"And you never know, you may want to hop in the sack with someone at some point."
The above words sprang from the mouth of that old sage, my accountant. Not known for his bedside manner, it was a gentle suggestion that I might not be filing individual income-tax returns forever. But "hop in the sack?" I recently met a man on the verge of divorce. We spent one Sunday walking along the backshore for hours. He is a lovely, sensitive man and a talented carpenter. I wish I were attracted to him (my house needs some work), but I'm not in the least. A friend said, "He's so nice, maybe that will change." It won't. I know I'm operating at a disadvantage here, but I still expect "the sack" to deliver more than genial companionship.
"That's how it is for women in our situation."
This was my mother speaking, sharing the helpful reminder that the dinner invitations will slow to a trickle and couples will not abide a "third wheel" at that fine restaurant my husband and I were fond of. My sweet father passed away almost three years ago, and certainly my mother knows widowed life. But her widow-sister counsel made me cringe. It left me feeling dried up and old.
"I never wanted to be with a man after my Herbie. He was the only one for me, the love of my life."
My elderly relatives and acquaintances (the quote is a composite — I don't mean to be uncharitable) are being sincere. For some, it's been decades since they were touched by a man who wasn't billing Medicare for the encounter. But is this true? That no one could possibly fill the shoes, or at least the pajamas, of the guy who, when he wasn't fused to a recliner and snoring like a power drill, berated her constantly? The guy whose fiscal wrath was the reason she used four credit cards to buy one pair of shoes? I can empathize with the need to replace the reality of one's marriage with something almost mythically unassailable. But what happens to sexual longing? Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun?
I can't imagine that, at least not for me. I am a woman of hearty appetites — for food, for adventure, for sex. After years of loving and being loved I may even be a lot better at it than I was in my youth, in the days when one or two dances was a good enough reason to have sex with someone, in "the sack," the car, the coat closet or a grassy field.
"Mom tells me you have a friend."
This, from my brother, a few days after my second really enjoyable, chaste dinner date with a divorced man. I'd mentioned it to my mother and now it was all over town. "He's just a friend," I said, realizing that at least in the year or two to come, my encounters with heterosexual males will be monitored with an interest that is deep and perhaps a bit patronizing. As for the man in question, he is just what I needed. "Are you nervous?" he asked at the start of our first evening together. "Actually, yes," I said. "Well you don't have to be," he replied. "It might hurt a little at first because you're unused to the size, but then it'll be okay."
Now this was more like it: after all those hugs, someone to talk dirty to me. n°
The Sushisexuals by Joey Rubin
StuffWhitePeopleLike.com revealed the depressing truth about my dating history.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Susan Seligson's reporting and essays have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Salon.com, The Atlantic Monthly, Redbook, Outside, Allure, and many other publications. Her weekly advice column, “Ask Susie,” appears in the Provincetown Banner. Seligson’s travelogue, Going with the Grain: A Wandering Bread-lover Takes a Bite Out of Life, was published in the fall of 2002 by Simon & Schuster. A memoir, Stacked: A 32DDD Reports from the Front, released in 2007 by Bloomsbury USA, was named one of the 100 best books of the year by Publishers Weekly.
