No Mrs Robinson
I seem to have gone wrong somewhere. Although I'm dabbling my manicured toes somewhere in the shallow forties, I'm making not a ripple with the under twenty fives. Okay, I'm no Kathleen Turner baring all to seduce the youthful Matthew Rhys once a night and twice when there's a matinee - but still - you'd think some luckless juvenile, somewhere, would be interested. Isn't there a trend here that I'm missing?
During the whole Kathleen Turner kit-off furore, the strangest thing to me hasn't been why a woman of forty five would want to perform naked on the West End stage, but just how many cherished male memories the whole Mrs Robinson thing seemed to trigger.
There's a whole host of men out there who've told me that the first time they had sex was with a fortysomething woman. They fairly whimper with gratitude when they talk about finally being introduced to the delights of carnal knowledge where they themselves didn't play both starring and supporting roles. Graduate, indeed.
For one it was a mother at the beach the summer he was seventeen, for another the woman next door, and yet another his landlady the year he started college. Each one fondly recites her full name, followed by the place and time - their eyes misting over as they croon nostalgic Bobbie Goldsboro choruses of 'I knew nothing about love, she knew everything'.
'Oh that woman taught me so much,' said one of the initiates dreamily, lost in his blue-tinted reminiscences. Each man can recall every single detail, albeit somewhat amplified by the passage of time; but certainly, not one mentions her cellulite. Not one remembers whether or not her charms were suffering from the effects of gravity. Did Dustin Hoffman spend much time looking for stretch marks when Anne Bancroft stripped off that stocking? I think not.
So does Kathleen Turner have a great body? Was it 'brave' of her is it to strip off and reveal it - compared with - say a beach frolicking Mel C who, after laying off the gym for a while, has been renamed Porky Spice. Or what about the catwalk strutting logoed tapeworm Posh Spice who, of course, is not painfully emaciated but merely svelte.
The media is a harsh, hard-to-please, body-dysmorphic lover. Men, on the other hand, usually don't give a damn. Although the owner of a less than perfect body might think she's a minority interest - there seems to be a substantial following devoted to the bizarre and forbidden pleasure of the okay-looking, middle aged woman.
Good god - overweight and over forty and men still fancy us! The shame of it.
Some of them even prefer family-sized women with more hip than hip-bone. I was at a party recently where two men were unashamedly ogling the amply proportioned Fern Britton of Ready, Steady, Cook. 'Oh isn't she just gorgeous, they whispered, drooling over her from a distance.
And as for me? Oh, you're just not big enough, love, said one.
Of course, times have changed. When The Graduate was first released many fortysomething women would have had grown-up children of marriageable age. Maturity wasn't sexy - it was vaguely offensive, like strong cheese. You spent your middle years having tennis lessons, or waiting for grandchildren. No wonder people took tranquillisers.
Nowadays, with many women delaying starting a family while pursuing a career, or the impossible notion of finding a man who isn't a commitment phobe - Mrs Robinson's contemporary is just as likely to be sending her child off to nursery as college. When she says she's having her first baby, she means one that fits into the Moses basket, not the master bedroom - and though she might be hitting forty - she probably isn't hitting on the baby-sitter.
Frankly, who would want to? It's bad enough trying to teach a grown man how to do complicated button pushing tasks like programming the video, without running a YTS scheme for swinging lovers.
I mean, do you really feel like doing show and tell several times a night. Who has the energy? You might already be up all night with one fretful, demanding child. Two is pushing it.
Enthusiasm is all very well but teaching isn't overtone's vocation. As another, younger, male friend of mine said about sex - it's like lacrosse. I'm there on the pitch, and I've got the uniform on, and the little net thingie clasped very firmly in my hand. I know all the rules - but I don't really have the foggiest idea how to play.
So practice on someone your own age.
Forget stripping off at forty five - it's the willingness to go orienteering without a map, a compass, with an inexperienced rambler that's really brave.