As I strolled through the heart of campus one warm October afternoon, the thought of attending a kegger crossed my mind. It was around 4 PM, and fraternity brothers were celebrating the conclusion of Spring Fling weekend with kegs of beer outside their houses. I’ve always had a fondness for keg beer; it possesses a unique flavor, reminiscent of a brew that has been poured and spilled on the floor before finding its way into the keg.
Clusters of young men were gathered around—athletes, nerds, and party enthusiasts alike. There were charming guys in button-downs and even better-looking ones sporting grungy tees and unbuttoned flannel shirts, which I find particularly appealing. So yes, I was tempted to stop for a drink and see where the evening might lead.
However, there was a small issue to consider: I could very well be old enough to be the mother of some of these young men. Technically, I’m not, but given that I was still a virgin when many of these boys were conceived, it’s not entirely implausible. I do have the age credentials needed to have had a child in their generation.
Later, when I mentioned this to a friend, she too became fixated on what I’ve dubbed the “mother-son differential.” We pondered why men don’t seem as troubled by this biological reality. Perhaps it’s because men don’t experience the same visceral connection to young women as potential daughters, unlike women who might see in young men a direct link to their own reproductive capabilities. You can understand why this might give us pause.
Strangely enough, this wasn’t what ultimately held me back. At that moment, I didn’t feel like anyone’s mother; I simply craved a beer with an attractive young man. (For the record, I’m a mother of two, but for the sake of this narrative, let’s pretend I’ve sent them off to a quiet farm.) The real dilemma lay in whether I could convincingly blend into this youthful scene.
I won’t disclose my exact age, as I still hold out hope for a future Homecoming visit. Let’s just say I have some eye crinkles, dark circles under my eyes, and the beginnings of brow furrows. The skin under my chin has also seen better days. On the bright side, I was dressed appropriately for the occasion—jeans, a casual untucked shirt, a leather jacket, and a backpack. My hair remains free of gray, thanks to Clairol, and my family is known for appearing younger than we are. So, was I a contender? I like to think so.
For clarity, I wasn’t just wandering the campus without purpose; I was there to participate in a panel on nonfiction writing. I arrived early, which is how I found myself contemplating a kegger.
Upon reflection, I realize I might need to reassess my so-called “free pass.” Currently, it’s reserved for Eddie Vedder or Clive Owen, and I often flip between the two. If either one were to invite me back to their hotel room, I might accept, according to a previous agreement with my spouse. It could even invigorate my marriage—who wouldn’t want to be with someone who’s been with Eddie Vedder or Clive Owen? But now, I’m starting to think my free pass should really be a fraternity boy in a flannel shirt, lounging on his unmade futon with Warren Zevon playing in the background. This scenario feels much more attainable than a celebrity encounter, given that colleges are abundant.
As I stood there on fraternity row, I had an epiphany. I began to understand why some men chase after significantly younger partners. It’s not that these young women make them feel youthful; they actually already feel young. The desire to connect with women has been there since their teenage years, and those feelings don’t just vanish with age. In fact, when a man spots a young woman, the age difference doesn’t register as a barrier; he simply thinks, “I want her.”
When faced with someone who embodies youth, most people experience a mix of nostalgia and hope. We remember the intense, beautiful ache of youthful desire and yearn to experience it again, or perhaps to finally fulfill it. One of my current guilty pleasures is driving around my hometown with my husband, pretending he’s the high school boyfriend I never had. I also find joy in watching reruns of shows like My So-Called Life or Friday Night Lights, which vividly capture the trials of teenage desire, perhaps overshadowing the complexities of adult longing.
Let me be clear: None of this means I’m eager to have an affair with the goalie from my alma mater’s lacrosse team. It’s just a thought that crossed my mind during my contemplation of crashing a kegger.
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Summary:
In a reflective moment on campus, the author contemplates attending a kegger, grappling with feelings of age and desire. She realizes that many men pursue younger partners not out of a desire to reclaim their youth but because those feelings of attraction remain strong regardless of age. This introspection leads her to a broader understanding of desire and nostalgia as she navigates her own experiences as a mother and a woman.