The Movement He Needed

This is a follow-up to "You're Just Right For Me" published in the Romance section on 10/18/2016. Reading that one first will give you greater insight. However, "The Movement He Needed" can stand on its own.

*****

Veronica

Now for the hard part—telling my parents.

How does a girl in her twenties tell her mom and dad that she's falling in love with a fifty-year old man, a man old enough to be her dad? I had told that man, Kirk Harris, a handsome, youthful middle-aged orthopedist, that my parents wouldn't have a problem with it. Well, maybe at first they would, I had admitted. But, after they meet him, after they see how happy I am, they'd accept it.

I met Kirk at the Fitness Factory, the gym where we both train. He came over to the squat rack to correct my form. 'Keep doing it that way, and you'll end up in a back brace," he had said. We fell easily into conversation. Weeks later, I couldn't do squats at all because of an impacted femoral nerve. Without an appointment, I went to his office, and he was gracious enough to treat me with cortisone. It worked, for soon I was pain free and back to training my legs. I showed my gratitude by treating him to dinner. Then we started dating, but only after I convinced him to forget our age difference. He couldn't get past that, at least at first. "You're not too old for me," I had said after we made love for the first time. "You're just right for me."

That was two months ago. I'm crazy about the guy, and he appears to feel the same way. We're in an enviable place. Sure, the sex is great, but that's not all, not the main thing. We make each other laugh. We share a sense of the absurd. Intellectually, we challenge each other: i.e., politically, we're sometimes on opposite sides of the isle, but that's a good thing. We have fun debating back and forth, my conservatism, his liberalism. We never run out of things to say, nor do we get anxious over periods of silence. It's the sort of relationship I've wanted for years, yet never quite got until Kirk waltzed into my life.

***

My parents already know about Kirk. "I've never seen you happier in any relationship," my mom says. "This Kirk Harris must be quite a guy."

It's late Saturday morning, and we're in her kitchen, lingering over coffee. Mom's in her house dress, while I'm dressed in my sweats after my usual Saturday morning workout at the Fitness Factory. Before heading home, I wanted to stop by to break the news.

"Quite a guy is right," I tell her, trying to work up the nerve to inform her that he's also around her and dad's age. She knows he's a doctor but assumes he's just a few years out of med school.

"Your father and I can't wait to meet him," she says.

"And you will...maybe tonight. But there is one thing you should know."

Mom frowns. "Don't tell me he's married."

"Divorced."

She raises an eyebrow. "Really? Well, he must not have been married very long. I'm assuming he's around thirty."

I lower my eyes. "Um, well, he's quite a bit older than that. In fact, he's old enough to have a daughter around my age—who's also a doctor, by the way."

She raises both eyebrows and downs some java. "Just how old is he, dear?" Her tone rings with alarm.

"Fifty." I force a smile.

"Fifty." Her voiced drops several octaves; her jaw clenches.

"Fifty. As in five-o."

My dad comes in from mowing the lawn. He's wearing old running shoes sans socks and a green T-shirt. Blades of grass stick to his old pleated chinos. He's tall, about six-three, and it's where my tall genes come from. If not for him, I might not stand five-ten, and therefore might not have played volleyball in college. He's got five inches of height on Kirk. However, unlike Kirk, he looks his age. Baldness does that, makes all men look older. He's also slightly stooped. "Hey, Ronnie, to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Ronnie was just telling me about her new boyfriend, Phil. Although I'd hardly call him a boy." Mom keeps her eyes on me, her expression a model of bemused displeasure.

Dad tucks his work gloves under his arm. "Not unless he's a Doogie Howser, you mean." He chuckles. When neither of us joins him, he turns serious. "IS he a Doogie Howser?"

Mom now laughs. "Hardly. Our daughter just told me that this Dr. Kirk Harris is fifty."

Dad joins us at the table. "You're kidding."

I squirm in my seat. "Listen you guys, I'm not surprised by your reaction. All I ask is that you give him a chance. Kirk himself thought he was too old for me. Then I set him straight." I clear my throat, realizing how that might sound. "What I mean is, is that I got him to see that age is just a number, that what counts is compatibility, and we've got that in spades."

They glance at each other, then dad faces me. "Are you two serious?"

"Like we're looking for engagement rings kind of serious? No. But we've grown very fond of one another. I can't..." I debate the wisdom of finishing before continuing. "I can't dismiss the possibility that it might one day happen."

Dad nods. He again trades looks with mom before addressing me. "And he feels the same way?"

"We haven't really discussed it. He has told me he loves me. I'd say that's serious enough for now."

"I'd say so, too. Okay, bring him over."

***

We plan to keep it as informal as we can. Over dinner at Carrabbas, Kirk is amused when I tell him my parents' reaction. "Look, Ronnie, if my daughter told me she was dating a guy over twenty years her senior, it would give me pause as well."

We're dressed in what you'd call business casual—Kirk in his blue Dockers and plaid button-down and me in my turquoise slacks and white short-sleeve blouse. I'm also wearing high heels, a sexy accent that Kirk always appreciates, even though heels, because we're the same height, make me taller. My ponytail hangs down the side, the same way it did when I met Kirk.

After chewing a bite of my chicken cacciatore, I say, "Yeah, I guess so. Aren't you even a little nervous about meeting them?"

"Not in the least." He flashes a goofy smile. "Okay, maybe a little. But, like I said, I get where they're coming from."

I nod while stealing a sip of my iced tea. "Well, me too, but I'm confident you'll get along just fine."

We finish our meal and then climb inside Kirk's silver Audi A7, "my only nod to conspicuous consumption" he once told me. He keeps it glowing inside and out, though that didn't stop him one night from making love to me on the back seat. Just thinking about that night makes me wet—straddling him with my skirt up, his mouth on my nipples and...geez; I better stop before I'm soaked.

He starts the engine, then leans over and kisses me, tenderly as always. Sure, I see the wrinkles and his graying hair. But you know what? I think it makes him look sexier, particularly when he's in the buff. The contrast between his middle-age face and youthful body is something to behold. From the neck down, no one would guess that this man has reached the half-century mark. Guys my age should have his six-pack, not to mention the ripples elsewhere. Add the fact that he's a successful doctor, and you can see where I'M coming from.

***

My parents still live in Stoneleigh, a post World War One suburban development where I grew up. They've talked about selling their Tutor Revival house and moving to an apartment or condo—all talk and no action so far. Can't blame them; it's a lovely house in a lovely old Baltimore suburb, one with sidewalks, trees aplenty and even a community swimming pool.

Mom and dad know we're coming. No surprise that they're both in the living room to greet us. Mom's in jeans, a v-neck turquoise blouse and black flats. I like her chic new hairdo, frosted and layered, with strands that sweep over her left eyebrow. Dad's in his casual preppie best, long-sleeve, power blue button-down over khakis worn with brown loafers and red socks.

I watch the warm smiles and handshakes, feeling a bit strange, because I've gone through this meet-the-parents ritual before, only with guys my own age. I could be introducing Kirk as my teacher or coach, not my fifty-year old boyfriend.

We repair to the den, fortified with alcohol, Yuengling for dad and Kirk, Zinfandel for mom and me. "So you met in the gym," dad says, addressing Kirk, who tells the story—or retells it because my parents know already how we met. They also know about the cortisone treatment. Kirk repeats that story as well. Talk then segues into Kirk's medical career, which includes Chrissie, his high achieving daughter doing her residency at Massachusetts General. My parents seem to like Kirk (what's there not to like?) as evidenced by their smiles and occasional laughter. Still, I detect a subtle overtone of caution, perhaps even a measure of distrust in the mix, and I assume it's the age thing, them wondering why Kirk isn't with another Generation Xer instead of me, their millennial daughter.

Even so, mom gives me the A-okay sign at the door before we leave. Kirk, who's talking to dad, doesn't see it, though I duly inform him as we're driving back to his place. "Looks like you passed the litmus test," I say.

"Your parents are very nice," he says. "But, knowing you, I'm not surprised."

We arrive at his condo development about twenty minutes later. What was once a quarry and surrounding woodland is now all built up with rows of three-story luxury condos, retail outlets and medical offices. Brick walking paths meander around the charming body of water that gives this region its name, Quarry Lake.

Kirk moved here following his divorce. "It's perfect for an old single guy like me," he said the first time he took me here. It's a two-bedroom stuffed with amenities like a video screen in a bathroom outfitted with Jacuzzi, fake gold-plated faucets and a granite-topped sink. It's the sort of place where I wouldn't mind living when I'm Kirk's age. He's hardly old, though from my twenty-something vantage point, fifty does seem, well, advanced. I mean, Presidents Carter and Reagan I know through reading history, not presidents who Kirk remembers very well. He came of age still listening to vinyl, while even CDs were going out during my formative years.

We retreat to the master bedroom where Kirk keeps another TV. We've spent hours in his twin-sized bed, holding each other and flipping through the cable channels. For now, though, the remote stays in his night table, and the only thing we see and hear is each other, trading words of affection while we disrobe before climbing under the sheets. I play with his chest hairs, some of them turning gray. "Kirk, have I ever told you I love you?"

He smiles and runs his fingers through my hair, now hanging straight down my back. "Not in so many words."

"Well, in so many words, namely three, I DO love you."

"That's four. But that's okay."

I snuggle close to him, breathing in his scent, a mix of aftershave and something else that I can't quite pin down, but love just the same. "Earlier today, dad asked me if we were serious."

He looks up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I told him that we loved each other but weren't yet looking for rings."

"He felt relieved at that, I imagine."

"Well, I told him that it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that it might one day happen. Not that I'm pressuring you or anything, it's just that..." I look away, slightly embarrassed that I told him that much.

He hugs me tighter. "No pressure felt, Ronnie. "You're wondering about a possible future together. Well, you're not alone, because I've thought about it, too."

"So we're on the same page?"

"Same page, same book, chapter whatever, though I'd say we're way past the prologue. The plot continues to thicken."

I wrap my hand around his organ. "And so does something else."

He starts to kiss my tummy. "I adore you, Ronnie, you know that."

I nod and continue to work him up. "I hope this is what the doctor ordered."

"Just what the doctor ordered." He slips his hand between my legs.

"You've got a great bedside manner, doc."

"I can't imagine what doctor wouldn't with a patient like you."

Talk morphs into noises of pleasure. Eight weeks on, we know each other's bodies pretty well, the erogenous zones that stimulate us best, plus the nooks and crannies of our anatomy. That's not to say that making love with Dr. Kirk Harris is getting routine. Far from it. I mean, if this is routine, I'll take more of it. He takes his time. He's attentive to my needs. We fit together well on levels that go beyond our anatomy, though I can't deny the pleasure of pressing my boobs against his gladiator pecs or wrapping my long and powerful volleyball playing legs around his taught waist. Man, does he love that! But he also likes it when I take topside, the way I'm doing now, with my feet planted firmly on the mattress doing half-squats on his cock. Jesus, I'm so fucking wet, so fucking turned on! I close my eyes in his already darkened room, savoring his stamina, his affection, his love.

It won't be long before I come. He always lets me come first, and I'm getting close. His hands against my butt aid my accelerating thrust. My body starts to quiver. "Yes! Yes!" I cry out and then nearly pass out, barely hearing his own cries of pleasure. The next thing I know, he's stroking my hair and kissing me and telling me how much he adores me. Some things are just meant to be, I think, such as being cuddled in Kirk's arms and hearing him tell me he loves me. I repeat what I said that first time. "You're just right for me."

***

Not everybody agrees that Kirk is just right for me and vice versa. His relationship to Chrissie becomes strained when he tells her. At first, she's overjoyed hearing that her dad has found a special woman in his life, a dental hygienist who, like Kirk, takes care of herself, works out regularly, etc. Then, when he tells her my age, she's less than enamored. 'Rockin' the cradle a little, aren't you, dad?' His son Rob isn't too crazy about it either, though his reaction is more tempered. 'Whatever makes you happy,' he says. I feel bad that they don't embrace it as Kirk wishes they would. "Don't worry, they'll come around," he assures me. I can only hope so.

The reactions of other people can be downright comical. Weeks ago, Kirk and I were strolling along the Inner Harbor when we ran into Stephen McCormick, one of Kirk's old college frat buddies and his wife. Jokingly, I introduced myself as his "trophy wife with an impacted femoral nerve in my iliacus muscle." Following weird looks, they laughed. 'Your daughter's inherited your offbeat sense of humor,' Stephen said. Kirk laughed along, didn't bother to correct them.

Kirk says some of his male friends are envious, guys like Bruce Hansen whose wife Judy not only looks her age but is at least forty pounds overweight. When we double with them for dinner one night, I'm not the only one who notices Bruce staring lustily in my direction. We all do, though Judy does more than notice; she scolds him on the parking lot after we leave the restaurant. "At least you could have been discreet!" she snaps. Good thing we met them in separate cars.

My thing with Kirk amuses my girlfriends. They say things like this: 'A horny old man it sounds like to me.' And this: 'Of all the young hot hunks on Match, and you pick an Xer.' They don't fully get it. I'm in love with this guy. Seriously, it's hit me like a Dodge Ram truck.

We carry on. The months fly by. We sleep over each other's houses, work out together and take trips to natural wonders (Grand Canyon, Yosemite) and manmade wonders (New York, Disney World). It's when I begin to think about getting "serious" that dark clouds drift over paradise.

We've both been married, though I'd hardly count my legal union of a few months much of a marriage. But Kirk was married for years and has two children. Rob's in his second year of grad school. Kirk bankrolled part of his kids' education. He doled out alimony, too, he told me, relieved that the payments ended over three years ago. He knows I'd like to be a mom someday, which is the source of our conflict. Kirk isn't too keen on having more kids. "Been there done that," he says.

Being in my mid-twenties, I've got some years left on my biological clock. Even so, I don't see Kirk changing his mind, not anytime soon and certainly not when he gets up in his fifties. By then, I'll be thirty or older, and the tic of that biological clock will be banging against my eardrums.

"Once we were just right for each other," he says. We're hiking along the NCRR trail, an old railroad track bed recycled into recreational use that stretches from Northern Baltimore County into Pennsylvania. "That might not be true anymore. I mean that more from your end. You want kids."

It's such a nice day, blue skies, temps in the seventies. I'm in shorts, as much for Kirk as for the warm weather. I'm traipsing through this bucolic woodland with a man I adore, and here I am on the verge of breaking down. We dodge a couple cyclists rolling by, and then I pull Kirk off the trail, where we stand amid a clump of briars. "I don't want to lose you, damn it," I stammer, and then the tears begin to fall.

He throws his arms around me, hugs me, cuddles me. "Well, damn it, I don't want to lose you either. But the call of motherhood is a powerful thing. You know that better than me." He rubs his thumb along my face, brushes away my tears. "You've got the most beautiful skin," he says. "And did I tell you how great you smell out in nature?" Then he kisses me, and I can see his eyes misting up, too.

"Breaking up, I can't handle that," I sob, snuggled against his chest. "Don't leave me, Kirk. Please don't leave me."

Fragility doesn't become me—me, Miss Strong and Independent. Or so I thought. That's what love does, I guess, leaves you weak and vulnerable. I've been there before, though not to this extent. "Of all the men in all the towns in all the world," I whine, "why did I have to fall in love with a fifty-year old guy who doesn't want more kids?"

I shake my head and sob. He holds me tighter. "I'd hate to leave you, Ronnie," he says, "but I'd feel terrible keeping you from someone younger, someone who wants the same things you do. You're still so young."

He holds me until I stop crying. Then we resume our hike. My ears become super sensitive to our surroundings, from the chirping birds to the crunch of our cross trainers against the hard-packed gravel of the trail. Hikers, runners, cyclists, parents pushing baby strollers—they're all out in force today. We hold hands, together in body, alone in our thoughts. Kirk's concerns echo in my brain—"wasting" my time with him while I could be with a generational counterpart, one who wants kids. Great, except it's Kirk I want, because it's Kirk I love. Leaving him is out of the question. But so is kidding myself that going childless the rest of my life wouldn't bother me. It would, and Kirk senses it as much as me. If Kirk asked me to marry him, I'd say yes in a second—if not for this impasse. That's the kicker, the snag that's put a damper on everything.

***

Kirk

"Okay, so if my timeline is right, I'll be in my seventies when our kid, assuming there's only one, will be in college."

I'm thinking out loud, reclined on my sofa, keeping company with a glass of Chardonnay and the soothing sounds of a Mozart piano concerto floating from the speakers. Our hike today sobered me up to a sobering reality. I'd be just as crushed if Ronnie left ME. Her presence in my life has given me a renewed sense of purpose, a spiritual kind of energy that wasn't there before. I more than love her, I adore her. Yet, as I told her in so many words, I might be doing her a disservice by not letting her go. If we did marry and she reached the age when having a child posed a medical risk, she might resent me. Not might, she would! 'If you really love her,' a voice that keeps playing in my head says, 'you'd let her go, free her to find someone else.' Then there's this other voice: 'If you love her that much, then marry her sans any preset conditions. If she wants to be a mom, so be it. After all, quality women like Veronica Landsman don't come along every day, especially for fifty-year old men with the youthful vigor to fulfill them—on several levels.'