I’m a cougar and didn’t know it.

Okay, I’ve been a bit out of it. Out of the country and out of the loop, oblivious to the ever-changing wave of pop-culture lexicon,  I just don’t pay much attention to trends anymore.  Dating younger men is apparently now a trend, like clogs and organic food. Or at least in the eyes of the media who have happily pounced on the celebrity-driven movement, an issue once shrouded in Freudian ignominy.  Older women previously being depicted as shamelessly desperate cradle robbers sullying the innocence of unwitting and virtuous young men.  But these days we’re fabulous felines whose ability to nab a young stud is seen as a badge of honor, vindication, if you will, for years of middle age judgmental-induced tyranny.

A quick Google search yields a plethora of hits — from dating sites dedicated to May-December hookups to studies addressing sociological, cultural and even medical considerations. Everyone’s got an opinion, a statistic, a theory.  And I’m sure many are accurate.   According to a recent AARP poll, almost one-third of women between 40 and 69 are dating younger men, one-sixth of women in their 50s preferring men in their 40s.

Whatever. I’ve been dating and sleeping with (there IS a distinction) younger guys for years. Not intentionally and I don’t think even consciously. I’ve just always been attracted to Man-Boys. And it’s long been reciprocal. Perhaps it was — and is — my lifestyle. Having worked in the music business, I’d always maintained a hip attitude and appearance. Or at least I fancied myself thus.  I never aspired to the white picket fence ideal, seeking instead a partner whose verve for life matched my own.  Then there’s the ego factor. Yes, when a guy fifteen years my junior hits on me, it mitigates a waning and fragile self-image. The mirror doesn’t lie as the facial lines and increasingly loose skin gilting my otherwise slim figure bespeak my age.

But generally, women tend to take better care of ourselves.  Not always. But often. Why would I want a paunchy middle aged guy whose thick wallet matches his waistline? Let’s not even get into the double standards here.  And then there are the desirable “age-appropriate” guys who seek mid-life validation in the form of suitably nubile arm-candy? How can I compete with that? Do I even want to?

Over the last eight years, as I’ve tipped the other side of 50, I’ve been living as a nomad, backpacking around the world as the grand dame of global gypsies.  And most of my traveling cohorts are younger – substantially so.

During my first eighteen months on the road I was wild — free and unfettered by the constraints of societal expectations and dictates. Sleeping my way across continents like an un-caged animal.  But I began to feel that — as the token older woman — I was serving a purpose in the context of the guy’s legacy. One that eventually didn’t meet my evolving needs. That notch in the belt, that story to be repeated later in life. The Mrs. Robinson he would recall while shacking up with a woman closer to his age.

I still remember the guy on the beach in Tel Aviv. He’d been staring for some time, clearly trying to muster the courage to approach me. He was cute and sweet and oh-so-sincere when he invited me to dinner. “Honey, how old ARE you?” I queried. “23,” he replied. I had just turned 51. “This is flattering,” I said, “but I am old enough to be your mother.”  And then, the best line ever,“No problem.  Israeli men mature much more quickly than in your country.”  Perhaps. But even for this cougar, that was too great a gap.

I’m always honest about my age. And even if I wasn’t, any reference to music is a dead giveaway. If you’re trying to mask your true chronological identity, do not, I repeat, DO NOT allude to your favorite bands growing up. Usually, the guy will not have heard of them – and even if he did, you’ve irrevocably busted yourself. Musical tastes represent the generational signpost. No getting around it.

But back to truth in advertising.  My feeling is that a relationship — even a fleeting one — should not begin with a lie. Invariably the guy says “age doesn’t matter.” And usually I choose to believe him. He may truly even believe his declaration. But the fact is that age DOES matter when out in public or considering a future together. Too often I’ve been asked if my date was my son. Ouch!

When I fell in love with the 32-year-old Italian guy in India, he insisted time and again that the soul and the heart is blind to age. Until we became more serious, at which point he freaked. Began considering how his family would react, and more critically, his desire to propagate.  He ended up with a woman of child-bearing age.

Truth is, he didn’t love me enough. Because if he did, that issue wouldn’t have been a deal-breaker.  I have a friend – a beautiful, sexy, vital woman now in her early sixties who has been with her boyfriend — 30 years her junior — for over a decade. He’s the same age as her daughter. Even I thought that was an untenable discrepancy, but somehow it continues to work.  But she is realistic, recently admitting that she fully expects his interest — and the relationship — to ultimately wind down.  “When I’m in my seventies he’s probably not going to want to sleep with me,” she admitted. “I accept that and don’t worry about it. There will always be someone else around the corner.” I love this friend. And envy her one-day-at-a-time philosophy.

Me, I’ve taken a break from the heart-breakers. There’s been a long parade of them, the last being a 31- year-old Colombian who doggedly pursued me for a month.  But after having conquered the beast, he returned to his folly, his twenty-something wife (who I didn’t know about) and toddler son. I’ve been on a man diet for the past few years, abstaining from temptation — and yes, the continued advances — of younger guys. Only until I get my head and priorities straight. Or until I meet a man, regardless of his age, whose motives and desires are consistent with mine.  Statistics and pontificators be damned. It’s the heart of the matter that matters.