I’ve got a thing for guys’ hands. I think they often indicate what a guy’s dick looks like – how long and thick the fingers are, and the shape, size, and sturdiness of the hands. I once told this to my friend Duncan, who’s gay, and he agreed.

I was at my favorite East Village bar when the hottest guy I’d ever seen in real life asked if he could buy me a drink. He looked exactly like Charlie Hunnam in ‘Sons of Anarchy.’ I was hoping his name was Jax (…it wasn’t). Turned out he was a twenty-eight-year-old filmmaker from Sweden. I’m not revealing my exact age here, but I’ll say I’m ALMOST old enough to have pushed him out of my vaginal canal covered in placenta.

Despite our age difference (or maybe because of it), the chemistry was wildly palpable. Four drinks later we were having a groping make-out session on 1st Avenue. He had beautiful, enormous hands. This was going to be a good night…

The next day, after the Swede left my apartment, I was nursing my hangover while dutifully texting Duncan with an update. I was weirded out and a bit incredulous. “I thought he’d be a better lay,” I typed.

“DUH. He’s twenty-eight.”

“That’s why I thought he’d be a good fuck,” I wrote.

“Of course not. That’s one good thing about getting older. (Also, you’re officially a cougar now, by the way.)”

“Wait, are 28-year-olds just not good lays?”

“Sex is pre-libidinal catharsis for them, rather than plain good sport.”

“‘Pre-libidinal’ is a thing?”

“Latent libidinal is probably more accurate.”

“At 28???”

“Izzy,” Duncan texted, “Some are children until the day they die!”

I guess I’d just assumed sex with a hot twenty-eight-year-old would be primal, robust, ravenous… It wasn’t. I was right about the hands, though.