What do retiree women want? To be left alone?

The question occurred to me the other day, what do women want? Now, this isn’t the first time in my sixty odd years on earth that I’ve been interested in what women want, but it is the first time I’ve been interested in what women of my senior age are looking for when they are thinking of (if, indeed, they even do think of) romantic entanglement.

What I might have supposed a woman wanted to see in a man twenty years ago—a house or similar, a job, some financial security, good looks, a loving family—might not be want they are looking for in a man today. I don’t know.

I’m sure, based on personal reflection, that what a senior-in-years man is looking for in a heterosexual partner has changed. We men are probably not interested in a woman’s child-rearing potential any more. We are, Rod Stewart not withstanding, not looking to procreate, and so have no need for a younger woman who is deemed by our biology as ‘fit for purpose’. But do we obsess about women’s bodies they way we used to?

My initial thought was a reaction to a conversation I’d just had over coffee with a fellow senior citizen and friend I shall call ‘Dave’. Dave had signed up to an expensive online dating agency and had been promised that “beautiful women will flock to your profile.” Well, after three weeks and sixteen messages from Dave to beautiful women, Dave was still to receive any correspondence. He was disheartened.

Dave thought he had all the ingredients that a woman his age was looking for: he owned his own home, he had a comfortable, stylish car to drive around in, he lived in a leafy suburb, he was happily divorced and had two adult children with whom he got on very well. He had little in savings and super, it’s true (the divorce took care of that), but he had no debts, and he certainly was sensible enough to not mention the money situation on his dating profile.

In his search criteria he requested contact with women aged forty-five and above. The women’s profiles he was shown were mainly of women aged 55 or over, equally the divorced and the widowed. As Dave told me this I wondered to myself if widowed women might be wary of men who might cheat them out of their money. But Dave hadn’t mentioned his financials so perhaps that worry was not a big player in this conundrum.

I decided to explore further and asked several women friends their views on dating in the Twenties. And yes, I agree, my first thoughts when typing that were of the 1920s, flappers, spats, speakeasys and the Charleston. Not those twenties, Matilda.

My female friends were largely of a similar view to mine. Looks were not taken into consideration unless the man had something wrong with him, or something wrong had befallen him. Money was important, but only in the sense that it was expected that the man would pay his own way but not pay for his companion. That sort of politeness had largely disappeared from my friends’ working world and it had been replaced by the women’s sense of independence.

One friend commented that the dating world for 60-somethings was simple: Three As and three Cs—Appreciation, Affection, Attention, Chemistry, Compatibility and Communication. Others commented that were they to be looking they would want someone who still enjoys life, not someone who is a Victor Meldrew-type of grumpy old man. The women would want someone who still finds enjoyment in life, has a positive attitude, and who is able to support them in their ‘down’ periods (because you can’t help someone out of a hole if you are in there with them, as one friend said).

They further commented that they expected men to be able to cook and keep a clean house, to dress in clean (and ironed) clothes, and to not expect their women friends to automatically help with chores ‘because that’s what women do’. They’d had a lifetime of looking after others and wanted to be free of that burden. One friend put it thus: over-sixty ladies are just looking for a partner in life.

I asked Dave what sort of woman he was looking for. To my surprise he didn’t say ‘one with big tits’. Dave worked with his hands for many years until he became so sick of customers ‘and their endless whining’ that he sold his tools for a pittance and reclassified himself as a retiree. His wife then divorced him and after the settlement he had no money to re-tool and go out in his ute again. I expected his sometimes ‘blokey’, chauvinistic views to figure prominently in his wishlist, but instead he spoke of wanting to meet someone polite, kind, well-read (even though he himself wasn’t), able to mix with new friends, able to enjoy a car ride, and find joy in exploring cafes. No mention of her looks or build. Nor, sensibly, any mention of helping with the house cleaning, or cooking meals.  Dave did say that he would be interested in sex if it was available, but understood that post-menopausal women might put sexual intimacy way down on the list as the last thing on their minds.

One day Dave was contacted by a woman. He was overjoyed. Her head and shoulders photo showed an attractive woman with long black wavy hair and a warm smile. Her letter to Dave talked about her goals (meeting someone), her family (two daughters and three grandchildren),  and her job (an administrator for a charity). The woman, let’s call her Sally, was divorced by her husband five years ago and was only now getting back into the dating game, at the suggestion and encouragement of her two daughters. Sally spoke of the growth that comes with being suddenly single, but also the lack of companionship. She wanted someone who could sing along to Cold Chisel songs, she said. But what she said next took the smile off Dave’s dial.

Sally had wrestled with breast cancer, leaving her no option but to have a double mastectomy. Would Dave be put off, she asked, by a woman with no breasts, but scars where they used to be?

Dave temporarily lost his blokey sense of self. No breasts. Breasts had been such a part of his teenage and adult life. Sizing them, looking at them in porn magazines when he was a teenager, choosing which girl to approach and ask for a date depending on their breast size. He had enjoyed holding them, massaging them, bringing them into his love play. As he explained to me, he couldn’t imagine a woman without breasts. But here he was, single, wanting a companion, and not swamped with offers. Except for Sally’s. How was he to answer her?

“What do I do?” he asked me over coffee.”That depends on how important breasts are to you. You know that gravity has lowered them, making them potentially less desirable than when they were young?” “Yeah, I know that. (pause) Do the scars look hideous?” “Well, my ex-wife had a mastectomy and it wasn’t an overwhelmingly beautiful sight, but given the choice of her either losing a breast or losing her life, I supported her with her decision and learned to live with her changed chest. But she did tell me once that she felt less of a woman, and that her sex drive was considerably lower. But how much that was because of the mastectomy and how much a reaction to all the chemo and radiotherapy, plus her menopause, I guess we’ll never know. I’m certainly not going to ring her up after all these years and ask her.”

Dave still looked perplexed.”What if I agree to meet her, and see then how I feel?””I think that’s an excellent strategy. Be nice, be polite, smile, wear a clean shirt, don’t bring the subject up on a first date… all the usual stuff.”

Dave met Sally at a cafe. Dave had ironed his shirt and put his best, washed, jeans on. Dave noticed that Sally was dressed in different shades of grey and looked even more beautiful than in the photo. She looked ‘classy’ he would tell me later. They agreed to sit and talk for an hour and see how things went.

Two hours later Sally and Dave finished their third coffee (by now cold) and made their respective ways to their cars. They had shared photos of their families, sung some Cold Chisel songs, and most importantly made arrangements for a second date. Dave called me once he got to his car and told me that the two hours flew by, it seemed like just five minutes. I asked him if the subject of breasts came up and he replied that Sally had brought it up and that he’d thought about it and come to the conclusion that it didn’t matter. He was interested in the whole person, he said, not just her breasts. I thought his new-found views admirable, and a remarkable change for him.

Conclusion

Dave is a new man, with a new outlook. He has a fresh inspiration—Sally—and a new songbook to learn (he currently only knows a few Cold Chisel songs). He met her family at a Sunday picnic in a park, thoroughly enjoyed himself and, as he told me, “I felt accepted straight away. Everyone was so friendly.” Dave has discovered what’s important to him and Sally has found someone accepting of her scars. The future looks good for them both and perhaps fortune will smile on them and bless them with a deep friendship and, even better, a mutual love. Just don’t ask Dave to sing along to Cold Chisel songs with you if you ever meet him—the bloke can’t sing to save his life.