Growing Up to Be a Pervert

As an eighteen year-old, I remember listening to this song called, “I’m an Adult Now” by a Canadian band named “Pursuit of Happiness,” (which is ironic, since their band is named after a famous phrase from the US Declaration of Independence. But I digress.) The song had a lyric that haunted my youthful mind:

I can't even look at young girls anymore
People will think I'm some kind of pervert

Most young adults, when worrying thinking about what their lives will be like when they are in their 30s and 40s, think about married life, their kids, their homes, and their careers. I feared I would be a pervert. My right hand and a Playboy magazine were constant companions. Like the talent scouts for Playboy, I liked my women young. Flawless complexions, supple bottoms, and healthy hair did it for me. At the same time, I didn’t find women over 30 attractive. No matter how much makeup a woman wore, it couldn’t cover up saggy breasts and crows feet. I knew I would have to become very rich early so that as I got older, I could date a succession of pretty 20-somethings, dumping them by the age of 29.

Unfortunately for me, the huge piles of money never materialized, nor did the string of young ladies. Luckily, my tastes did mature. I find women my age and a little older to be very attractive. Women don’t age, they refine. For that matter, young women don’t do it for me anymore. They look like children. What’s worse, they act like children too, with shallow priorities and petty fights with friends and family.

They even have a form of porn for people like me. It’s called MILF, which I enjoy regularly. Which makes me a pervert.

I guess I was right.