The first pair I reach for are without fail the well-worn variety. There is a lack of en vogue accoutrements hanging from their limbs. They are a little tattered, even bearing a ghost-like impression in remembrance of the left-hand back pocket that once was. You can surmise that at one time they stood well-starched, pristine, and exuding a blue luster which has since faded slowly through the many cycles of life. They have walked a thousand roads, marched stoically past a plethora of sights, and can herald a story for every gold-hued stitch which binds their seams. They are no longer all that striking, nor do they turn heads or warrant ogles as they stroll casually by, but they provide comfort and a sense of security through all that is uncertain in this life. My 1965 vintage bluejeans are eleven years my senior in the social scheme of things, but they have always been my first choice.

So why should it come as any great surprise that when choosing someone to fill the pants that walk alongside us, there are some whose first proclivity is to grasp for that which sits in the "worn" section on the department store rack? Sure, there are many reasons older men wind up on the arm of some gorgeous gal years younger than themselves. Perhaps luck, perhaps money, perhaps power, and then there's my all time favorite assumption of choice, made by those men who invariably find themselves attracted to these women; the poor girl must be searching for the father figure she never had. We could lounge, legs outstretched, on the well worn fainting couch in Dr. Cynic's Clinic of Love and surmise that she indeed has a case of Freudian father lust, or we could delve deeper into the faded confines of those denim fibers which mend to create the legs, the derrière, and the not-to-be-forgotten crotch that embody our jeans...err man.

So let's weed out the option that she does in fact have a case of Fatheritis by opening this psychologically out-of-tune chick's file first. I suppose clue number one could be the fact that her dad did a disappearing act when she was a wee babe. She has since tried her hand at the game of love with men her age, only to find that they lacked a certain protective nature that only a man old enough to have fed the mouths of babes himself would understand. She has now met her match in a man who calls her "kitten" whilst bouncing her on his 20 years-elder knee. He spends his days mending her wounds and siphoning that nasty ooze from out her splinter-pricked finger, and naturally anything that kitten wants, kitten gets....well, as long as she uses that pre-pubescent whining tone with him. This is the type of gal who is looking for a nurturer, but not of the typical male/female relationship variety. She seeks security that comes from knowing her man will buy her a car, put her through college, coax her lovingly into taking that first "real" job, and buy her a wedding gown, of course.

Although those who mope jealously behind the happy duo's trail may argue with this notion, I believe the majority of women who fall for men of a higher stature (in the age department) aren't of the thumb-sucking variety. We all know, even if we pretend not to, that most women mature at a faster pace than men, and there is this period in our twenties where it seems that finding a man who's ready to give up that bachelorhood mantra is rare. Then it happens! Just as she's sitting there, hunched over a concoction that could be ice cream but looks more like Mt. Vesuvias having just erupted in a lava flow of butterscotch, fudge, and strawberry, he makes his approach. She's already made a vow to give up on the male race, having just ended relationship #11 with this month's selection from the Young Stud Club for Women, so what will it hurt to let him swipe a spoonful of that sundae fit for two.

Yes, he looks a little on the well-ripened side, but after an hour or so of conversation, she realizes that this man is the most fascinating she's ever met. Unlike those his junior, he's relaxed in his tone, holds an appreciation for those unique cultural virtues so seldom recognized, and not once does he break his stare to take a gander at her bosom. Well, at least if he does, he's learned through experience just when to take a peek without her taking notice. When she speaks, he drinks up her words as if they are the last ounce of nourishment to be had in the land. His eyes have the depth that only comes from years of experience, and the brilliance he exudes has culminated through a decade of trial and error achievements countered with a resolve to better himself through every available means. The best part is, he knows what he wants, and he's not afraid to settle once he's found it.

There also lies that old durability and comfort factor which first draws us to the jeans and then extends itself to the man we choose to accompany us on the stroll down lover's lane. A person with a little dust on his feathers makes for a trusty co-pilot and what woman doesn't want to be content in the fact that she's safe within the cockpit? There is a great sense of relief found through a relationship with someone who's self-secure enough to know his wants, and experienced enough to know how to achieve them. This does of course overflow into every aspect of the relationship, from the kitchen to the bedroom. Yes, perhaps a man who's reached a certain age has at least managed to find the location of the kitchen, and if you're really lucky, he knows what to do in there. Need I even mention what he's learned through years of experience in the plumbing department?

O.k. so there is one last explanation, which may secure your understanding at just why that 25-year-old goddess has chosen to suction herself to a man that people mistake for her grandfather. It's called the green stuff, and with the amount in his pocket, she needn't ever have to dirty those pretty little fingers of hers by lowering them to working class level. He's gray, he's ugly, he's haggard, and never mind the fact that he must keep a ready stash of Viagra ever present for those lusty nights spent in the boudoir. None of that matters when he's got a fat wad, and she's now rich by association. I know, I know, Anna Nicole Smith is the exception. I mean, who couldn't resist the sexual temptation induced by an 86 year-old stud-muffin? The fact that he was a multi millionaire had nothing to do with it.