Time, Presence and Fire
I can’t pinpoint when I first began to prefer the company of older men. It happened sometime after we opened our marriage—when desire became more discerning, less urgent. My husband, close in age, had once been the entire landscape of my affection. But as my gaze widened, it wasn’t youth that caught my attention. It was presence. I found myself drawn instead to men who carried the weight of years with a particular kind of ease.
It was also around that time that I discovered I was sapiosexual—deeply, undeniably attracted to intelligence.
In my work today as a companion, I don’t require that same cerebral spark with every engagement. Our time together is often brief, intimate but contained, shaped more by their desires than my own. And I value that. There is something meaningful about meeting people where they are, creating space for their expression, and sharing moments that exist fully within their own boundaries.
Still, there is something uniquely satisfying about the company of a much older man.
Yesterday, I set a new personal record. Nicky* is eighty-seven—still working, still curious, still very much engaged with the world. Our time together was playful and grounding in equal measure. Afterwards, we rested in the quiet that follows closeness, and he began to tell me stories. Of his younger years. Of places he had traveled. Of the interests that still animate his days. I listened, wrapped in the warmth of his voice and the calm assurance of someone who has lived fully—and continues to do so.
As a biohacker and an athlete, I intend to extend my own vitality as far as I can. But it is often my older companions who teach me the most about thriving. They remind me that a rich life is not defined by age, but by the willingness to keep doing what brings you joy.
For a few of these remarkable men, at least for now, that joy includes me.
It is in their laughter-lined skin, in stories shaped by time, in hands that know both strength and restraint, that I catch glimpses of the woman I hope to become—one who ages not with fear, but with presence. One who carries her own fire quietly, and lets time deepen it rather than dim it.
