Sex . . . And a Village

Let’s talk about sex. Like about a sixty-something-year-old widow, after three years of grief, catching the eye of a younger man. When he flirts with her, every atom in her body, despite her many barriers, screams, “Hot damn!”

Biology is such a betrayer.

Logic tries to tell her she doesn’t need to date. She has a set pattern in her widowhood, a tidy, predictable life. Plus, she is past her prime. WIDOW RULES are chiseled above the door in her little boxed world of work, home, exercise, cook, couch, and cats. And if a man ventures within that perimeter, why, she and her friends will have a stack of examinations for him worse than a MCAT. Or so she believes.

But then the flattered widow shares the story of said flirtation with a group of five tipsy women at a restaurant dinner. The women explode with excitement, like teens sitting in the school cafeteria giggling about a boy. The widow pulls out her phone, blushes with pleasure, and reads aloud the follow-up text he’d sent verifying his interest: How about dinner and a movie? WHOA! The ladies are all ears and titters.

“What did you tell him?” They ask.

“Why, no, of course.”

The widow expects to hear, “Oh you were right to ignore his date request.” Instead, she receives, “WHAT? Are you crazy? Why pass up this opportunity? You’ll regret it forever.”

The widow’s body says: See? Listen to them. PLEASE.

One of her two sisters-by-another-mother grins. “You know, he seems like a decent fellow. I’ve known him for a few years. And he’s good-looking.”

The “sister” tells the group how he used to keep birds on her property in one of her rehabilitation cages. She’s rescued many an animal. People, too.

One of the ladies asks the widow how she met the man.

The widow relates the story: She’d been cleaning out the garage after her husband’s death. She posted a bird cage for sale online. The man responded. When he picked it up, he mentioned that he was a plumber by trade. She happened to have a kitchen sink that needed attention. He ended up redoing the pipes.

The widow’s phone gets passed around, everyone reading the text. The other sister-by-another-mother grabs it. “Let’s text him back.”

The ladies at the table chime in with suggestions of what to say, most of them XXX.

The “sister” types: Yes. Dinner and movie sounds fun.

Mere minutes pass before the ladies hear the familiar phone ding of a response. The widow reads: Great. When?

The widow feels sixteen again, being asked to the prom. She looks around the table at the other women ranging from seventy to eighty-five-years-old. They look at the phone, at the widow’s flushed cheeks, and speak about their own young love stories, their jitters, their many crushes, and their early fumbling in cars.

The widow’s date is set for Sunday, two days away. Dinner and a movie. Only by succeeding texts it has morphed into him saying he’ll bring the dinner to her house and maybe they could watch a movie. Maybe cuddle on the couch.

No question about his intentions.

The group can hardly wait.

Once home, the widow hyperventilates.

The ladies text her: Do you have a sexy nightie?

 Did faded black boxers with planets, moons, and stars count?

The next morning, the widow wakes after a fitful night and sits upright. S-E-X. How long has it been? Her husband passed away a little over three years ago. And before that, he’d suffered over five years of declining dementia. Quick math tells her it’s been almost a decade since she’s “gotten it on.”

Do they still say that?

She feels so naïve and so vulnerable. It’s like she’s returned to virginhood.

She texts a young co-worker and friend: There’s a chance I might get naked with a man tomorrow, a younger man.

The co-worker replies with a surprise face icon: OMG. Give me deets.

She gives her friend the condensed story.

Her friend sends back a happy face icon: And FYI, women today shave it all.

Good grief. Doesn’t that itch?

Within the hour, the widow has a realization. Protection. She again texts her co-worker: What kind of condoms do you recommend?

The co-worker, who must be spitting out her coffee with laughter, replies: Trojan. Bare skin.

In the meantime, the widow’s sister-in-law texts from out-of-state and asks what the widow is up to that weekend. A regular check in.

The widow types: A date. And likely…

An explosion of questions from the sister-in-law about who, how long she’s known him, where he’s taking her, etc. The widow answers as best as she can. The questions get deeper. They have never shared this intimately before.

The sister-in-law mentions that the widow should consider a lubricant. Your brother and I prefer “Just Like Me.” Doesn’t get too tacky. Not a bad taste. But you can only get it online and it takes a week or two to ship.

Holy Toledo. Now the widow has to worry about lubricant. And one that tastes good.

An image comes to mind of what that means . . . oh dear lord.

After some coffee for courage, the widow dresses and heads to the grocery store. It’s Saturday. Normal grocery day. Logic says she must stick to routine.

She thinks she’s seen condoms at the store before, maybe across the aisle from Kleenex? Or maybe they were next to the deodorant or razor blades. She hasn’t bought condoms since 1990. She’ll grab a box and tuck them under something so people won’t see them in her cart. She lives in a small town, and chances are high she’ll see a familiar face or three.

No condoms in the paper goods aisle. She finally finds them in first aid after searching the shelves for fifteen minutes, and, to her horror, they’ve been moved to a locked glass cabinet. The lubricant, too. Why on earth has the store done that? A mad influx of condom thieves? Do they now card people for sex? If so, they’ll likely deem her too old.

The “date” is the next day, so she has no choice but to find a clerk with keys. And discretion. By some miracle, the clerk she hunts down is a middle-aged woman, one she hopes possesses empathy for a widow’s embarrassing situation.

“Which kind do you want?” the clerk asks, the glass door open, blocking part of the aisle. This creates a traffic jam. And an audience.

The widow madly scrolls through her texts for her co-worker’s recommendation. “Trojan Bare Skin.”

“Bare Skin Raw? Bare Skin Sensitivity? Bare Skin Magnum?” The clerk’s voice has an irritated edge, and she sighs loudly as she waits for an answer. The other shoppers trying to go down the aisle stare at the widow in anticipation.

Does “magnum” mean there are sizes, too? How is she supposed to know what size he is if the act hasn’t happened yet? Criminy. Does she call him and ask? The widow wants to melt into the linoleum. “Isn’t there just a regular Trojan Bare Skin for one size fits all?”

There is. In back of the Magnums. The clerk grabs a box and makes to lock the door again.

“Stop. I need lubricant, too.”

The clerk and the audience roll their eyes. “What kind?” the clerk asks.

The widow scans the selection. She remembers a brand she used back when her and her husband first dated almost three decades before. “Astroglide?” She hopes there aren’t now an array of flavors or colors or types. The clerk hands over the clear bottle and the condoms.

The widow smiles at the clerk and the crowd of shoppers. A fake smile. “Thank you all for your patience.” The words hold a hint of sarcasm. She knows her face is a shade deeper than beets, but passive aggressiveness helps her regain power.

She self-checks her groceries.

Texts come in all day from the five women, her co-worker, and her sister-in-law: What time is the date tomorrow? Did you go buy something lacey?

The widow checks her underwear drawer. Dismal: Plain. Worn. Beige and nun-ish. But she has no time to shop or worry about it. She spends the rest of the day cleaning house and changing the bedsheets.

The following morning, more texts from her friends, co-worker, and sister-in-law: What did you decide to wear? What is he bringing for dinner? Are you nervous?

Nervous is too mild a word. Terrified plus anxious plus excited plus overwhelmed plus numb plus guilty for betraying her deceased husband. What does that equal? High blood pressure and loss of appetite.

She showers. Puts on her Catholic underwear, best jeans, and a flowing, feminine white tunic blouse. She wears her favorite crystal-like earrings that her friends chipped in to buy her for her birthday three years before. Maybe they’ll give her courage. And confidence. She slips on black flats instead of her normal ankle boots. No kitty socks today.

She paces and watches the clock.

Dual texts from her sisters-by-another-mother: How are you doing?

The widow replies: If I were a deer in the headlights, the car would have already run me over.

He mentioned back when he was doing plumbing repairs that he didn’t drink. Too bad. She could use a bottle.

Music. She should have background music. What do younger men listen to? She scans Pandora. Hip hop? Please, no. Pop? Double please, no. How about jazz? She likes jazz. Not the classic jerky stuff. Maybe the soft and sultry kind of jazz. Smooth. Perfect.

A knock. Or is that her heart?

She opens the door and attempts to look calm and collected.

He takes her in. “Wow. You’re all dressed up.”

He wears torn jeans, a white t-shirt, and tennis shoes. He carries in a case of water and a grocery bag.

“I bought bottled water for us. I didn’t know if you had any.” He also brought a container of steamy chicken tenders and a mixed fruit and cheese plate. Plus, a large chocolate bar.

No way she can eat. He says he’s not hungry, either. She puts everything on the kitchen counter.

She turns on the TV and finds Netflix. “What movie would you like to watch?”

He says he really doesn’t like fiction. He likes real life stuff.

Does he mean reality TV? A documentary?

“Anything is fine.”

She knows she won’t be able to concentrate on a show even if it’s a cartoon. But she scrolls through documentary selections anyway to give her something to do, a task to keep her from running out the front door.

They sit on the loveseat which is two separate recliners with a cup holder between them. He tells her he feels like a kid, all nervous. She appreciates that and says she feels the same way.

Netflix remains on the TV screen with its many categories. She chooses none. She gets up and fills two glasses with ice and brings back two bottled waters.

They sip and make small talk. Her head doesn’t retain the questions or answers.

She gets up again and opens the mixed fruit and cheese container. She remembers to grab a few napkins. Neither of them want the chicken.

When she returns, he’s left his chair and moved over to hers.

Thrown off guard, she holds the tray out in front of him. He spears a piece of cheese with a toothpick and pops it into his mouth. Then he takes the tray from her and sets it on the coffee table, pulling her towards his lap.

Oh, if only she could lose thirty pounds in the next second.

But his actions are no surprise. Hers, either, as she lets him hug her and nibble her neck, which is both titillating and frightening. It’s been so long.

This is a rite of passage. And she longs to feel desirable once more.

She yields to him in baby steps. He’s a great kisser. They make their way to the bedroom. He’s an ambitious lover.

The Starland Vocal Band’s song “Afternoon Delight” plays in her head.

When they’re spent, he tells her she has a beautiful body. A beautiful face.

Later, she helps him retrieve his trail of clothes and sees him to the door, the cheese and fruit tray still out, the cheese hardened and the fruit dehydrating. The chicken is long cold. She eats a grape.

The next morning, texts pour in from friends, her co-worker, and her sister-in-law: Well? So? What happened? How are you? Did you do it?

She replies: I’m no longer a virgin.

One of her sisters-by-another-mother wants to know how many times. Is she sore? Did she use protection? Will she see him again?

The widow smiles. This experience hasn’t been just hers.

She didn’t go alone to bed with a man. She’d brought at least seven other women with her. A village.

They, too, felt the pins and needles. They, too, melted away their years, pounds, and decades of collected frost and faced their hang-ups. They, too, remembered the joy and closeness of best girlfriends.

And biology.