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affair, housewife with young manThere was no one around when I opened the door to see a six-foot-plus 20-something young man standing there.  He had golden brown skin, a goatee and a thick, black braid halfway down his back.  “Did you call for a computer repairman?” he asked softly, almost shyly.

Had I called for a computer repairman?  Indeed I had.  But who would have thought that what I would get would be so raw, so gorgeous, so …sexual.

I showed him to the computer, went to the other side of the room and kept out of his way. After a bit we chatted casually.  Yeah, he’d figured out computers when he was a kid.  He’d never thought he’d do anything else really.  Fixing computers wasn’t complicated, it came easy to him.

It was a low and lonely time in my life and standing there, looking at him for a while, I noticed how all 200-plus muscular pounds of him filled my chair and my space with his man-self.

I also noticed something I hadn’t felt for a long time.  I was turned on.

I was turned on to the muscles working in the broad shoulders of his back.  I was turned on to his mind, so focused and so concentrated on what he was doing.

I was even turned on to his big, graceful hands as they worked the keys on the keyboard and I found myself wondering what those hands would feel like if they were working my own keys.  While we talked I had the fantasy of kissing him and a powerful urge to act on my fantasy overcame me.

“Can I ask you something?” I finally said quietly, daringly.

I was sixty-plus years old; old enough to know better and at that moment, hot enough to not care.

“Sure,” he said, without turning around. “I can do two things at once.”

“It’s a good thing,” I said. “Because I’d like to know if I can kiss you on the back of your neck.”

Turned out he loved to kiss—and he loved to talk.  After we’d gotten to know each other, he would come by just to talk.

“We don’t always have to be f&*king” he’d say, and I’d say, “What’s wrong with always f&*king?” and he’d say “Nothing,” but that he wanted to learn things from me too–things like what did I think was the secret to living a happy life.

He meant it. He was searching. He was hungry for different views from the ones he’d gotten in that little yellow house on the south side.  He had a son. He wanted his son to know more too.

He’d call me up and ask if he could come over and “talk” and that’s what we would do—for a while.

“Don’t hurt me,” I’d whispered hoarsely once.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he responded. “I’m not like that. Besides, I respect you.”  And he did.

 He loved to kiss—I think I said that, but by god did he love to kiss—and he loved to ask questions and he loved to hear what I thought about the things he was questioning. 

We had a meeting of the minds and a meeting of lots of other things too and for what it was and for how long it lasted, it was good. Very good.

I called him recently after almost 15 years and he called back within the hour.

Of course he remembered me. He laughed. Was I kidding? 

We caught up with each other.  He owned his own business now; his son was on his way to junior college and no, he never did get married but he loved the woman he lived with. “Did that count?”

We laughed. It felt good to hear his voice again.

We reminisced about the day all those years ago that we had talked about the monkey mind.  That was the day that had meant the most to me; the day that he’d said, “See, what other woman could I talk to about these things?”

I worried about being so much older than him but that “monkey mind” day was the day that he said he “honestly, truly and forever,” never gave the fact that I was older than him a single derogatory thought and what did age matter anyway?”

“Connection and compatibility and feeling the same way about each other,” he’d said, “That’s what matters.,,and if you f&*k too, well. What could be wrong with that? It’s natural.”

I’ll never forget my young computer repairman with the big shoulders and the long, thick, black braid.

I’ll never forget my guy from the hood. The one who didn’t always want to f&*k but who also wanted to talk and to ask questions and who really did treat me like he respected me—not in spite of my age, but because of it.

Finally, I’ll never forget the moment that I had the fantasy of kissing him—and the guts to act on act on it.

 It was a fantasy that became one of the most treasured realities of my life.

 

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I Was 60-Something, He Was 20-Something, And It Was Good. Very Good. was last modified: by

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