I was reading posts about those twenty-something girls who think we’re drooling over them, and it reminded me of something...

Early last summer, a group of us guys—all around 45 and pretty well-off—got together at a sauna to have some beer and barbecue. After we’d had a few drinks, one of our «armchair philosophers» asked: «Guys, what if a fairy showed up right now and offered you a week on a deserted tropical island? You’d have a fridge fully stocked with beer, whiskey, and great snacks, and a choice: spend the week with a smoking-hot, insatiable babe who’s up for anything, or spend it alone with your favorite hobby (a PS5, a killer gaming rig, top-notch fishing gear and a great boat, a rifle and an island full of animals for the hunters, etc.)?» Seven out of the eight chose the hobby over the woman. The eighth guy chose the girl—but that’s a whole other story; he loses his mind whenever he sees a woman and doesn't care who he sticks it in—when he finally kicks the bucket, we’re going to brew Viagra out of him.

The conclusion? We don't really need those young flirts all that much; it’s better to spend your time doing exactly what *you* enjoy.