THIS IS WHAT DATING A MILF IS REALLY LIKE

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“Do you know, young man, how old I am?” The woman smiled as she leant in towards me. I was on the dance floor of a bar in a quiet Yorkshire town.

© Simon Smith

I’d noticed Kate several times before – always alone – but never had the bottle to approach. She danced like Jim Morrison on LSD – all hips and no mind – and looked like Marisa Tomei from Alfie. The woman was more working class vixen than pumped-up Stifler’s mom.

Hammered off American Pale Ale I stumbled over and offered my best line: “Drink?”

ABBA

At first she ignored me, but I summoned up the courage and tried again: “Classic Abba, love a bit of Dancing Queen.”

She walked me over to a corner like a bollocked schoolboy and it was then she asked me that classic opening question – How old do you think I am? I went with a safe ’40’ to which she replied: “My daughter is 26 years old! That’s really nice of you but I’m 46.”

I’m no Beautiful Mind but being 28, she was almost two decades my senior. Kate had separated from her husband ten months earlier but the three still lived together. Soon after the split, she’d moved into the spare room.

In that bar corner we chatted for 20 minutes before we walked out together and towards my house. I poured the both of us a strong rum and coke and we talked about the situation with her ex. By 3 a.m. the drinks were still flowing but the conversation had run dry.

We all know what happened next.

As for the sex, well, ask yourself: would your confidence improve or worsen after spending twenty-five years with the same person? Probably the latter if you’re being honest. I was her first since the separation.

It took her several weeks to understand most twenty-somethings aren’t having Dancing On Ice ‘look mum, no hands’ sex. Due to an operation to remove a cyst Kate was no longer able to have children. In any case, she was offended at the idea that I’d want to use a condom, accusing me of thinking she was a slag riddled with STIs. “Unless you’re not telling me something, you have nothing to worry about, young man,” she texted the morning after that initial meeting.

Ironically, the longer we dated the less I wanted to sleep with her but the more I wanted to see her. In a circle of nervous and uncertain millennials, she was a solid, mature force.

With her Lambert & Butler cigarettes and landlady assertiveness, I couldn’t cancel a date by claiming I was feeling under the weather or ‘not up for a drink’. She was a ‘milf’ but she was also realistic, down-to-earth and without a filter. We could switch from chatting about the housing bubble and the presidential campaign to sex and how difficult going down actually is.

The greatest thrill was simply watching her on the dancefloor from the bar. Middle-aged men would jeer and leer over her but she’d ignore them and keep her eyes fully fixed on me. The men would notice me and mutter to each other but I was fixated on the Pulp Fiction waif dancing, giving me a private show. It gave me the feeling of being every Tom Hardy character rolled into one.

But as the weeks passed I couldn’t help getting the feeling that we were using each other. I was her toy boy and plaster for a jarring hole in her life; she was an uncharted novelty. During our months together we never introduced each other to one another’s parents. Hers hadn’t accepted the fact that Kate was separated, and mine wouldn’t accept the fact that I was seeing someone closer to their age than mine.

As the weeks went by Kate became more and more persistent. ‘Calling for a quick brew’, meant a two-hour visit where I’d listen to her stall into overstaying her welcome. The number of times she ‘locked herself outside’ her house became tiresome. Either she was incredibly unlucky or incredibly manipulative.

One morning I woke up to find my Whatsapp inundated with pictures of her from every angle. The nudes were followed up with ‘I guess you didn’t like what you saw ☹’. Half asleep, I apologised, said thank you then sent one back in my underwear, James Franco style.

At the weekends when she was working, if I didn’t give an outline of my plans, she’d assume I was being secretive and hiding a young girlfriend from her. It was sad but her persistence was smothering no matter how attractive she was. I realised what she needed was a long holiday, that or another man who was in a situation similar to her own.

She’d lost her ‘best friend’ and her ‘soulmate’ and didn’t even recognise him anymore. She was frustrated not bitter – frustrated at the thought of living alone, being single, ending a marriage and to top it all off, dealing with the financial implications of going it alone. Not to mention the whole town witnessing what she was going through.

By the end she grew resentful at allowing herself to hop into bed for a tryst. I went from her ‘handsome boy’ to ‘the twat I’m fucking’ – something which she expressed half way through a session one night. The loneliness and emptiness she felt couldn’t be bettered by ‘messing about with a 28-year-old.’

There was also the issue that her daughter, her daughter’s boyfriend and the ex husband had found out about our situation, apparently from the mouthy landlady of a bar Kate and I frequented.

One night as I was stood texting a friend in a beer garden, the three of them, one-by-one, squared up to me. Kate was stood in the middle trying to fend them off. Fortunately, I’d binge watched the Dalai Lama’s Guide to Happiness the same day. I was zen, riding the Guatama Buddha wave hard as ‘you fuckin’ little prick/cunt/wanker’ was hurled my way.

35123UNILAD imageoptim man couple people woman This Is What Dating A MILF Is Really Like

As Kate and I left the bar, the daughter – absolutely smashed – screamed: “I’m 26 and you’re 28, he’s younger than me!” This trip had to end.

I texted Kate a few days later. I was direct in saying I didn’t think it was a good idea to meet anymore.

She replied:

“Ok. Can you delete any photos of me pls.”