Love for those OVER 35! Sincerely and to the point written… Well, I had to speak out with my age wisdom… You know, after 35, men are romantic and sexy in a different way. Different than at 18, I mean. There, one rose and champagne made families. Even at 20, “You have beautiful eyes” and “I’ve been waiting for you all my life” worked wonderfully. Now, even a courier with lilies is no surprise. No, it’s magical, of course, but… A huge bunch of greenery from the market is more likely to make you smile. It was simpler before.
Here he will say, brutally frowning one eyebrow, “I’m tired of being perfect for everyone; I want to be perfect only for you, baby,” and you at 18 will melt; he is magnificent! I want to be his decency… And now you will snort and spit because he is an idiot with a clumsy show-off.
Before, I would have burst into tears of delight if someone had come to my window on the roof of a car with flowers, almost like Richard Gere to Julia Roberts. But when he did come (not Gere, but almost Ben Affleck), the cynical witch in me looked out the window, yawning, and grumbled about the dented roof, the insurance, and how this drunken beast would collapse now, and suddenly a car would come towards me, and as a result… “Get down from there, idiot, go eat some pancakes!”
I used to like it when he didn’t notice. It would turn on the excitement; Pechorin would come to mind. But now you don’t notice the one who doesn’t notice. And the one who has everything complicated, and the one who disappears without calling, and the one who “can’t figure himself out.”. Why the hell do you need to solve puzzles? Unhappy people and those searching for themselves, please don’t worry.
Before, I wanted someone to admire how you can do everything yourself, no worse than men. But now I need someone who is a man himself, who will decide, bring, fix the lock, open the jar, and kiss your hand.
Perfume and teddy bears are used to make people squeal. Now… Well, perfume still makes people squeal; what can you do? But a cool frying pan beats teddy bears.
I used to want him to take me to a trendy place, but now I’m terribly attracted by the suggestion, “Let’s go out and have a tasty meal.” And it’s sexy when he cooks dinner—simple and tasty. Even if it’s navy-style macaroni because I love it.
I used to like the trendy ones, but now the trendy ones are alarming. Especially if they are in jeans and tights and with a forelock. Daring. Brrr. The ones in clean and cotton are clearer and closer. You want to hug the soft ones. Cotton is easier to iron.
Instead of the former attractive bastards, the heart is touched by gentle fathers, instead of originals and brutal—those with whom it is fun and easy, instead of perfectly shaved—bearded and with tattoos. Instead of sparkling, ironic. Diligently sparkling, they have generally become very tiresome. But to laugh maliciously is priceless. And those who live with their mother no longer seem nice.
Previously, those who say “sex is not the most important thing” were considered polite princes, but now they arouse serious suspicions…
It’s strange, but I used to find stories about how he got drunk, stole a motorcycle, crashed his car under a KamAZ truck, and his head was also there, fascinating because he’s not afraid of speed and is a complete daredevil, and scars, baby, are for the brave, and overtaking a Ferrari is a matter of honor. Now I’m sick of such assholes and want non-drinking athletes who follow traffic rules (without STDs and VPs, but with zhp, pardon, I couldn’t resist).
It used to be magical if he gave you a ride. Now it’s mind-blowing if he hands you the keys to something sporty and says, “Want a ride home?”
Or even like this: “Want a ride in an electric car? It’s intonation-wise and environmentally responsible” (quote). Well, he’s a knight, well!!!
Married men after 35 become good friends, because after everything you’ve gotten yourself into, you already know, they are like sugar at night. Threatens heart disease. If they are young and handsome and on a motorcycle, you just imagine that they are a figment of your imagination. We smile and are friends.
There’s something so attractive about a certain thing. A skill. You sit, drink coffee with a cardiac surgeon, and listen to stories about how he did open-heart surgeries (he didn’t show off at all, I asked him myself). And you realize that it’s stronger than champagne and a cool car, and not notice…
In general, a cool car (not just a car, but “look how cool my car is”), a cool suit (not just a suit, but wow, Gucci-fucking…
Sexy when it’s fun and simple, sexy when it’s smart, sexy when it’s caring, sexy when it doesn’t get offended, sexy when it’s honest—so sexy. Also, loyalty has skyrocketed to the top among aphrodisiacs, and to raise grandchildren (no, well, they’re just around the corner)—then it’s fire!
But all sorts of little things, like “walks around the house in socks and underwear,” somehow stopped being so noticeable. Let her walk around, as long as she’s not wearing a thong (oh, anything can happen these days).
One thing hasn’t changed—it’s still just as romantic and fun to cuddle on a park bench. True, you have to bring your own blanket and expensive port wine. And then call a normal taxi, because driving drunk at our age is not sexy at all.
