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My
First Time PAGE
TWO After living in Los Angeles for a year, I meet Stuart. He is nothing like my ex-boyfriend, who is a playwright, or my ex-husband, who is a lawyer. He is a working man. Although he makes very little money, he takes great pride in what he does. He is the first stranger to flirt with me in 25 years. Or maybe, the first one I really noticed. We are walking home. We've just finished dinner at an Indian restaurant on Pico, not far from my apartment. It is a warm night, though quickly cooling. He carries a thin plastic bag with the remains of our meal. We stop occasionally to kiss. He holds me tight, his long arms snaking around my waist, his palms resting in the small of my back, his fingers splayed, bearing down gently, urging my hips forward. The bag bobs against the back of my knees, which threaten to buckle. We are an unlikely couple to be necking on the street. Way too old. But then he leans hard into me and I feel his heat through my jeans, and I swear I am 17. Without a word, we start to walk. Sex begins to feel inevitable. At 17 who wants to put it off for even one night, at 47, who can afford to? We ramble, giddy, toward my apartment, his fingers laced into mine. And I know that I have to tell him. I have to tell him now. I am only sure of two things. That I have to say something before we get up stairs, and that I absolutely can't. Say. Anything. We turn the corner. I see my apartment building up ahead. Finally we stop the way people do without planning it, one person slows and the other follows suit like dancing. It looks like a joint decision, but it's not. We're standing in front of the house next door. "There's something I have to tell you," I say. "What?" He's still smiling, not ready to surrender the dizziness that drove us here, five minutes from buck-naked. I tip my head forward, until it touches his chest. "This is really hard," I say over and over. "What?" He asks again, not wary, as I'd suspected he would be, but with concern. "I can't, I can't, I can't," I mutter into his chest. I know what he's thinking. Because ever since the operation, I've imagined this conversation. I just wasn't sure who I'd be having it with. I want to comfort him. I say, "It's not that bad. I'm not ill or anything. But it's sort of bad. I hope you'll still like me." "Tell me," he says, "you can tell me anything." But I can't. "You have cancer," he says. "No, I told you I'm not sick, I was never sick." Then, right on cue, "You're gay." "No." He pauses. I know exactly what he's going to say next. He tries to look into my face, "You're a man. " "No," I say, this time to his sleeve. He stands awkwardly. "I'm going to put the food bag down now," he says. "Do you want to sit on the curb?" I nod. Gently he leads me over, together we sit. I lean against his shoulder. I take a big shuddery breath. And I tell him the story. When I'm finished, he looks at me, confused, like he's still waiting for the bad part. Finally he says, "I have scars all over. Two on my face. It's all right." "It's more than scars, " I tell him. I take
his hand and put it on my left breast first, giving him a soft warm
handful, then I move it to the right, hard as a rubber ball. His
eyes never leave mine. "I'm an adult." He says, "I
like you. Why would this matter? I don't understand." Genuinely
puzzled, he hugs me, nuzzles my hair, and for the first time in
two years, I relax.
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For
a split second, he looks sheepish. I pull my shirt down. I can tell
from his face that while to some hypothetical guy it would be no
big deal, to him it is a very big deal. It reminds me of my daughter.
When she was little she'd never tell me outright that she didn't
like a dress I'd bought for her. Instead, every time I'd take it
out of her drawer and hold it up, she'd say, "I think it's
really beautiful, I just don't feel like wearing it today."
I wonder if the hypothetical guys will feel like that.
