broth (a recipe from Gwyneth Paltrow), and heard refusing to acknowledge chronological aging as anything more than “a mental defeat.” His motto: think young, live young, make love to young women.
Stan’s Philosophy
“It’s about optimization, Horton. Women in their sixties have completely surrendered to entropy. All they talk about is their hip replacements and their hormone replacement therapy. I am operating at the biological frequency of a 28-year-old Navy SEAL. I need a high-octane partner who values longevity, ice baths, and red-light therapy. Older women are just sitting around watching reruns of The Golden Girls and decomposing.”
The Pickleball Tragedy
Stan brought his optimized vitality to the local court, partnering with a 29-year-old fitness influencer named Krystal, whom he met in the kombucha aisle at Whole Foods. Stan was executing a masterclass in aggressive court coverage when his left Achilles tendon made a loud, wet popping noise — a clear sign, he was sure, that his cellular tissue was simply detoxing under extreme performance pressure. Whatever that means.
As Stan was splayed heroically across the court, writhing in his athletic triumph, Krystal radiated annoyance, then failed to step up to manage his logistical recovery. Instead of helping Stan, she mumbled something about having to meet a brand-sponsorship deadline, laced up her rollerblades, and off she went! Just like that.
Fortunately, Stan still had his phone on his person, and was thus able to generously extend an olive branch to his 63-year-old ex-wife, Janet, who he tried to hit up for a ride to the hospital. He asked a perky blonde bystander to dial Janet’s number, even though his hands were in perfect working order, and when Janet answered, he made his offer: to let her drive him to the ER — which he knew would be a forty-minute drive in rush-hour traffic. Stan pointed out this was actually a blessing in disguise, this long drive, as now he and Janet would now have ample time to catch up.
And could she also bring his supplemental insurance card when she picked him up, since he’d left it in the drawer to the left of the stove at her house? He was also hoping Janet could stay for the procedure to ensure that all medical personnel were kept abreast of his severe allergy to synthetic adhesives.
Stan was shocked and hurt to hear Janet laughing uncontrollably on the other end of the phone. When she finally caught her breath and was able to speak, she reminded Stan they been divorced for 12 years and that every remnant of him had been “exorcised from her house, thank God.” She could have politely said, “No, Stan, I no longer have your insurance card. I inadvertantly threw it out with the old carry-out menus. So sorry.” Instead, she rounded out their conversation by telling him to, “call an ambulance, you idiot,” then hung up! Surely his getting disconnected like that was a mistake, so Stan called her back, only to get this message: “The person you are calling is unavailable.”
After arriving at Walnut Creek General, Stan was strapped to a gurney and transported to the trauma room where he dictated this gutwrenching memo to our group chat: “Discovered today that older women have allowed their hearts to calcify into stone.”
Our hearts (not stone) are with you, Stan.
Randy Getawhey, 72: “I’m an adventurer, and a renegade”
Randy is a rugged outdoor renegade and the visionary proprietor of Adventures in Nature, the premier bicycle and kayak outfitter in the greater tri-county area (currently operating on a cash-only basis while Randy sorts out a minor bureaucratic misunderstanding with the state franchise tax board). Randy is a pure boomer powerhouse who radiates what the youth refer to as “unstoppable big dick energy.” And he makes no secret of the fact that he possesses an elite arsenal of bedroom maneuvers honed over decades of raw, unbridled vitality.
Randy’s Philosophy
“Women my age are obsessed with mundane things like financial security and emotional stability, Horton. They want a domestic eunuch who vacuums rugs, monitors his cholesterol, and watches cable news. I am an untamed stallion! When I take a gal out, I’m offering her an authentic, adrenaline-fueled expedition she’ll never forget. And in the sack? Let’s just say I’ve got moves that defy modern physics. You can’t put a price tag on the kind of primal masculine wattage I have to offer.”
A Failed Romp In His Shop-Top Apartment
Randy recently offered this total “package” to Micah, a sensible 34-year-old botanical illustrator. Rather than bore her with an overpriced meal at some stuffy bistro, Randy crafted a bespoke, high-octane adventure that started right behind his shop.
First came an authentic, rustic dinner: two fish tacos from an idling food truck next to the store’s dumpster bay. When the cashier totaled the bill, Randy discovered his debit card had suffered a sudden “magnetic de-coupling,” so he gallantly allowed Micah to cover the $14.50 tab. As it turned out, this would be a brilliant test of her team-player mindset.
Next, Randy intended to showcase his athletic prowess during a moonlit excursion down a municipal canal in a floor-model tandem kayak from Big Five. As he attempted his legendary alpha-male push-off from the canal bank, which was thick with mud, his foot slipped unexpectedly, and then his right knee — which had previously suffered a minor meniscus issue during a 1984 pickup softball tournament — issued a sound not unlike that of a celery stalk snapping in half. Randy rolled sideways into four inches of murky marsh grass, pinned beneath the boat’s hull like an overturned sea turtle. Miraculously, he maintained total command of the situation by explaining to Micah that he was just testing the river bank’s structural integrity from a prone tactical position. Eventually they both got in the kayak and off they went into that good, albeit pitch black, night.
Several hours later, Randy and Micah found their way back to his Subaru Forester, threw the boat on top and off they went. Upon arriving back in town and recognizing pure outdoor passion when he saw it, Randy invited Micah up to his bachelor loft above the retail floor, where he prepared to unleash what he proudly calls his Tahoe Kielbasa, on her Tahoe Taco.
Unfortunately, Randy’s bedroom performance hit a brief mechanical snag. Every time Randy attempted one of his standard acrobatic changes of position, his right patella locked at a rigid 35-degree angle, as it made a loud, metallic popping sound and sent acute pain shooting through his lower lumbar. To maintain his seductive momentum, Randy had to wedge two memory-foam bicycle saddles under his hamstring, prop his good leg against the oak dresser next to his twin bed for leverage, and then call for three consecutive tactical timeouts to massage a violent groin cramp.
Did Micah swoon with gratitude at witnessing such uninhibited primal vigor?
No, she did not. She calmly pulled her sweater on, retrieved a bag of frozen edamame from Randy’s mini-fridge and tossed it on his swollen knee, then gently observed that he had spent the last twenty minutes groaning in the fetal position while tangled in a display rack of safety helmets.
And how did Randy out round this masterclass in irrepressible virility? He gave Micah a smoldering wink from the futon, asked if she could spot him a twenty for tomorrow’s breakfast, and then politely requested that she look under the sofa for his hinged neoprene knee brace.
Naturally, Micah made up a transparent excuse about having to water her ferns and slipped out the door without helping Randy up, spotting him the cash or retrieving his brace. As Randy and I agreed over coffee the next morning, modern women simply lack the stamina for a truly wild ride and Micah’s bowing out early was a signal she was too exhausted to receive Randy’s well-intentioned love offering. Her loss.
The Final Verdict: Why We Are Abandoning Mature Women to Their Fate
So there you have it, gentlemen. The evidence is overwhelming and incontrovertible.
If you are an older woman wondering why high-caliber men like Carl, Doug, Marty, Gerald, Stan, and myself aren’t knocking down your door, look in the mirror. Not only will you see wrinkles, gray hair and breast ptosis, you will see a woman who has traded her sweet, submissive feminine charm for boundaries, self-respect, and basic decency — you know, things like clean sheets, putting the toilet seat down, and our bringing our wallets on a date.
We cannot imagine you finding satisfaction sitting in your clean, quiet houses, drinking expensive tea, spending time with your grandchildren, and sleeping diagonally across your king-sized beds without a snoring man beside you. Deep down, we know you are weeping for the loss of our masculine energy.
But ladies, we are not settling for the Hags, Slags, and Nags any longer. We are holding out for what we truly deserve: a 20 to 32-year-old soulmate who will look past our minor health quirks, hang on our every word about the Vietnam and Gulf Wars, cook three square meals a day from scratch, pay half the rent, and rub therapeutic horse liniment into our lower lumbar regions without being asked twice.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must log off. I have an important first date tonight with the lovely, Kimberly, a 28-year-old barista I met this morning at Naysayer’s Coffee. She hasn’t replied to my last seven text messages confirming our reservation at the Golden Corral, but that’s probably because she’s intimidated by my powerful masculine aura. I’m heading over there right now to show her what a real man looks like. I have all the confidence in the world that she will be there waiting for me.
Let us begin living our best lives, my friends!
I’m crying. The sheer number of men in this piece who are apparently “38 in spirit” but need a woman to locate the Lipitor, call an Uber and assess the prostate is magnificent.
Also, “laundry hamper that gained sentience” deserves preservation in the British Library. 😂🍒
I’m so grateful to be bisexual!
Late blooming lesbians are not uncommon.