It’s true. Women in their fifties are easier.

At least that’s been my experience.

I don’t mean to suggest they are loose. Or promiscuous. Most women in their fifties have less sex than their younger counterparts. But what they are, by and large, is unpretentious. They don’t play games. They know who they are; they know what they want; they don’t pretend otherwise.

It’s refreshing.

And it’s a little jarring sometimes.

My last experience was with Ruth. Ruth was a redhead. She was the cliched redhead. Adventurous. Headstrong. Vocal. Ruth was fifty-four, two years my junior. I didn’t ask her age—I’ve learned that’s never a safe question—she volunteered it, just after our drinks were delivered. Jack and Coke for me and a tall glass of Merlot for Ruth. That’s how she’d ordered it. “A tall glass of Merlot.” Then she’d told me she was fifty-four and she was looking for company.

See? No pretense.

We had the requisite three drinks before she invited me to follow her home.

She lived in a second floor apartment in a four story apartment complex. An unassuming home, but comfortable. After warming up to her Pomeranian, Snapper, an apt name, she served us two more drinks. She didn’t have any Coke so I told her I was fine with straight whiskey.

Ruth was attractive, not svelte, but not overweight either. She wore her curves well. She had long hair, with good body. Color likely from a bottle, or a hairstylist—I never had the chance to learn which.

I’ve found that women in their fifties fall into one of two categories: matron or goddess. Ruth was the latter. She was comfortable with who she was. She was strong. She was a woman. She didn’t look like a grandmother, though she certainly might have been. Like the nature of her hair color, I never found out. My point is that Ruth wasn’t in the frumpy grandmotherly matron group. She was fit. She enjoyed life. She shone with strength. And as we started our drinks, I found I wanted her. Quite badly.

I suspect she had me just where she wanted me. Her home. Her rules. She had all the power. I didn’t mind. I was happy to play along.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, as we sat at her round dining room table, our drinks before us.

“Me, too,” I said, looking at her ample breasts.

“There’ll be time for that later,” she said, teasing.

I made eye contact. Smiled. She smiled back.

“There’s something I should tell you, before we…” She let the words hang. I knew what she meant.

“Okay,” I said, dumbly. What did she want to tell me that would have any impact on tonight’s festivities? She could tell me she was a wanted felon and I wouldn’t much care. Not after three, and nearing four, drinks. I wanted her and she knew I wanted her. That’s why I was there. No pretense.

“I’m a transvestite.”

I was wrong. There was indeed something “she” could tell me that would put a stop to my plans.

I thanked Ruth for the drink and went home to watch a movie on Netflix.