Groomed by Assumption

There has never been a point in my life – whether as a child, a teenager, or an adult – when I’ve asked someone for their age unless I had a practical reason to. Filling out a form, booking a flight, helping them register for something that required a birthdate – those were the exceptions. But socially? Never. Even with my friends, I’ve always just assumed their age based on context and how they carried themselves, not by how many candles sat on their last cake.

Besides, appearances lie. I was asked for ID well into my early 30s. Some of my past lovers – ranging between 25 and 40 – looked far younger than Western society would ever guess. When Amber and I first dated, some friends even questioned if she was legal. She was 22. But the judgmental whispers weren’t about her – they were about a deeply rooted cultural obsession with neatly categorizing people into acceptable boxes. Age. Gender. Ethnicity. Anything that lets someone assign you a label and call it “truth.”

And that, to me, is the insult. That I’m supposed to tiptoe around someone – not because they’ve shown immaturity, but because a number on their birth certificate has triggered someone else’s projection. It’s like being asked to wear gloves when shaking someone’s hand, “just in case”.

Far-right extremists love to shout “my rules, her body”—a slogan so vile it belongs in the gutter with slavery and abuse, but there exist another side of the same coin—agency over one’s body and individuality by liberals.

The liberal version is sneakier. It wraps itself in concern, in protection, in progressive language—but underneath, it still whispers: “You don’t know what’s best for yourself. Let us decide.”

Conservatives scream about rotten eggs abusing universal healthcare—so they oppose it entirely. Liberals fear the predatory edge-cases in age-gap dynamics—so they gatekeep every May-December relationship, no matter how mutual or healthy it is.

It’s not justice. It’s statistical tyranny. A world where the sins of the few punish the freedom of the many.

I’ve heard it all: Dress your age. Act your age. Games are for children. Cycling is for kids. Cartoons are immature. Emo music is embarrassing.

Alas, I don’t resist those perceptions because I’m trying to be a rebel. I resist them because they’re fucking dumb.

They’re based on shame, not growth. On what’s expected, not what’s true.

What truly irks me – what really ignites my disdain – are the self-righteous ones. The ones who speak with absolute certainty, as if their worldview is not just valid, but the only acceptable one.

Let’s talk about the word they love to wield: “grooming”.

I believe grooming, in its most sincere and serious form, is about intent. It’s not an universal label that should be thrown at every age-gap relationship. And yet, we’ve reached a point where the word is used as a blunt instrument, not a scalpel. It has lost its precision. It’s now performative.

When I was 21, I was in a relationship with a 57-year-old woman. I adored her maturity, her clarity, her sensual confidence. She didn’t play games. She didn’t leave me guessing. We shared deep conversations about philosophy and the surreal. We had mind-blowing sex. It lasted almost a year, and it ended with mutual respect. She didn’t manipulate me. She didn’t ‘condition’ me. She didn’t trap me. She treated me like an equal.

Fast forward twenty years. I’m in an online discussion with a woman in her early 30s. I mention this past relationship – and her immediate response? “You were groomed.”

I told her I wasn’t. I told her I entered that relationship with full agency. That I wasn’t naive. That I never once felt manipulated or coerced.

Didn’t matter.

She dismissed me. Told me I had been brainwashed.

Lady – I was 44 years old when we had that conversation. Do you really think I’m incapable of assessing a consensual relationship that I participated in two decades ago?

This is the world we live in now. One where nuance has been replaced with moral flashcards. Where critical thought is sacrificed in favour of labels. Where intent, context, emotional intelligence – everything – is ignored, so long as the mob can chant a word they don’t fully understand.

So when I hear the word “progressive”, I often read it with a pint of salt, not a pinch. Because what I see all too often isn’t progress – it’s regression disguised as virtue. It’s a tragic cocktail of liberal snobbishness and pseudo-intellectual cowardice.

Too many of these self-declared “critical thinkers” live in echo chambers so deep, they forget what challenge sounds like. They prop up their moral certainty with statements like:

When I was 19, I’d never think about dating someone 17!”
“I’m 25 now and I’d never date someone who’s 21 or younger!

And every time I read these proclamations, I want to ask – who the hell are you trying to convince? Yourself, or others?

It’s not morality. It’s image maintenance. It’s performative distancing from an accusation they fear could land on them. They’re not stating boundaries – they’re shouting disclaimers into the void, terrified that their silence might be misinterpreted.

Don’t any of these people have individuality? Don’t any of them possess enough self-respect to speak for themselves instead of parroting the talking points of Twitter threads and poorly digested psychology articles?

Because whether they realize it or not, what they’re actually saying is that anyone 25 or under is incompetent, unformed, and unworthy of autonomy.

That’s fucking insulting.

At 17, I started my first company. At 19, I incorporated and bought my own office with my own money. By 21, I had a staff of nine. I wasn’t mature for my age. I was just… mature. Because maturity is not an uniform, nor a milestone. It’s a spectrum, unique to the individual. And to declare that someone under 21 couldn’t possibly be ready for a relationship with someone older is to erase the validity of people like me – and many others like me.

But it gets worse when they ask questions like:

What could a 40-year-old possibly have in common with a 20-year-old?”
“What could they possibly talk about?!

Here’s my answer: Who fucking cares.

Let’s test this theory. My friend Patrick is 11 months younger than me. Essentially the same age. We’re both 46. And yet, we’re opposites. The only real things we have in common are being human and enjoying outdoor sports. When we talk, it’s 99% him sharing and 1% me. Not because I’m closed off, but because I know he wouldn’t get my deeper thoughts. And that’s okay.

Compatibility isn’t about matching hobbies, or being on the same ’emotional tier’.
It’s about vibe.
That’s it.

So when someone asks, “What could a 40-year-old and a 20-year-old possibly connect over?” – they’re asking the wrong question.

They don’t need to connect over anything.
They just need to connect.

And if that connection is real, mutual, and consensual, then it’s no one else’s fucking business.