As I thought about what to write for this post, I realized that three out of five of my serious relationships have been with older women. I suppose it must stem from some deep seeded juvenile fascination born of teenage lust. It makes sense that some of the first women I desired were older than me: The hot teacher, a friend’s mom, the sultry brunette across the street who loved to weed the garden in her front yard wearing short shorts.
Yes, I’m married to an older woman, but at this point in my life, I don’t see what the big deal is. The heart knows no age, it just knows what makes it happy and my cougar makes me very happy.
When it comes to writing, I’ve used both extremes of the season to season scenarios, but for the most part, I keep hero and heroine close in age. Unless I need the age difference to help propel the storyline, I just don’t think about it anymore than I think about the difference between my wife and me.