Love Life

I was married for over fifty years and I have to admit we had some rough times, especially when one of us was unfaithful, oh the tears and screams and threats and groveling, you’d think it would be impossible to ever come back from such melodrama but no, we clung to one another in spite of betrayals and misspent hours, and the thing was, my husband adored me, even when he was angry and frustrated, always thought I was the most beautiful, the sexiest, smartest, most joyful person in the world, and while I shrugged off his admiration, a part of me believed him too, believed him when he was jealous and thought every man wanted me, because after all I was jealous of every woman who looked at him, so ridiculous even when we were both young and lithe, but maybe bordering on the berserk when we were old, when even then we would laugh and predict that we would have to fight off admirers when the other died first. He predicted smugly that I would cavort with a pallbearer on top of his coffin and I protested that I would be celibate if I outlived him, not interested in another man ever, nobody could take his place.

But of course secretly I liked what he said. I might want another man, who knows? And I said to my husband, if you outlive me you will have to beat all the ancient biddies off with a stick, announced it with utter conviction because even as an old man he was strong and handsome and could get it up.

So it was with some disappointment that I discovered after he died that I was not all that marketable and in fact I was ignored even on the free table. Maybe younger I would have attracted more attention, but I was 81, really on the far end of life, and no matter how devastatingly desirable my deceased husband had considered me, the community pickings were slim to vanishing. I was shocked.

The way I discovered my lack of appeal was this: I joined a dating app for old people. I mean, how were my potential suitors going to discover me otherwise? It’s not like I strutted my stuff in church every Sunday, and except for my plumber who was happily married and forty years younger than me, the only men I encountered were in the checkout lines in the supermarket, and honestly the ambiance there was not conducive to romance or pheromones.

So I signed up for membership in a group for older singles because I was clearly on the senior side of things and it promised me a lavish selection of men from whom to choose. I was required to create a profile of myself, the illustrated version, so I scrolled through my photo albums until I found a picture I liked, of my cat taken a few months before she died because I was, and remain, convinced that she is a fair representation of who I am. My soul, you know. Unfortunately the Administer of the app rejected the cat’s portrait so I reluctantly found a selfie that didn’t show all the lines in my face but otherwise was reasonable accurate, and wrote a description of myself that made me seem available but not desperate, literate but not snobby, earthy but not a whore.

I got an almost immediate response from a fellow who must have been perched on his old man bony buttocks while sitting at the computer waiting for the newest posting to arrive, his skinny old man arms and old man knuckles poised to type an answer. I was kind of thrilled, this was exactly what my husband had predicted, enthusiasm from a multitude of elderly men, or at least one, and this one, Fred, the first responder as it were, didn’t seem half bad, a retired cardiologist from New York relocated to New Hampshire, a few years older than me, a curmudgeon with an excellent vocabulary and bad temper. Honestly, he sounded ideal, and my mother always wanted me to marry a doctor.

We started texting on a Thursday. On Friday he wrote that he wanted to come visit me even though I had offered to meet him somewhere halfway. I was happy about that, not at all worried that he would be a threat since from his photographs it looked like I could overpower him easily, so I told him that was fine but he shouldn’t expect to have sex with me just because he was driving 200 miles, and he responded that of course he didn’t think that, heavens no, and we continued to talk about life, love, deep stuff, and then I started to notice that he punctuated every philosophical statement by saying that our discussion would be much more enjoyable if done while cuddling. I ignored the cuddling remarks the first few times but eventually I became annoyed, started to get a bad feeling, an uneasy feeling, and I wrote, “I actually am not liking your emphasis on physical contact.” He protested innocence and apologized like I was criticizing a misspelling rather than a personality flaw, but regardless I cancelled our plan to meet, and told him that while I wasn’t averse to a physical relationship I was not interested in the sly emphasis on sex I was feeling from him.

I didn’t say this out loud but I thought he was a little creepy, like he really couldn’t help himself from obsessing about flesh on flesh.So that was the end of that contact and I blocked him.

The next man that texted me was Davey, a local, also a bit older than me, a skinny, stringy fit fellow, spritely looking like a bitty elfin lad, and the thought of him lying next to me was terrible, having this little wisp of an old man kiss me, after having been married to a solid block of muscle, didn’t bear thinking of. He never had the chance to tell me how much he loved cuddling.

Over the next few weeks I got myriads of messages, from fat men, bearded geezers, clean shaven gravel diggers, corporate duffers, Christian Scientists, Beelzebub acolytes, a world of elderly men who would give anyone the willies, as god is my witness.

I finally connected with Jack. He seemed perfect, older, a retired dentist, politically aligned with me, and an enthusiastic and talented amateur photographer so he said. We met in town for lunch, and I don’t know, he was a little gruff and unpleasant to the waitress, but I was feeling desperate by this point and accused myself of having unrealistic expectations. I still wanted to get to know him better so we went to my house, talked for hours and sure enough, he was irritating but fun, challenging me intellectually. I mean, I hadn’t discussed existentialism with anyone since I was sixteen.

Then I said I’d like to see some of his work and he brought out two huge self-published books which  I opened up eagerly and oh my god, each volume was solely devoted to photographs of naked women, enough nudes to wallpaper a palace, enough nubile hips and breasts and buttocks to populate a city of harems, enough bellies and thighs to fill a thousand lonely nights.

"Look at the light here,”  Jack beamed, pointing at one graceful turn of shoulder, but all I could see were nipples, a phantasmagoria of nipples.

"Oh wow,” I said, “This is really interesting.” I turned the pages as quickly as politeness allowed and then smiled and said how absolutely lovely it was to have met him, and he got up and put his books into his bag and I walked him to his car and said goodbye, and then I want back inside, wrote him an email in which I told him unfortunately I found I was not emotionally ready yet for a new relationship, it’s me not you, blocked him on email, and cancelled my subscription to the dating app.

I confess, it’s me, not them. Can you believe it, not one of those old men was my husband.