It appears that there is an unchanging fundamental law of the universe about men of a certain age and women of a certain age that I keep seeing crop up.
I saw Crazyheart last night, with Jeff Bridges. The premise of the story? That you can be a greasy, sloppy, puking on yourself middle aged drunk man, with your zipper open but, because you know how to write a good country song--a young, slinky woman like Maggie Gyllenhal, will want to sleep with you and treat you like a hunk o' burnin' love-- at least, until you lose her kid in a bar. She looked at him with these ridiculous doe eyes, hanging on his every slurry, whiskey drenched word. The scenes of them making out were creepy. I hope they were supposed to be.
For a woman on the other hand-if she's got a little untended facial hair, a few jelly rolls and she's over 45-- she's as good as a paper cup for a man her own age, I don't care if she's got talent coming out of her eyeballs.