Before Nick, I never understood the Booty Call concept, and thought it was rather unseemly. But now I see the benefit to friends with benefits.
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I have a new paramour. He is a complete romantic departure for me: younger (by eight years), blue-collar and unfettered by children.

We have absolutely nothing in common except for smouldering chemistry and a genuine fondness for each other.

One of the reasons I love hanging out with Nick, besides the obvious, is that I have no illusion, nor desire, to wind up his life partner. He is unabashedly non-monogamous. He has multiple, extreme piercings. He spends his days doing Hot Yoga and his evenings rolling on Molly, and knocking himself out listening to house music.

Not exactly stepfather material, although, let me be quick to add that I'm not looking for another stepfather for my kids.

Before Nick, I never understood the Booty Call concept, and thought it was rather unseemly. But now I see the benefit to friends with benefits.

I don't wonder "where we're going." I don't worry if my kids will like him, because they're never going to meet him. I don't storm around the house seething with dashed expectations, because I have none. There is something positively exultant about needing nothing from a romantic partner. There is just wanting in its most distilled, erotic form.

I love opening the door and seeing Nick on the doorstep, all grins, and all "Hey, Baby, don't you look fiiiine" in his deep, nicotine-seared voice. Given that Nick has had a colorful, and varied romantic history that boggles the imagination, I asked him why, oh why, does he want to be with a 50-year-old single mom when he could have a 30-year-old tart every night of the week.

"Are you kidding? You've got your own kind of cool," he said, motioning around my apartment. "I mean, look at everything you keep together. You have a job, you have this cool place, you have kids... and you're hot, baby!"

I point out my hotness factor not to toot my own horn, but to cry bullshit on the media hype and general misconception that women become invisible once they hit forty-five. This is utter crap spoon-fed to the perimenopausal set by I don't know who... women's magazines, beauty product companies, Republicans, anyone who's trying to sell you something. But it's nonsense, my middle-aged homies, and don't let anyone who's got something to gain by sending you out to pasture send you there.

I feel so much more desirable now than I did even ten years ago. I'm comfortable in my own skin. I know what I like. And I have a "seize the day" attitude that appears to be compelling.

It's gratifying to have the potency of my mature sexuality appreciated by a younger man, but it's also gratifying even if there's no man around to appreciate it. I like my mind, I like my body, and I like the woman who I have grown to be.

Who would have thought that at 50, I would discover myself in perhaps the healthiest relationship I've ever had. We really, truly enjoy each other's company.

I'm sure if we stayed together we would eventually descend into the griping and negotiating that committed partnerships bring. But that's a reality Nick and I will have the pleasure of never encountering. Nick won't be in my life forever, but while he is, I plan to bask in the nirvana that my younger man brings.

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