Vol. 1, Post #44 An Affair To Remember

I wonder...Does the idea of fucking around land differently now? My sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, AKA, people with readers.

Trigger warning: I’m writing about “cheating” this week. If that’s a topic that causes you pain, skip on by. In no way is this meant to minimize/trivialize anyone’s upset.

Also, I love you very much.

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Last week, I had a conversation with a friend in which I said, “Listen, I think it’s ok to enjoy a bon bon at this point. Doesn’t mean you have to move into the box of chocolates.”

That this pal had reached out to discuss an affair she’s had on and off over the years and thinks she might be dipping back into again wasn’t a surprise. Frankly, my entire weekend was populated by Love Chat, none of it “traditional” and none of it coming from the mouths of men.

A bunch of my Young Old lady friends are thinking about sex. Sex with people other than their partners. Some are already having it. I get it.

I understand the impulse to explore what desire feels like in midlife, when so many elements of day-to-day living feel like a routine that is both welcome (bedtime at 9? Don’t mind if I do!) and repellent (what are those noises that I make as I stand up in the morning?) The bottom line to which I seem to default, as a woman who has not left sex in the dust? Desire, sex, all of it…it won’t be ignored, nor should it, no matter what the age. How to navigate it? Well, for me, I find that I often refer to the beautiful, sometimes frighteningly honest narrative that author Amy Bloom has laid out in her short story, Love Is Not A Pie.

I’ve written about this short story before for Oldster Magazine, when I was enjoying being polyamorous, and I’ve gifted more copies of Come to Me (the collection that contains the story) than I can remember.

Here’s the synopsis of the story: On the day of her mother's funeral, a young woman reminisces about the summers during her childhood spent with her family and friends at their lakeside cabin. As she considers her parents' nontraditional relationship, she also wonders about her own love life.

I used to think that it was occasions like those outlined in the story (a funeral or an upcoming wedding — the young woman in the book is engaged to be married), that make us question where we’ve been and where we’re going, but now, as 57 draws near, I realize that this may be the eternal question for me and other Young Olds: if love is not a pie, how to serve up the “slices” without leaving anyone hungry or, conversely, overfed? And as we age, is it possible or even sane to consider and sometimes prioritize desire and pleasure over practicality or stability?

When I was a girl, there were three women in my mother’s larger circle who loomed large for me, existing outside the societal margins of our suburban Philadelphia world. When my mother and her friends gathered for their coffee klatch kitchen table convos, the mere mention of these women’s names seemed to stop the clock, kick up dust, evoke a sense of “how dare they.”

All three of them — Lois, Charlotte, Judy — had this in common. They had left stable marriages, predictable men, and comfortable homes, because they wanted SOMETHING ELSE. They moved to small apartments in “questionable” neighborhoods, got divorced and taught after-school art lessons to make ends meet, traveled to Europe with their single gay men pals, showed up to B’nai Mitzvahs or baby namings solo, did not look like any of the other women in my mother’s circle, could talk culture and travel and music.

To me, this was Life Itself. I WAS INTOXICATED WITH THESE WOMEN, whereas my mother’s friends tsk tsk’d whenever one of their names came up. Did the tsk tsk’ing happen because of fear, or envy? Who knows. I suspect both.

My mother (long dead and so very scared of her own choices when she was alive) referred to these women as “sluts.” As in, I’m assuming, these women had lovers. One of them had a lover for whom she ended her marriage, although if that relationship lasted, I have no idea and the husband went on to marry a very sweet, bland second wife that, in looking back, I can barely remember. Point being, Lois, Charlotte, Judy enjoyed sex, enjoyed themselves, and didn’t care who clutched their proverbial pearls about it.

Given the fact that the language around being “slutty” is positively archaic now (this is still a great read, btw), the other fact that remains is for most of us in our middle years and beyond, there is most certainly more than a bit of an exhale when we find ourselves in a relationship that society deems can go the distance. If we’ve gotten divorced and dipped a toe into the pool (cess- or otherwise) of dating and come up with a bright, shiny new partner who is presentable, charming, and game for the challenge of taking their clothes off with the lights on, we are roundly congratulated. I know I’ve been applauded on numerous occasions for my good taste and, dare I say it? For my good luck. I am indeed grateful for the love I’ve given and received in this arena.

But what about when that’s not enough? Then what?

In addition to Bon Bon Babe who I reference above, I’ve got more than a handful of women in my life who have decided that they want more and for some of them, more might be someone on the side that scratches an itch they’ve otherwise not been able to reach in their primary relationships. Some of those women you’ve heard me discuss before in other posts. I’ll give you a quick summary.

This one finally ended the affair that was consuming her and is trying to delve back into her marriage. It’s harder than she imagined. She fantasizes about existing in two worlds, knowing it’s most likely impossible, so did she make the “correct” choice, or should she throw in the towel, unblock her lover’s number, and try to make the fantasy a reality?

Then there’s the pal who has had a series of “tiny, almost nothing” affairs for over a decade, none of which have been terribly serious but all of which add up to time away from her family, and regarding THAT (the time away, not fucking around itself), yes, she feels guilty. But it doesn’t stop her. She feels like motherhood has been overwhelming for years and is bored by the things that make her husband feel content.

Another friend is feeling a disconnect with her husband, who she still likes, in fact, loves. Call it menopausal awakening to “my time,” call it the acknowledgement that the societal desire to “pair up” which pushed her to marry with a vengeance in her younger years is waning, call it whatever you want. Basically, her husband is kinda giving her The Icks. She has no interest in getting divorced but the idea of working on things isn’t inspiring her either. She’s waiting it out.

Yet another friend really likes her partner but pines for her days of living alone and wonders if she can ask her man to move out without ending the relationship. She says it feels like she has a roommate, not a lover. And that’s definitely not enough for her even though when the relationship was blossoming, she welcomed the “safety” it brought into her life, something that was missing from her younger years. Boy do I get that one: falling in love with the safety.

Related, another woman who I respect just ended a relationship because she says it has become disconnected around sex and priorities not related to work or kids and has no idea what is next, but knows where she was with her ex is the not the place she wants to be rooted. Yup, I get that one as well.

Finally, there’s the woman I know who is pretty no-nonsense about what she calls a deep connection with her “Same Time Next Year” lover and has no plans to give him up, even though they both know a life together in a more traditional sense of the word would probably never work. So they both stay in their primary relationships and meet when they can. I’m also putting the trailer below because it really IS a great flick (and at one point, Alan Alda is wearing red bikini briefs. Yes, he is!)

What do these women — my friends and the women who infiltrated my mother’s luncheon chats — have in common? The behaviors, desires, and challenges they are experiencing are ones that we’ve traditionally seen assigned to men in their Midlife Crises Years.

There’s no doubt that women have been confiding in one another about these and similar quandaries since, like, FOREVER, but am I wrong in thinking that finally, it’s Gen X who are not just giving voice to it; they’re doing something about it. For those who are choosing to get their needs met and if necessary, quietly fuck around? Well, I’ll be honest. Good for them.

Not everyone wants to be poly or have an open relationship, most of which would solve this challenge. As far as I’m concerned, as long as all parties are practicing safe sex or getting tested conscientiously and regularly, the idea condemning or condoning what anyone else does is a waste of time. Do YOU really know what goes on in anyone else’s relationship — do you even know what’s going on in your own? I’m betting that you know less than you think.

Let me clarify — there are plenty of long-time married or partnered Young Olds who are deeply committed to their monogamous relationships, and, for that matter, who enjoy their at-home sex lives and need nothing else. But I’m betting there is a larger pool of Young Olds who are bored with their partners and likewise, have little interest in sex with them. Raise your hand if you’ve fallen into this scenario: you’re sitting around drinking coffee and mentally going over your To Do’s for the day when it occurs to you that you should go to your bedroom, wake your spouse/partner and fuck them because then you’ll get to check it off your list and you can go about the bigger issue of tackling the grocery shopping and the prescription pickups and the vet visits (I’m guessing your days of carpooling your kids are gone, for those of you who had chauffeur duties in the first place).

For some Young Olds who have been in long-term relationships, decades or quarter-centuries or similar, the yes, boring sex routines and the related “get ‘er done” attitudes still outweigh the HIDEOUS (to most) idea of starting anew. Dating, trying on new people, getting used to someone else’s tics and obnoxious habits — that’s some scary business right there and there is a LARGE segment of the population who would say, NO THANKS. The devil you know, and all of that…

So what to do? Well, for some, between the predictable sex and the fear of the unknown lies a limbo land of fucking around. Some of it is above board — aforementioned polyamory, open relationships, etc. — some of it is “don’t ask, don’t tell” — and some of it is “after all of this living, can’t I have something that is just for me?”

It’s this third rail, the idea that having something for ourselves which, in essence, effects no one else, that has become a concept of which I’m curious. Because while I hate a liar, I also know plenty of people who lie to their spouses and partners about lots of other stuff — how much they spent on a new coffee table, how late they worked when in fact they skipped out of the office and had cocktails with a pal and thereby avoided making dinner, and of course the proverbial, genderless minefield of “does this dress/shirt/pair of pants make me look fat?”

Let me go back to some of my lady friends who I mentioned above, who’ve been fucking around, are currently fucking around, or thinking about fucking around. Who’s to say that the rationalizations that they are making with themselves are any different than the deals you make with yourself about just one more cookie before bed? A single or a double scoop of ice cream on a hot day? Oh, go ahead, you’re already eating ice cream in the first place and tomorrow you’ll go to the gym.

I know this sounds like I’m trivializing a breach in trust, but I’m not sure that’s the case. Maybe what you seek out for yourself makes you a better partner in your primary relationship? Maybe if you can’t get something you really need from your main squeeze, it’s not the end of the world to squeeze another lemon till the juice runs down your leg.

Because, again, let’s be as honest as possible here: it’s a big deal to decide to leave, something that is not always possible. Finances might prevent a split. That’s reality. Kids feel it. That’s a reality as well, but, and again, this is my opinion because I’ve been there. Kids are resilient. What they want are happy, secure parents. Sometimes that can only happen with a split. Not everyone wants to work on things in therapy and if you find yourself in that place? Why not open that box and take out a bon bon? You’re sure not going to get a big lecture on ethics, responsibilities, and security from me. If I was that lecturing person, I never would’ve left my first marriage when I was, ok, I’ll say it, bored. I wanted more. I was thinking of Lois, Charlotte, and Judy. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed being poly so much and why I’d never yuck anyone’s yum on this.

Yes, some affairs can be public, messy, and hurtful, but I dunno…there is a part of me that looks at some of the lackluster partnerships that are rounding their second or third decades steeped in boredom, or some of the ones that were formed more recently in these middle years out of what’s clear convenience and I think, now THERE’S a scenario that might benefit from a kick in the pants if no one wants out of the door. Sometimes, I think, we can avoid the packing tape and boxes if we remember that we are indeed only human and sometimes, a human wanders into a bakery, chooses a dessert, sits down at a small table in a quiet corner, and just digs in, consuming every bite and then licking clean the fork. Love is not a pie, but your own slice of pie, like a bon bon you might savor solo? This Young Old says I can see the occasion where I’d wish you Bon Appetit.

Some would say I have a pretty contented life, and I’d agree. Some would say I’ve tasted more than my share of pie, and I’d agree to that as well. What else is out there, for me, for you? As 2024 starts to eye its final curtain, I wonder…what other societal norms will fall by the wayside as we age and shift and grow?

What say you, Dear Readers?

Above: Pie Counter, Wayne Thiebaud, 1963, Whitney Museum of American Art

And, because I can: Warrant’s Cherry Pie and Jani Lane’s real feelings about the hit.

AND — because there’s still time to buy a little something sweet for your favorite baker, this book is incredible, if only for the photos.