Dear Little Wenker

Design by Cleo Maloney

Dear Little Wenker,

It’s the 30-year-olds again—they found me. I told myself: after this summer, no more sex with people ten years older than me. Then, before you know it, I find myself at the Saybrook formal guzzling free Sangria and telling the bartender he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. When he tries to get my number, I ask him, “How old are you?” “Thirty-one,” he says. 


I made a promise. 

But he’s really, really pretty. 


Dear Tempted, 

This “Little Wenker” business is starting to feel intentional, and I ask all the readers out there: please stop. My name is Lil Wenker, not Little Wenker, nor Lil Wanker, nor Willian Wenker (as was recently printed in a publication).

Ah, the 30-year-olds! I love them, too. They promise many things: a 401K, organic groceries, and experience locating the clitoris. But Tempted, there’s a moment when the 30-year-old man you’re seeing says to you, “You’re so hot,” and you can’t help but think, “Isn’t that just because everything is 10 years less saggy than the women you usually sleep with?” And despite what you may expect, the 10 extra years in the workforce will prove almost unnoticeable. Millennials these days are all about taking their time and finding their path. Unfortunately, in practice this means working from home and stopping a Tinder hook-up every 10 minutes to prove to their boss they’re active online. 

In reality, the 401K is an empty jar with “lucky heads up pennies.” The organic groceries belong to his roommates, and he insists on ordering “authentic Mexican food” from Chipotle for date night. He also assumes that because you’re 23, he doesn’t need to make an effort to make you come … as if a penis does anything anyway.

It’s time to start acting your age. Drag yourself down to Luther Late Night, kiss a boy from Rocks for Jocks, and grow up. 

Lil Wenker

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