Valentine’s Day Redux

Are you prepared for yet another side of me, from a different medium?

A few weeks ago a reader approached me and asked if I would like to be part of her new project.  I like new adventures, so my answer was yes.  With her help and that of a friend or two of mine, we put together  a vaudiotext of the story Valentine’s Day.  The result is that a piece of The Diary of the Vixen Divorcee is now on YouTube.

If you’re interested in learning more about vaudiotexts, or making one yourself, go to www.vaudiotext.com.

 

Ted Turner

My friend, Marlys, sets down her latte, turns her most penetrating gaze on me and asks, “What do you think of Jerome Simmons?”

“Never met the man.  Why do you ask?”  I’ve heard of him, for sure; patron of the arts, successful entrepreneur, etc.  Just never met him.”

“ I sat next to him at a dinner party last weekend.  I gather he’s lonely.  His wife died four years ago.  He implied he’s getting weary of going out on his own.”

“Hum,” I say.  “How old is Mr. Simmons?”

“Oh, he might be around 70.  But a young 70.  Tall, slim and straight, silver hair.  Think Ted Turner.”

“Hum,” I think.  “I could see being the younger girlfriend to a Ted Turner,” I think.

Ted Turner

Are you reading my mind?

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Breaking up Is Hard to Do

Breaking up on the telephoneAnother unexpected first in my mature middle age:  Telling a suitor that I don’t want to see him again.

I’m such a coward.  I told Chet over the phone. (You last read about him in How Not to Impress a Woman.)

I had the best intentions to do it in person.  Truly I did.  I set off to meet him for brunch Sunday morning fully intending to tell him that he was wasting his time with me.

 

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How Not to Impress a Woman

Take lessons from Chet,  my suitor.  (Remember him from Addled by a Drug and The Poetry of Seduction?)  He’s mastered the art of how not to impress me.

His problem?  He allows one  false premise guide him during our courtship; that he needs to impress me. Who wants to be impressed?  Not me.

Why did he tell me that he got a perfect score on his SATs?  At our age, who cares?  Who even remembers their score?  Maybe if mine had been perfect I’d remember.  But still, all these years later that’s hardly something I’d be chatting about.

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A Touch of Velvet

When Alan loved me, his love wrapped around me like velvet; tender, caressing, sensual.  I moved through the world as if I were always enfolded in the black velvet cape he gave me for my 50th birthday.

He remained infatuated with me at the time of this birthday.  After knowing each other for 20 years, he still beamed like a boy as I pushed aside the white tissue paper and unfolded the long, hooded cape from its box.  He knew me well, knew I’d be delighted with this gift.  Still, I could see in his eyes that bit of doubt.  “Maybe she won’t like it, maybe it’s all wrong,” he was thinking.

I threw it over my shoulders, pulled the hood over my head, admired myself in the mirror as I stroked the soft fabric, then twirled to enjoy the feel of it billowing out around me.  I looked at him, at the happiness in his eyes now that he was sure of my pleasure at his gift.

Perfection.  My 50th birthday was perfect.

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New Man in Town

Not only in the age of Jane Austen was it universally acknowledged that a single man possessed of a good position is in need of a wife.  In this age and this city, the belief still holds strong.

New Concertmaster in TownSince our orchestra hired as its concertmaster a divorced man, serious note has been taken.  Society matrons sit transfixed in their seats, watching the passion of his playing, the way he sways as his bow caresses and plucks the strings of his violin, the way his gray locks fall over his brow.

The unmarried among us fantasize about what those strong strokes and practiced technique would be like applied to us.  The married women sublimate by plotting matchmaking strategies for their single friends.

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More on Seduction

Detail of The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

Slow down for a moment.  Forget all those things that you absolutely have to do in the next 30 minutes.  Allow yourself the pleasure of getting lost in this painting.

Why is it so widely loved?  Is it the complexity of pattern, the way that the background flows into his garment, which flows into hers without clear demarcations?  Is it the abundance of rich gold, contrasted against the traces of bright blue, red and green?  Is it the slightness of her body pressed against the dominating mass of his body?  Is it the precise molding of her face, the glimpse of her shoulder?

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The Poetry of Seduction

Andrew Marvell said it best back in the 17th century.  I have never come across anything written before or since that more convincingly and beautifully expresses the compelling reasons to indulge in passion.

Alan, my ex-husband, the scientist, would never have come across this poem before meeting me.  I wouldn’t have expected him to know it.  But bless his romantic heart, he learned To His Coy Mistress, and would, when the moment was ripe, pull out a few select lines.   Always with the desired results.

But my own romantic heart hungered for more.  I wanted what he could never have done.  I longed for the man who, in a moment with stillness hanging heavily around us, would recite, unbidden, those lines for me.

I teased Alan that I would give myself, body and soul, to the man who did that.

August Rodin sculpture, the Kiss

French sculptor Auguste Rodin captured how I anticipated responding to an impromptu recitation of “To His Coy Mistress”.

 

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Invisible Women

In the middle of a trendy, hip, upscale restaurant a woman of 55 came unhinged, setting shock waves blasting through the affluent clientele.  I wasn’t there, but my friend, Marlys, was among the five women seated with the woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

With her flare for sharing dramatic details, Marlys painted the picture for me of what happened to her friend, Stephanie.

Stephanie, as envisioned by the artist Joan Miro

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The Toy Boy Responds

Before I included the post about him in the Diary of the Vixen Divorcee  (see The Toy Boy), I emailed it to Guy.  This is his response.  What a gift to any woman to have her youth remembered like this, and to be told of those memories.

Blondie,

How much fun is that?

“Once upon a time…”  – you’re so cute. What a kick to read the private thoughts of such a special former lover. The realization that I had achieved an erection half way through the story made me smile and shake my head (Some things never change :-) )

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