On Nineteen-year-old Boys

Moriah

I have an escalating problem that is starting to concern me: I can’t stop sleeping with nineteen-year-old boys. This was perfectly normal when I was nineteen. It was no problem when I was twenty. And it was still acceptable when I was twenty-one. However, I recently turned twenty-three, and my demographic of choice remains the same. It’s getting to the point where I feel more and more like a female version of Matthew McConaughey’s character from Dazed and Confused, who famously proclaimed “That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age.” Beautifully put, Wooderson.

I’ve spent a lot of time pondering the phenomenon, and it's not hard to figure out why I’m addicted. Nineteen-year-old boys don’t like to go on dinner dates, which is a huge bonus in my book, but they do like to get high, watch South Park, and have sex three times a day, which are all activities that I also enjoy. Anyone older than me already seems to be thinking about getting married, which is so incredibly gay (the only wedding I’ll ever have will involve me and Anastassia walking down the aisle of Mead Chapel in dominatrix boots).  And there’s no way I’ll stray below the eighteen mark – I am still haunted by memories from high school of that twenty-three-year -old girl who used to pick up her ninth grade boyfriend after class in a tricked-out Mazda.  After all, it’s not so much the younger guy thing that attracts me – nineteen-year-old boys are so appealing precisely because they’ve perfected the art of being a teenager but have yet to morph into the college bro, the young professional, or the twenty-something burnout, which are all completely unacceptable things to be. It’s an age that only comes once, and whether I try to or not, I always seem to find it in my bed.

Don’t get me wrong: It’s not like I haven’t tried branching out into other age groups or genders: anyone who knows me is well aware of my inability to stick to one single thing, and my sex life is no exception. At this point in my life, it’s not even that big of a deal: nothing too creepy about a four-year age difference, right? What worries me more is the unsettling thought lurking in the back of my mind: am I on the path to cougardom? When I’m thirty, will I still be finding cargo shorts (other than my own) on my bedroom floor in the morning? When I’m forty, will my date still be rolling up on a skateboard?

The more I thought about it, the more I started to question my choices: maybe I should grow up and face the fact that as a recent Middlebury College graduate, I need to start meeting more people my own age. So on Saturday night I agreed to join a friend of mine at a salsa club, both in order to meet a more appropriate demographic and to gain some distance from the current 19 year old situation hanging out in my bedroom. Unfortunately, however, salsa dancing doesn’t cater to my particular skill set, and the men in the club were quick to realize that I was a terrible partner. I ended up hanging out with a Mexican guy and we spent the night mocking each other’s inadequate dancing skills in Spanish. Of course, it didn’t take long for him to reveal that he has been around for diecinueve años. Tell me something I don’t know.

So I decided to put an end to my very brief attempt to branch out and fully embrace my fetish. Why resist something that makes me happy? I do have to instate some measures of control, however – if I let myself have my way, I’d probably have a house fully stocked with four or five of these fine individuals at all times. One of them would hand me a packed bowl when I first woke up, another would show me a funny video on Youtube, and a third would pass me a box of Fruit Loops. Then we’d all get in the Chevy Equinox and drive around catcalling girls who are way out of our league, after which we’d get burgers and drink beer and bro out with some more of their peers. Maybe in the afternoons we’d go to the river or a park and jump off some shit, and at night I’d make us all dinner while they played Super Smash Bros, and then I could choose which one (or ones) to bring to bed with me…

Okay, so maybe nineteen-year-old boys aren’t perfect, and I realize that sometimes they can be just a little too … nineteen. I often find myself using the “it” pronoun when talking to them, as I do with my cat – I don’t think of them as pets exactly, but they do share a few of the same qualities: both are furry, and need to be fed often. When I recently commented about a certain nineteen-year-old’s morning demeanor by saying that “it was grumpy”, “it” responded, “Yes, it was grumpy, but it bettered itself.” I know I started it, but really? This is one of many reminders that nineteen-year-old boys are simply not to be taken seriously. But then again, neither am I.