"’Leave the lights on so I can look at you.’’
“I want the lights off. I love the dark,” I say to Walter.
He’s seventy-three, a retired rubber-band tycoon, and this is our first night together. We’ve been dating three months. He’s cheap, takes me to the Olive Garden. Also, he’s a bore- drinks scotch and talks war stories, how his platoon was blown up, but he survived, shit like that. He talks about his "Harvard " days, but he's a non-intellectual who majored in business, and he only talks about the money he gives to Israel, and Mensa. His books are shrink wrapped, and he's got all these swords displayed on the wall, shit like that. But sue me. I'm sexually attracted and I have nothing to lose. I hurry into his posturepedic bed, and pull the covers to my chin.
I’m a little nervous—I’m a nervous person, and do I want him to see the age spots on my very pale skin, not to mention my huge balloon breasts that hang like a purse, and the roll around my back? Meanwhile the freak is standing in the light, flexing his muscles and showing off his spray tan body. He has a personal trainer that comes to his house, he repeats. His erect but quite small penis is sticking out like an award. “I prefer the dark,” I persist.
“Dark, schmark,” he says with a shrug. “You’ll have plenty of dark when you’re dead.”
“I like the allusion.’’
“Who cares allusion? I like the real thing.’’ He thumps into bed.
So now Ravel’s Bolero plays from a hidden speaker. He presses a button on this humongous remote and suddenly the mattress tilts and I’m upside down. A button moves the mattress tilted. I keep my eyes closed, pretending it’s dark, and he can’t see me. A few times I kiss his knee, thinking it’s his chin. Stuff like that. But the guy is pretty good in the sex department and we’re devouring each other, my bad knees clicking like snaps, and I’m making these snorting sounds. “Touch the balls.” “Balls?”
“Balls. Didn’t you ever hear of balls?”
I get down there, squinting and touching his balls--like touching tiny cold marbles and my God, the guy has three balls. “Three balls?” I murmur.
“God graced me. Now touch them. Roll them around in your hand.”
I’m feeling kind of nauseous but thank God, one touch and the guy is screaming like a moose in heat, and it’s over.
I’m lying next to him, the sheet to my chin. Phew, a break. So this is what post boomer sex is? Three balls? A good column, I think. I write a column about boomer sex and dating. He’s lying so still I listen for his breathing in the anxious dark. He wears a solid gold Apple Watch on his thin wrist. Lights flash from the watch and he’s watching his blood pressure. “That was ---great. Thank you,” he says after a long silence. “Do you want some water---anything?” He yawns, a series of ach ach sounds. Lights flash from his MacBook Pro computer, Roger is blowing his bad breath in my face.
“I have to go home. It’s late,” I say.
“Oh, I was going to ask you to stay over,” he says.
Sure you were moron. “I’ve gotta get home. Deadlines.’’ “Well, don’t put me in your column with the rest of those idiots you write about.”
“No of course not.”
He pops a Maalox into his mouth. On my knees now, I’m searching for my underwear dropped by his bed. I stuff my Victoria Secret underwear into my purse and throw on my black jeans and black poncho cape.
“Well, I’ll grab a cab,” I say, waiting for the jerk to offer taxi fare. He makes an attempt to get up, to walk me to the door but then starts a coughing fit which means he’s not going to.
“I’ll call you, honey,” he calls as I rush to the door.
“Great sex. Thank you.’’
I rush outside, glad for the dark and the moon that's the shape of a crooked pearl.
“I want the lights off. I love the dark,” I say to Walter.
He’s seventy-three, a retired rubber-band tycoon, and this is our first night together. We’ve been dating three months. He’s cheap, takes me to the Olive Garden. Also, he’s a bore- drinks scotch and talks war stories, how his platoon was blown up, but he survived, shit like that. He talks about his "Harvard " days, but he's a non-intellectual who majored in business, and he only talks about the money he gives to Israel, and Mensa. His books are shrink wrapped, and he's got all these swords displayed on the wall, shit like that. But sue me. I'm sexually attracted and I have nothing to lose. I hurry into his posturepedic bed, and pull the covers to my chin.
I’m a little nervous—I’m a nervous person, and do I want him to see the age spots on my very pale skin, not to mention my huge balloon breasts that hang like a purse, and the roll around my back? Meanwhile the freak is standing in the light, flexing his muscles and showing off his spray tan body. He has a personal trainer that comes to his house, he repeats. His erect but quite small penis is sticking out like an award. “I prefer the dark,” I persist.
“Dark, schmark,” he says with a shrug. “You’ll have plenty of dark when you’re dead.”
“I like the allusion.’’
“Who cares allusion? I like the real thing.’’ He thumps into bed.
So now Ravel’s Bolero plays from a hidden speaker. He presses a button on this humongous remote and suddenly the mattress tilts and I’m upside down. A button moves the mattress tilted. I keep my eyes closed, pretending it’s dark, and he can’t see me. A few times I kiss his knee, thinking it’s his chin. Stuff like that. But the guy is pretty good in the sex department and we’re devouring each other, my bad knees clicking like snaps, and I’m making these snorting sounds. “Touch the balls.” “Balls?”
“Balls. Didn’t you ever hear of balls?”
I get down there, squinting and touching his balls--like touching tiny cold marbles and my God, the guy has three balls. “Three balls?” I murmur.
“God graced me. Now touch them. Roll them around in your hand.”
I’m feeling kind of nauseous but thank God, one touch and the guy is screaming like a moose in heat, and it’s over.
I’m lying next to him, the sheet to my chin. Phew, a break. So this is what post boomer sex is? Three balls? A good column, I think. I write a column about boomer sex and dating. He’s lying so still I listen for his breathing in the anxious dark. He wears a solid gold Apple Watch on his thin wrist. Lights flash from the watch and he’s watching his blood pressure. “That was ---great. Thank you,” he says after a long silence. “Do you want some water---anything?” He yawns, a series of ach ach sounds. Lights flash from his MacBook Pro computer, Roger is blowing his bad breath in my face.
“I have to go home. It’s late,” I say.
“Oh, I was going to ask you to stay over,” he says.
Sure you were moron. “I’ve gotta get home. Deadlines.’’ “Well, don’t put me in your column with the rest of those idiots you write about.”
“No of course not.”
He pops a Maalox into his mouth. On my knees now, I’m searching for my underwear dropped by his bed. I stuff my Victoria Secret underwear into my purse and throw on my black jeans and black poncho cape.
“Well, I’ll grab a cab,” I say, waiting for the jerk to offer taxi fare. He makes an attempt to get up, to walk me to the door but then starts a coughing fit which means he’s not going to.
“I’ll call you, honey,” he calls as I rush to the door.
“Great sex. Thank you.’’
I rush outside, glad for the dark and the moon that's the shape of a crooked pearl.