May and December
Bill Clinton was forty-nine when he had an affair with a twenty-two year old intern named Monica Lewenski. The difference in their ages and his job as president led to an international discussion about the abuse of power, even in consensual sexual relationships, a conversation I willingly took part in because I didn’t like Bill Clinton.
I didn’t like Bill Clinton because, as Governor of Arkansas, and married, he kept calling the woman I nearly got arrested for having sex with in the parking lot of the Jackson International Airport. Almost six years older than me, she was considerably younger than Bill Clinton, and did I mention he was married? She swore she rebuffed his advances, but still, should I, in my twenties, having an affair with an older woman, be competing with the married Governor of Arkansas for the attention of a lady?
I was always very conscious about issues of power between men and women because, without naming names or too many details, I seemed to be surrounded by women who wanted me to abuse my position of power in their favor, even pretending to have feelings for me in order to convince me to do something I knew I shouldn’t. I did it because I didn’t believe it was fair for me to have power I didn’t need or deserve, and for them to not have the power they needed to solve their own problems, despite making better grades than I did. I was also terribly lonely because I knew I was ugly.
Most of my thoughts and conversations with women were along the lines of “would a gentleman do this?” including having oral copulation in the parking lot of the Jackson International Airport, an act between two consenting adults in a place where I assumed nobody could see below the windows of my sport package Ford Taurus. Clearly, I was wrong. A security guard, on foot, can see below the windows of a sport package Ford Taurus.
Lying about his consentual affair with a twenty-two year old intern rose to the level of an impeachable offense, an issue I bring up because, despite several women saying they were assaulted by the current president and his best friend when they were well under the age of consent, it has yet risen to the level of an impeachable offense, and congress has yet to have hearings on the issue where the president was compelled to testify. Under oath, Ronald Reagan said “I do not recall” eighty-eight times, but he did us the courtesy of testifying, thus fulfilling his duty to the Constitution.
I should also mention that, while I generally prefer older girls, I don’t always prefer older girls, and in the wake of my divorce, I had a very poorly advised affair with a woman in her mid twenties when I was in my early fifties.
Brilliant, beautiful, and Jewish, I was already in trouble when she expressed an interest in me. With dark hair and dark eyes, I probably should have blocked her when I first met her, but I was lonely, and I wanted confirmation that I still mattered as far as women were concerned--although I’m not sure I did even then.
With women my own age, it generally takes me months before I’m willing to cross certian boundaries, sometimes years, sometimes a lifetime. I believe that’s my obligation as a gentleman. Almost six years older than me, I’d been seeing my wife for two months before she ended up missing her trousers on my office desk—an act that was entirely my fault, although she did take her shoes off.
After my wife left, I had many conversations with this young woman on the internet about how our entire relationship was most likely built around the fact that she had a horrible relationship with her real father, and I was probably the only person in her life convinced that she could finish her engineering masters degree because she was that smart rather than screaming at her that she owed it to the family, considering how much money was spent on her education.
I knew she abused alcohol. I knew she abused adderall. We discussed these things for months, until one night I agreed to give my opinion on her underwear.
“You’re really nice to me.”
I was nice to her. I try to be nice to everybody. I didn’t want her to want me because I was nice to her. I wanted her to want me because she wanted me, but I was tired, and hurt, and lonely, and weak…and I’m absolutely convinced every woman I’ve ever known knew they had the upper hand the very moment they had it
I knew I wasn’t the only man in her life. I only agreed to be in her life on the condition that she continued looking for nice boys her age in her part of the country. She found a brilliant boy, three years older, with high-functioning autism, and because he had high-functioning autism, she was his first ever girlfriend. When he found out that his first-ever girlfriend was regularly and still dancing like a naked spider monkey for me on Skype, he pretty much lost his mind and started trying to convince the world I was a pedophile for being in my fifties and having a sort of sexual congress with a woman in her mid-twenties, no matter how consensual it was.
He was hurt. I get that. My existence hurt him. I get that. My affair with his first-ever girlfriend was a terrible idea on my part. I get that. It was legal, even normal in some cultures, but it felt wrong to me, even though I continued doing it.
She talked to me about Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Oona and Charlie Chaplin, and all the other famous May-December relationships she could think of, and she was right, Lauren Bacall and Oona O’Neil were very happy women who devoted their lives to older men, but I still felt terrible.
I always feel guilty in relationships, even when I’m the younger partner, but in this one, I felt especially guilty because I don’t think I loved her. I think I was lonely, and I wanted someone to say that, although my wife didn’t want me, someone would. Eventually, my insistence that we should be “just friends” stuck, and that’s where we are now, although I rarely speak to her anymore.
Still…
Was my situation the same as Bill Clinton’s or Donald Trump’s?
No matter how you slice it, there are unavoidable issues of power when the man is older and the woman is younger, and while I know guys who exploit these differences for sport, I am not one of them. I feel guilty about desiring anyone, and will probably die that way. Sometimes I’ll say it’s because Katie died, but even before I knew Katie, I refused to do boy-girl dances because girls made me uncomfortable, and I knew I was ugly.
Knowing how ugly I am, can I be trusted not to abuse positions of power?
In my twenties, I began to wonder if I’d ever meet a girl who didn’t pretend to like me, so I’d help them out financially or in similar ways. One girl wanted me to help her get her dad out of prison. Are you surprised that she lost all interest in me once I managed to find a way to get him home for Christmas?
The abuse of power goes both ways, but it’s hard to say that when nearly every other situation included men who used it to make sexual conquest with women they didn’t love.
I’m aware that love and sex aren’t the same thing. Sometimes, they‘re not even related, but for me, I require standards of myself. There are lines I will only cross if I’m willing to maintain a certian level of commitment to the person involved. Commitment isn’t love, but it’s a start.
“You’re really nice to me.”
“I’m nice to everybody, honey.”
“But why me?”
“I believe in you. I like you. You make me laugh.”
“Tell me what you think about desire.”
“I think I shouldn’t discuss desire with you.”
In affairs of the heart, I only make mistakes. Knowing I didn’t love this woman made me feel terrible about what was happening between us. Had I loved her, it probably would have been worse. I’m not Humphrey Bogart or Charlie Chaplin. That makes me a little sad.
I’m also not Bill Clinton or Donald Trump. That makes me proud.
