Julie Miller

An old ache re-appeared tonight, and despite the lack of outcome (no pun intended), it's good. There was a girl (definitely young) who looked almost like Julie Miller, whom I had a brief and bad affair with years ago. I looked at her and felt a long-dormant excitement in the loins.
Julie was not beautiful, but cute as hell in that New York Jewish girl way that drove a goy like me crazy. She had gone to Wisconsin with me, and was a self-described "little mouse" at the time. We met again sometime after graduation at a party near Columbia, and experienced a passionate cab-ride home.
We met again a week later, me at a cheap hotel downtown. She was living in Seattle, but was visiting her parents in town. We ended up at that hotel, and I ended up disappointing her. In subsequent communication, I did the male thing and hid in shame, though she seemed still interested.
I'm going to have to come to terms with the fact that the girls I was interested in years ago are long gone, and have become mature women. That is what the tapering off of the physical symptoms of anxiety will peal back, and hopefully I can adjust to them. Because I talked to the substitute Julie Miller, and you could see her whipping out the mental wheelchair for me in her eyes. Help me out, Rambler or whoever else reads this page. What's the new age limitations (both up and down)?
(Note to a certain dark-haired minx that sometimes reads this: you are hotter now than ever).