The Last Place She'd Look Page 4

“Not in Los Angeles. Every balding, potbellied divorced guy with a late-model car feels entitled to date an actress or supermodel,” I fired back.

  “Did you ever think they can sense your anger and frustration, and that's why they recoil? That's the way the rest of the animal kingdom would react. Do you think you appear reserved or uptight?” Molly inquired.

  “I don't think so. But I'm not on the receiving end of meeting me.”

  “Maybe you should explore what meeting you is like,” Molly said. Her kind, even tone disguised accusations of my behavior with unwavering kindness. It made me want to punch her in the face. That's why it's called painful truth. “We know you want your dates to like you and meet your needs. But what do you bring to them? What do you offer of yourself?”

  “I'm cute and funny. I have nice hair, especially tonight.”

  “Do you want dates to like the wrapping or the whole package?” Molly asked.

  “All of me.” I answered, finally getting serious.

  “Good answer,” Molly smiled.

  “You mean I got one right? I hope there will be some drinking tonight. This chat is ripping my guts out. Not the way I wanted to turn 50.”

  “How did you want to spend it?”

  “In the loving arms of my life partner.”

  Diana jumped in, assertive but tender, “You look for love with such hunger — like there's a famine — and you'll shrivel up and die if you don't find someone.”

  Julia added, “I know I spend too much time on websites myself. I'm there for immediate gratification, an afternoon of lust and oven cleaning, not a lifetime supply of heart-pounding love. I have much lower expectations. That's what I'd recommend.”

  Lila spoke next, “We always cheer you on. We see you get all charged up — then stumble through hopes and expectations being dashed, horror stories, rejection, defeat, retreat. You fall and get up again, like a baby first learning to walk. We don't want to see you fall down again. It's not cute like a baby falling; it's just sad. Every time things end and you fall, I just want to hold and rock you till the hurt goes away.”

  Beth continued, “The shoemaker's wife has no shoes. The self-help writer gets help today—to find herself—and feel the love she already has in her life.”

  Julia, changing the mood said, “We were gonna do this or get you a male escort. But we couldn't agree on your type. Fred Flintstone was not available.”

  “That ex-husband created such a black mark on your life,” Diana said. “Crooked-dicked twerp.”

  “How does she know he has a crooked dick?” Julia asked.

  “I described it in detail in a moment of rage,” I fired back.

  “Diana gets the good dirt and I get the fat-girl college stories. We just don't want to see you suffer,” Lila added.

  Molly, eager to regain everyone's focus, said, “Sara, what if you cranked back your expectations and instead of looking for a life partner, if you were open to, say, a weekend companion, or someone you could be happy spending time with, sharing laughter with, building intimacy, rather than thinking like an architect and drawing up the plans for the rest of your life?”

  “I'm listening,” I said. My friends were smiling at me, eager to see resolution and for me to feel at ease.

  Molly added, “We're here to help you rethink your choices and goals. Moving forward, think about being happy, day by day—not in pursuit of a band of gold. You know what I mean.”

  Everyone looked at Diana and giggled. Molly looked at her too, eager for an explanation.

  “Molly, they're laughing 'cause I've had four husbands. I'm hoping for a fifth to get me though my old age,” Diana remarked.

  Molly turned back to me. “I hope you'll see this as helpful for you. Don't look for love in a be-all, end-all way. Look for good times and happiness today. A good evening, a good weekend, a responsive lover, these are the elements of a happy, healthy life.”

  “Just get laid,” Diana snapped.

  “Get happy,” Lila added.

  “Get laid. That will make you happier,” Julia theorized. “You can write about it for magazines and make money. More sex, more money.”

  “Don't limit sex just to men either. You know I believe variety keeps life interesting,” Beth chimed in with a wink. “I have some birthday plans in mind for you.”

  “If you can go out in the world with an eye towards just having a good time, I think you'll love life more,” Molly said, smiling.

  “When you're not trying so hard, it's easier to get laid,” said Diana. “That's how it always works for me. You know I find a hot man whenever I need one.”

  “If you can agree to relax about your goals and expectations, we're here to help you have more happiness in your life and heat in your bed,” said Julia. “I'll be like an AA sponsor. You can call me whenever you need something. We can go more places and meet new people, all kinds of people.”

  “So you all think that by trying too hard I've avoided relationships?”

  Unanimous from the room: “Yes!”

  “Really? Well, then maybe I should give up on searching for a relationship and just have a good time.”

  “Finally she gets it,” Diana says, standing. “Now can we get that blender going with margaritas? We've all worked hard tonight.”

  “Girls just wanna have fun. Fun leads to sexual escapades. That keeps you young, happy, and chock-full of article ideas you can sell,” Beth chimed in enthusiastically.

  “Does anyone have a roadmap to fun?” I remarked cynically, thirsty, and ready for my chilled margarita.

  Chapter 5

  Soakin’ It Up

  The following morning, my birthday, I woke up and felt old before I opened my eyes. My throat was dry and sore. Itchy eyes. I glanced at the clock, numbers blurry. I reached for a leg to see if it needed shaving. My skin felt parched, too. It was official. My first morning as a 50-year-old and I was drying up.

  As I prepared my coffee, I thought about how in caveman days, nobody survived to be 50. So waking up, I was already ahead of the game. I'd finally recovered from a fat adolescence, but felt pudgy and more klutzy than sexy. People said 50 was the new 30. Thirty was good. I had great friends, a promising future, and bags of hope. Twenty years later, I was single with great friends, a sketchy future, and saddlebags. As I packed for the day, I thought, “Birthday. Bathing suit. Who thought putting those together was a good thing?”

  I signed on to my computer just to check email. No working today! On Facebook, 20 of my “friends” had sent me birthday wishes. I'd received seven new friend requests while I was sleeping. The thought of being this popular without leaving the house made me feel warm and hopeful, with a little bit of strangeness at the same time.

  One of the new requests was from Derrick, a guy I took classes with in college, but who I hardly knew. We never did more than have tea on a rainy day. I friended him and sent a note stating, “Nice to hear from you.”

  Lila arrived, smiling, arms outstretched for a warm hug. “Buckle up for adventure, birthday girl. Life begins at 50.” As I got into the passenger seat, she belted an enthusiastic, off-key chorus of “Happy Birthday.” My inner 11-year-old filled with glee. “If you didn't bring sunscreen, I have SPF 15, 25, and 65—liquid burka.”

  Driving, we listened to the Eagles' Greatest Hits. Take it easy … don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy… Good advice. I hoped I could listen.

  After 90 minutes of Lila driving her minivan like a Ferrari, we arrived at Glen Ivy Hot Springs in Temecula. Lila parked in the first spot near the entrance. She had a handicapped sticker, or as she called it, “a gimp tag.” At 56, she'd already had two near-death experiences, including a car accident that left her with a limp and need of a cane—but looking at her face, one would never guess. Her winning smile framed champagne blonde hair and sparking blue eyes that shined sexy and experienced. Lila's carefree laugh belied her painful past. Her courage and perseverance were a life lesson to me. The wisest and worldliest of my fri
ends, we had worked together at my first corporate job, where she helped me navigate the shark-infested waters. I'd always clamored for her wisdom, doled out preciously like pearls.

  I was excited to be entering the unpretentious spa, also known as Club Mud. We walked to the dressing room and readied ourselves for our day of relaxation. In the bathroom, I squirmed and tugged into a one-piece black suit, took a quick glance in the mirror, and (as always) tried not to hate my thighs. I've had an issue with my thighs since my fat adolescence. I still struggled with overeating. If I could just lose those last damn 10 pounds, I'd be queen of my universe—and my life would be perfect. Yeah, right. And the minute I lose those 10 pounds, George Clooney will come to my house, give me a stripper-gram, and carry me off to his house in Lake Como, Italy.

  While dressing, my eyes darted around the dressing room, taking inventory of other women disrobing— exposing their breasts, hips, bellies. All different shapes and sizes, each with her own unique beauty. I found something attractive and admirable about every woman I saw. And I started to feel aroused by my thoughts. The last time I had these feelings I was in the group bathroom of my college dorm. But I'd never acted on it, including the night one of my floor mates drank too much and gave me a long, lingering hug that crossed the line of blossoming into a kiss.

  In college I felt intrigued, but afraid of being judged and rejected regarding all sexual experiences—this was true for my attractions to men and was doubly true of my desires for women. I wanted to share affection with women I admired—friends, the outspoken classmates in the women's studies program, even teachers. I was fascinated by intelligent women, magnetized by their inner power.

  But fear of what people would think, or what my family might say, stopped me from acting on those feelings—then.

  But now—I was at an age where no one was looking or thinking about what I was doing. Most of my judgmental family was dead. Many women my age dive into life eager for pursuits they've put on hold or thought about for years: marathon running, cooking school, or living on a desert island. On my way out to the sunshine I thought, “Fifty is the rebirth to go after what you've always wanted! I should write an article about it—or maybe begin by living bigger, louder, and bolder in pursuit of greater passion.“ I said to Lila, “Fifty and fearless. Time for new beginnings.”

  Towels, sun hats, sunscreen, and trashy magazines in tow, we marched to claim two lounge chairs. We positioned our possessions to indicate that these chaises were taken because it was the perfect spot—not too sunny, not too shady. I began to see my life as a giant swimming pool where I should be eager to jump in, splash around, and experience pleasure, as we strolled to the 'champagne mineral pools.'

  Dunking in the pool, soaking up the warmth of the water, Lila said, “I'm surprised at myself for being here today. Nobody could get me into a bathing suit but you, Sara. This water feels good on my saggy skin and old bones.”

  “We have to promise ourselves…no smack talk about age today. Otherwise we might as well drown ourselves,” I added, laughing.

  A young woman with an accent was searching the mineral pools, asking for … ME! “Sara Rosen? It's time for your massage.”

  “Me? I didn't book a massage.”

  “I booked it for you,” said Lila.

  Arriving at the massage building, a small pre-fab bungalow, the young woman led me down a long hall, introduced me to a tall man, then bowed and excused herself.

  “Ms. Rosen, please follow me,” said this six-foot three-inch blue-eyed Swedish warrior god named Erich. He led me to my own private sanctuary. “I'll knock in three minutes,” he said as he left me to undress.

  I was thrilled, anticipating lying on a table, being touched and stroked all over, every inch of me oiled, caressed, and attended to. Everything was crisp, pristine, and white. I stripped off my bathing suit, hung it on a hook behind the door, and dove in naked between the cool sheets.

  Right on time, Erich knocked and entered the room. He clicked on a CD boom box with some Yanni-type new-age music. He reached for a bottle of massage oil, squeezed some out, and warmed it with his hands before he even touched me. Erich stroked away tensions, knots, and tightness for almost an hour, seldom speaking.

  Shortly after closing my eyes, at first, my mind raced: thoughts of work. There were never enough freelance writing assignments to feed a more than financially struggling life. Finally, as his hands rhythmically stroked my limbs, I relaxed into a trance-like state, recollecting a lover's desire, the heat and passion of a romantic encounter. My senses felt as parched as my skin.

  When the massage was almost complete, Erich said, “I understand today is your birthday. Your friend has provided for a more extensive massage than our usual standard Swedish procedure. She wants you to have the most thorough full-body massage possible. Do I have your permission?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged, anticipating more deep tissue massaging on my shoulders and neck. Instead, Erich's hand caressed my thigh … my upper thigh. His skillful fingers made their way between my legs, probing, exploring, and then …

  “His fingers are inside me!” I said to myself in disbelief, surprised, concerned, aroused. My limbs tightened. Was this legal? Should this be happening? Should I let it happen? It felt pretty good. Oooh, very good. I melted, opening.

  “Be in the moment and enjoy it,” I reprimanded my brain. That was always a challenge for me, thinking too much about the next moment, or the one five minutes in the future or past, while glossing over the present. It had been years since a man had touched me there. “Shut up and relax.”

  Pleasure surged, my arms and legs tingled. Heart pounding, I felt young and fresh-from-the-box new, not thinking or complaining or reflecting or feeling dried up. Breathing deeply, tuning into the moment, senses energized as his fingers moved deeply, gentle at first, then fast, faster, slower, then faster again until the ping-ting of the music was drowned out by my own outcries of pleasure and release. Ecstatic, this was exactly what I had needed. I felt like I'd robbed a bank and escaped with the loot.

  When I floated out of the massage suite, dazed and delighted, I saw Lila sitting at a big round table with a beach umbrella, festive plates of food in front of her.

  “How was your massage? Hope it had a happy ending,” she remarked, laughing. “I thought the best gift for your birthday was to be rubbed the right way. Let's hope you don't have to wait until next year for it to happen again.”

  “Isn't this illegal?” I asked, thrilled to be pleasured anonymously. Though I'd never think of procuring a “happy ending” myself, I was delighted she had orchestrated my full-body birthday pleasure event.

  “Anybody can be bought for cash under the table,” Lila explained. “I do it all the time for my clients.”

  “You really are thoughtful.” I hugged her. “Thank you. That was more memorable than a Target gift card.”

  “Found your target, didn't we?” Lila said, chuckling.

  “Bull's eye,” I blushed. “It was great. At first I didn't know what to think.”

  “The key to sexual pleasure is not thinking,” she said. “And knowing what you want. What is it for you, Sara?”

  I was silent. What were my sexual wants? I always saw sex in the context of a relationship—and since that had been elusive, sex had been on the back burner for so long, I forgot how to “cook.” My face saddened searching for a memory to reflect on.

  “Don't think about it too much. I ordered you a chicken Caesar and a cranberry juice,” Lila said. After lunch, we headed to our lounge chairs for more trashy reading, a glorious nap, and then back in the mineral pool. “Are you having a good time?”

  “That was really memorable. And nobody had to buy anyone dinner,” I said smiling, still tingling and re-running the event through my mind.

  “Sex with a partner was so last century for me,” Lila tossed off, a sense of nostalgia to her aside. “You should be open to new experiences,” she suggested gently. “I think the older we get, the less
available men there are, the more it makes sense to consider the company of women. Even Margaret Mead said that as women live longer, it's an anthropological evolution to be with another woman. And she had a few husbands. The friendship of women grows deeper as we mature. If it turns sexual, there's more tenderness and compassion than fumbling around with some old man attached to a limp dick.”

  “Enough. You refuse to ever mention your husband. What is he, a hit man? How is he?” I asked.

  “Far away, in Florida, the man boob and draggy ass capital of America. He's out of sight and out of mind, only calls when he needs something. He's not going anywhere—that's my problem. I'm too lazy to get a divorce. I see my horse's ass of a husband for holidays. We're buddies now, that's all. So, I have an excuse not to date, a poor excuse, one I send a monthly check to.” We chuckled.

  “Well, there's the company of women, which we both like,” I explained. “And there's keeping company with women, touching another woman's body?”

  Lila said, “It's been so long since I've been touched. I barely remember what it feels like to be kissed, to know the softness of someone's mouth on mine, or even their lips on a shoulder, let alone anywhere down south.”

  In this moment, I wanted to hold Lila, caress and console her, be the warm body to comfort her. I was certain any gesture like that from me would be fiercely rejected. Being a caring friend and being a lover was a boundary that seemed uncrossable. Whenever I was with Lila, I wondered momentarily about that leap because I thought there was a scent of sexual tension between us.

  “We've both been married. We are straight,” I said, tentatively. “The men I meet tell me we have no chemistry. What they mean is that I don't make their dicks hard. At their age, no one makes their dicks hard, but they blame us. Without a little blue pill, most mid-life men are limp noodles. The main reason men get married is because they can only hold their farts in for so long,” I laughed. “Men who are hot to marry women our age are ready for adult diapers. During foreplay, instead of moaning 'Oh baby,' I'll moan, 'Grampa, still breathing?'” Feeling sad, I added, “Yet, I want to find someone…”