Can’t Buy Me Love: Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance

by Madison, Mia

  “Speaking of fun…” A mischievous glint came to her eyes. “Guess what I installed while you were gone?”

  An anvil dropped into my chest. “What… did you do?”

  With an impish smile, she skipped away. As she did, she tossed her head back. “You’ll just have to go look in the spare bedroom.”

  I dropped my bags and went to look. What I saw almost gave me a heart attack. A pole. She installed a fucking X-Pole in the house. With a permanent ceiling mount.

  We talked about this.

  I told her when she was eighteen.

  Not eighteen minus a few weeks.

  “HEIDI!”

  Hollis

  I couldn’t believe I was doing this. But then again, I couldn’t believe I was doing much of anything I’d been doing.

  I stared over the ad that would go in the local paper. Our town was quite small, but identifying details would remain under wraps until necessary.

  Speaking of necessity, I asked myself several times over whether this, what I was about to do, was a necessity. My stomach churned and churned, but my spirit was firm.

  Yes.

  “Do you like it?” The writer asked, eyes fraught with anxiousness. She was a college student with her heart set on becoming a writer. If her words were any indication, persistence would guarantee her success. She’d written a fabulous personal ad for me, one that expressed my desire for a companionship without sounding seedy or desperate.

  “I love it.” I shared a flashing smile. She exhaled, expressing relief from my reassurance.

  I paid her in cash, including a generous tip, and submitted the letter to a graphic designer at work. He liked designing in his free time, but he looked at me strange when I asked him how much it would cost to design the template for a full-page ad.

  “You’re putting an ad in the paper for a wife?”

  “Eh, uh, it’s not for me. It’s for a good friend,” I said, blushing under the discriminating look he gave me.

  “Strange guy,” he muttered after I accepted his fee. I shrugged him off, ignoring the slight sting I felt. On the surface, I was a normal guy. Nobody at work ever knew how badly I struggled with my social anxiety. I worked there so long, I learned how to mask it. The fact that we barely had women in the office helped also. I was surrounded by men in my department, making it easy for me to find an emotional crawlspace that worked during my shifts.

  Still, in the back of my mind, I wondered if I were a loser for doing this. I was in my late 30s, thirty-seven to be exact. I was 5’11,” and while I wasn’t fat, I wasn’t any chiseled god either. With dark hair and green eyes, with a very average body and an overworked software engineer’s wardrobe, I wasn’t much to look at.

  I had a very successful career as a software engineer for a giant tech retailer. My salary was over $350,000 per year, I was debt-free, and my future was secure. I was chivalrous, had manners, and never put my hands on a woman.

  But money and manners weren’t why I was single. I knew how to take care of a woman, and could afford to treat her like a queen if given the chance.

  I was single because I was awkward. There was a time I couldn’t approach a girl without experiencing obvious full-blown panic: sweaty palms, babbling, things of that nature.

  When those things were slightly under control, my social insecurity showed in weird ways. I would either smother a woman with constant communication, pretend to see movies I’d never heard of, or be constantly ask her if she were okay. My anxiety would give a woman anxiety, and I’d never hear from her again.

  * * *

  I came from a good, hardworking middle class family. My parents sacrificed their dreams to make sure my brother, sister, and I had everything we needed. In turn, we were all successful. Paisley lived in New York City. She was a successful talk show host. Kendan worked as an engineer as well, but he lived in Los Angeles instead of our Seattle area hometown.

  Mom and Paisley never knew Dad brought me to an escort on my twenty-fifth birthday. I’d been fumbling with software and work for so long, he said, that I had no idea how to interact with women.

  “Dad,” I protested, “You’re not making Kendan do this.”

  I remember Kendan’s smirk. “I’m not the awkward 25 year old virgin. I’m 21. And I’ve already gotten laid.”

  “Son,” he replied, shooting Kendan a look that shut him up. “You’re not going to want to be alone all of your life. Maybe if you go ahead and… go ‘all the way’ you’ll be cured of… whatever this is.”

  The woman was older than me. She wasn’t too much older, perhaps 29 or so, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. She looked like something straight out of Playboy Magazine. But I wasn’t sold. Porn was fine, but I wanted to touch a woman who meant something to me.

  Despite my hesitations and awkwardness, this woman embraced me. She wasn’t anything like what I thought an escort would be. She treated me like… she cared. She hugged me. She kissed me. She sat close to me, and showed tons of affection.

  One session, and I was sold. We met regularly, and had real dates. We’d go to the movies, visit the zoo, try fine restaurants. She accompanied me when I went house-hunting. And she was affectionate.

  I lost some of my awkwardness for a while. I smiled more, and suddenly being socially awkward wasn’t much of a problem. I felt loved, accepted, and completely normal.

  Mom and Paisley didn’t know what happened. They were just happy to see me happy. Dad and Kendan never spilled the beans, but they encouraged me to keep dating around. I didn’t understand why. As long as I gave her an allowance, she was my woman.

  I guess, in a way, I was her sugar daddy. But I had plenty to share, and it was nothing in exchange for her love and affection.

  Eventually, she moved away, and even though we’d parted amicably, I was heartbroken. She was all I’d known — even if it was under strange circumstances. In a strange way, I realized I kept waiting for the day she would tell me she wanted more. But she didn’t. She was a professional, and she also didn’t see herself getting tied down.

  Not that I’d ever offered to marry her. Another example of how awkward I am. I wasn’t assertive enough to ask the woman to give me a price on what I wanted.

  Since then, I’ve experienced love only through purchase. I’d say money can’t buy me love, but that’s all it honestly did. Without any really expensive hobbies, my generous income simply sat in my bank accounts, collecting dust and crappy little interest rates. I barely spent time with anyone or did anything outside of work.

  After seeing Jenna the other day, I decided it would be my last time. We’d seen each other long enough that I knew of her tastes, her hobbies, her interests. I knew what she liked and loved. Making love to women over the years has taught me how to listen to them, pay attention, and respond to their needs.

  But Jenna made it firmly clear that she wasn’t interested in settling down. She needed her money, and having grown up watching her mother lose out on love over and over again, she swore to keep intimacy a form of life that was strictly business.

  She was warm and sweet, but the shield was there. I could feel it whenever I went too deep. She’d pull away, and leave me questioning myself.

  As amazing as the sex was with these women, my heart always yearned for more. And while Jenna had given me another awesome experience just a few days ago, the loneliness set in merely hours after I’d left her.

  The wound was deepening, and the bandage of her company was no longer enough. So after scouring online, I researched mail order brides. There were plenty of websites offering submissive women ready to marry for American citizenship, but I wanted an American woman. I wanted to have conversations with her, or relate to her without language and cultural barriers.

  I also feared purchasing a foreign wife who would only send money back to the husband and kids she left “back home.” And I certainly didn’t want a woman who cooked, cleaned, and served me out of fear and obligation, as I read in some horror stories.

&
nbsp; I wasn’t old, ugly, or cruel. I wasn’t misogynistic and sexist.

  I was just fucking awkward, and willing to pay for a woman to cut through the bullshit to let me love her. I wanted a woman who wanted me, or at least would be willing to pretend to want me, in exchange for her permanent presence and companionship.

  As for love?

  Hm.

  Yes, I wanted her to love me. Ideally, she would fall head over heels in love with me. But I could settle for a love that grew over time. I’ve heard it happened. I’ve read stories where women speak of growing to love their husbands after a while. I just wanted a woman to fill the void even the most mind-blowing sex couldn’t erase.

  * * *

  I established an anonymous email account to receive submissions. I asked the women who responded to send pictures of themselves, and share whatever they felt I needed to know.

  Of course, I wanted to know their age, marital status, and occupation. I wanted to know whether or not they had children.

  What I got in response was sheer insanity.

  Local journalists crawled into the inbox, asking questions to interview me for a local feature. I refused to answer questions, yet one of them pieced together their own speculation and tossed up an article anyway.

  My email account was overrun with queries from women, ranging from 18 to 65. They were all races, shapes, and sizes, and attached bios that ranged from simple and plain to downright fiction.

  I didn’t have a specific standard I held the woman I was looking for to. I wouldn’t have minded if she were homely, or plus sized. I was looking for someone who seemed solid, but ready.

  None of the submissions were suitable. A little Google image search revealed most attractive photos belonged to porn stars and obscure social media models. Other replies were from women who were overrun with emotional baggage.

  Most serious replies came from escorts, but I no longer considered them an option. Their lifestyle wasn’t anchored for lifelong monogamy, and I wanted a sure thing.

  My head hurt. Even when I was being honest, finding love still felt impossible.

  Then my inbox refreshed.

  At the top was a single email, with a compelling headline.

  I’m Almost Scared to Ask…

  Okay, so it wasn’t compelling, per se. But it stood out for some reason, and I had nothing to lose, so I clicked.

  Hey,

  I came across your ad when I was scanning the classifieds for work. I’m almost scared to ask if you’re truly looking, or if this is the setup to some crazy reality show.

  I’m of legal consenting age myself. I’m in college, and I know what it’s like to feel lonely when there’s 7 billion people in the world. (Or something like that. I haven’t researched. Ha.)

  To tell you a little about me:

  I’m 21 years old.

  I have a younger sister.

  I love yoga, pasta, and sci-fi movies.

  I’m laid back and can seem a little shy.

  I’m in school full-time, but also am a homemaker.

  I know. Boring right? I’m sure you get a million responses from women who are way more interesting than me. But I am who I am.

  My pictures are attached. And my Instagram account is seattlesweetie23. (My birthday is April 23.) You’ll be able to see that I’m real.

  I honestly don’t know what else to say about myself — wait. I do. I’ll tell you why I’m replying. Because I’m not interested in dating around and playing games. I recently left a four year relationship that was more of convenience than passion and romance. I take care of my sister full time because our parents died in a car accident just days before I turned 18. Outside of college and responsibilities, I have very little free time to date and play.

  I think we’re alike. We know what we want, and we just don’t have time for games. I understand this is a long shot, and just because we’re alike doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed. But I know how to cook and clean. I know how to make a house a home, and I’m willing to accept a “dowry” of sorts. I’ll be using the money to pay for my sister’s college education. She’s almost 18 and I don’t want her saddled in debt. Debt sucks, and I know all about it since I spent the majority of my parents’ estate to pay off the debts left in their demise…

  She closed out the email with the name “GiGi,” and formal pleasantries. I liked her brutal honesty. She was clear, sensible, and cute, yet refreshing - but I hadn’t even looked at her photos yet.

  “Let’s see what she looks like,” I muttered to myself. I gasped when I maximized her images.

  I don’t know what I expected her to look like, but she was more than I could have ever dreamed of. She was perky, with feminine curves. She wasn’t plus sized. She was actually physically fit, but had the smallest little pudge that I found sexy. She was literally the epitome of a beautiful round-bottom girl.

  If I had to sculpt the perfect woman on aesthetics alone, it would be her.

  I re-read her letter, and skimmed for her Instagram account. I looked it up online, and it was public, revealing pictures for display. God. She was real. Really beautiful. Really who she said she was. A recent picture posted showed an older snapshot of her with her parents, and her younger sister. The girls favored their mother, with pretty blue eyes and sparkling faces. Their pretty hair came from their dad.

  Would you like to meet for lunch?

  I didn’t want to wait, or waste any time. I wanted to see her immediately. Feel her out. If she was real, then yes, I had money on the table, and I was ready to marry her.

  I didn’t want anyone else to have her.

  She replied almost immediately.

  Where?

  I looked at my watch. Lunch wasn’t for another hour.

  Where in Seattle are you? Where do you want to go?

  I love the HoneyHole, she wrote back.

  2:30 today? I asked.

  See you then. She said. What will you be wearing?

  Black sweater, black leather jacket. Jeans. I thought. I have green eyes and black hair.

  For the first time in a long time, I felt euphoric. I shut down my email account. My heart soared as I looked over her pictures, which I’d saved to my desktop.

  I worked for the next twenty minutes, laboriously to clear my to-do list. In my head I was making a list of questions to ask her. What was her real name? What was her favorite color? Did she like beer? Or was she classy and only drank wine?

  I looked at her bee-stung lips. I loved to kiss. I wondered if she liked to kiss. And if so, did she like tender, soft kisses? Or wet, passionate kisses? Did she limit her kisses to grandma pecks? What kind of flowers, perfume, and jewelry would she want as my wife?

  I sent for an Uber, ready to meet her. But as soon as I’d made my way to the door, my cell went off.

  “You headed to lunch?” the senior software, Brandon, asked.

  “Yeah, I just cleared out the queue.”

  “There’s a bug in the updated app release.”

  “Mike and Ron were fixing it earlier,” I replied.

  “We need you to fix it.”

  “I’ll take care of it when I get back,” I offered.

  “No, Troy’s bugging out,” Brandon insisted. “Nobody’s leaving until that code is cleaned.”

  “I’m getting in my Uber for lunch now.” My jaw tensed. I could feel my blood pressure rise. I always worked through lunch. I never actually left for lunch. It was imperative that I left.

  As far as my heart was concerned, it was life or death.

  “I kind of have to be somewhere.” I pressed, hoping he would let me go. “I can take care of it as soon as I’m back.”

  “Hollis, I see you outside. Cancel the ride and order in.” The firmness in his voice let me know this wasn’t a suggestion.

  I nodded and exhaled. I wanted to scream, “My wife is gonna be pissed.” But Gigi wasn’t my wife. And I wasn’t a fan of telling my personal business.

  “Fine. I’ll be up. Bye.”

&
nbsp; Grace

  Freezing January temperatures didn’t give way for a friendly wait outside the restaurant. I went inside, grabbed a booth, and pored through the menu.

  I wasn’t super hungry, but you didn’t go to the HoneyHole and not eat. I ordered the Emilio Pestevez, and waited for my mystery man to arrive.

  On the way over, I shook my head and asked myself, repeatedly, What am I doing?

  Aside of seeking out a man with green eyes, I didn’t know what to look for. He said he’d be wearing a black sweater, coupled with a leather jacket and jeans, but this was Seattle. Do you know how many men fit this description on a regular afternoon?

  Too many, that’s for sure.

  My sandwich came, but nobody fitting the man’s description came close to showing up.

  I checked my email, hoping there was something from him. Nothing. I sent a message to his email, asking if he were still on the way. There was still no response after I finished my food, and a disturbing feeling washed over me.

  I didn’t do my due diligence, and I’d been taken for a ride. My eyes scanned the room, defensive and self-conscious. I grew certain this was a cruel social experiment, and I had been silly enough to fall for it.

  What kind of man would really put out an ad in the newspaper seeking a wife? A wife he’d pay upfront?

  Forget that. What kind of women would show up after actually responding to that ad?

  With mounting self-disgust, I realized there had to be hidden cameras somewhere in the restaurant. Producers had to be taping me for one of their cable network specials. My cheeks burned as I imagined a reporter standing outside to question my ethics, sanity, and desperation for agreeing to something like this.

  At least I didn’t have to do anything today. I could head straight home, lick my wounds, and sleep this off.

  The only way I knew how to deal with anything these days was to sleep it off. I didn’t have any interest in drinking, nor any desire to call up my friends and have a cry fest. I didn’t want Heidi to see me crumble either. I was all she had.