Sex After 60 in Sag Harbor The boomer dating scene in the Hamptons (and in Manhattan) is bleak. Fortunately, I’ve never cared less.

By Candace Bushnell, a novelist who wrote 'Sex and the City'

Candace Bushnell at home in Sag Harbor. Photo: Gillian Laub

Like Manhattan, Aspen, and Palm Beach, the Hamptons are full of single women over 60. Most are divorced women or widows who were once married to one-percenters and are now looking for Mr. Bigger — or Mr. Biggest. There are also women who have small trust funds or are like me: single women in a creative field who made enough money to snap up a small cottage in a downturn. Very few of these women, at least the ones I know, have ever ended up with a proper boyfriend or husband, but not for lack of trying. Of course, everyone can point to one or two exceptions to the rule — a couple who got together in their 70s and are now blissfully happy. But in general, the odds of a woman finding a partner after 60 are not particularly good.

And yet, in this world, if you’re single, you are supposed to make an effort to become part of a couple. As a divorced woman in her mid-60s who was married for ten years (from 2002 to 2012) and who had several serious boyfriends before and after that relationship (but none since the end of the pandemic), I am perfectly happy being single. I own an apartment in the city and a house in Sag Harbor, both of which I paid for with the money I earned from my career, and somehow I feel busier with my work than I did 20 years ago. I have two wonderful standard poodles. Still, people always ask me if I’m seeing someone, and I always feel they’re disappointed when I say I’m not. “I don’t care!” I want to shout. “I’m not interested!” But the reality is that I often wonder if some part of me does care. I’m getting older, and I’m in the middle of figuring out what the rest of my life should look like. The only road maps I have are the classic Hamptons Grey Gardens trope or an older-people romantic comedy where divorcées find a “true love” with whom to live out their sunset years.

So even though I’m not 100 percent determined about it, I like to keep my hand in the dating waters. Having dated now for nearly 50 years, I have learned that some things about it never change: the uncertainty, the irresistible giddiness, the hurt, the fear. But, mostly, the hope. That little kernel of all-too-human desire that maybe, this time, it will “work out.”

That is why, three years ago when I was 63, I allowed a very well connected 70-something woman friend to set me up with Eddie, a seasoned music impresario who had been famously married to a local newscaster. (And no, Eddie is not his real name. I have changed the identifying details of everyone in this story beyond recognition to protect their — and my — privacy. While all the stories I’m about to tell are true, whom they concern is my secret.) Once the introduction was arranged, via text, I did the first thing you do in the current dating game: I Googled. Younger people search on Instagram, but in general, men my age and older aren’t on it.

The problem with a little bit of information garnered from a screen is that the mind — or at least my mind — starts inventing a story to fill in the rest. Google took me right to Eddie’s recently purchased designer house. It was perched on a spit of land overlooking Mecox Bay. It wasn’t the biggest house, but it had a spectacular location with steps built into the side of a small hill that led to a long dock where you could watch sunsets. During my prosaic hours, I kept thinking about what it would be like to be partnered with this man and live in this house. And even though he had let his hair go white, at least he didn’t have a long gray beard that screamed “grandpa” like so many other men over 60.

Or rather, over 70. Eddie was 77, but my friend assured me he wasn’t an “old” 77 as he still skied in Aspen and ran half-marathons. At one time, the thought of dating a 77-year-old would have been an instant “no,” but now, 70-, 80-, 90-, and even 100-year-old men were my new reality despite the fact that I would likely turn out to be too old for them. I reminded myself to stay open-minded about Eddie’s age. Although the unspoken truth was that if things “worked out” with Eddie, in three, five, or ten years, I would certainly be taking care of him (if I were still compos mentis myself).

After our text introduction, Eddie texted me separately and asked where I wanted to have dinner. I suggested Y and Z, two well-known restaurants in Sag Harbor. He suggested X in East Hampton. I hate X because bad things happened there with the Real Mr. Big 27 years ago, it’s inconvenient for me, and the food isn’t that good. But I didn’t tell Eddie this. When he insisted on going there, I agreed. Partly because, as in so many situations with heterosexual men, it just feels easier to agree. I could already tell that if I didn’t give in, Eddie would fuss like a small child and I would feel guilty that I’d said “no” to him.

So when he asked for my address and said he would pick me up and drive me to the restaurant, I gave it to him. I had a foreboding feeling that this might be a mistake, but I brushed it away. I reminded myself that I was a grown-up, which means I try to lead with logic instead of hormones and their related emotions. Whatever happened next, I could handle it.