So once again we can thank Demirath for the editing. This is Part 2 of four. Comments are welcome but don't feel you need to tell me what a slut my heroine is after all I wrote her as a good wife.
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My early morning flight from Chicago arrives at LAX right on time, a little after noon. LA is my least favorite city. I am, in this way at least, a typical New Yorker, although I was born and raised in West Pittston, PA. My husband, Rob, is a true New Yorker. A former Navy man, I think he would shrivel up and die in this desert.
I'm greeted at the airport by my son Oscar and his `friend' Mark. Somehow I'm not supposed to know he is gay, and that he and Mark are a couple. Twenty-two years ago I gave birth to a twelve pound, eight-ounce chubby little angel. Now he is a six foot three skinny young man who embraces me with a bearish hug. He is estranged from his father for no reason that I can understand.
Rob loves his son, but there is a widening gulf between them. Men are so often a mystery —what is a woman to do? Rob has no idea his son is gay. My Rob is what other men call a man's man. He is big, not just tall, an imposing presence that masks how sensitive a person Rob is. My husband is hurt by the rejection of his son. He would never stumble on the truth of the sexual situation.
I am convinced that there is no problem with an engine that Rob could not discern on a few moments examination, but no relationship problem that he could see without the assistance of a trained guide dog. With people, he is hopeless—except, as I have learned, men under pressure. Then he is an inspiration they follow like sheep to the slaughter. I'm not supposed to know, but I do.
In the evening, we go to a dinner and dance club. It has a Mexican flavor, but the patrons are a mixed bag of mostly Anglos and Asians. There are a number of clearly gay couples, both male and females, but a decidedly straight or, at least, bi contingent as well. I get a lot of stares from men and women. At fifty, I still have it. My son and his friend think I am ancient, but I have put on a short skirt and a low-cut blouse and I intend to dance and have a good time. I am married, not dead. It is flattering to be fifty and get hit on by young men. I'm no slut. I do not fool around. I have been with exactly two men in my life, and I loved both of them deeply.
Robert McDonald, my Rob, was my first love and will be my last. Philippe Du Monte was my second, and his recent death has hit me hard. We have not been true lovers for years, but we enjoyed a deep relationship leavened by love, friendship, and deep gratitude on my part. Philippe was there when I needed him, and my husband was not.
An aggressive man that I judge to be in his early thirties asks me to dance. He is shorter than I am in my low heels, but he makes up for it in energy. He is the first of a number of men I dance with. I keep track of the time. I want to call Rob. I expect my husband took in that ARGO movie starring Ben Affleck. That would probably get him home a little after midnight his time.
At nine thirty Pacific Time, I excuse myself from my current dance partner and find a quiet spot outside the lady's room door to call. My cell phone is off, I switched it when I boarded the plane this morning. I am getting old and forgetful, having failed to turn it back on. I have one missed call from Avril Du Monte probably reminding me that the retrospective show for Philippe is in the planning stages, and I agreed to help. I call Rob, but it goes directly to voicemail. I assume he is still at the film or like me he has forgotten to turn his phone back on. I call the house phone and get the answering machine.
"Rob I arrived safe, call me when you get this."
Two hours later, I am danced out and wondering why my husband has not called. We head to Oscar and Mark's condo where I collapse into a jet lag sleep. I awake too early and call Rob again. All I get is voice mail. I call the land line.
"Rob, you left your cell phone off. Call me."
It is eight a.m. before a sleepy Mark joins me in the kitchen and offers to make breakfast.
I accept, if he allows me to help. Still no call from Rob; now I am worried and trying to think who I should call. I remember the call from Avril and get a chill. No, that was all too long ago.
______________________________________________________
I met Philippe Du Monte in the old State Cafeteria in the South Mall. It was no place to eat if you liked food. I had a thermos of good dark tea. I don't drink coffee. I had a cheap romance to read and a forty-five-minute lunch break. I could have read at my desk, but you need to get out of the office if only for a bit. I was reading a trashy romance in the hope of getting back my sex drive. Four and a half years into my marriage, I had lost it. When I first married Rob, I could not get enough of him. But after the birth of my second son, it was gone. For the last year, I had been dead from the waist down.
Why don't they tell you this can happen? I still loved my husband deeply. He is the man you dream about marrying when you are a little girl. He is my prince charming. He has dark coal black hair and sky blue eyes. A man who could have stepped out of a fairytale, but he is ever so shy and quiet. He rises to a crisis, yet I know he feels things deeply. I watch him as he reads to our children. I see him as he leans down to place a gentle kiss on their sleeping heads. He is a man of action and courage with a gentle soul. He is the man I want with me for eternity.
I just no longer desired him physically. At first, I thought it would come back naturally. But as time passed, I dreaded sex more, not less, with my sweet, loving husband. I became increasingly desperate. I was faking it when my excuses became too much. I worried my husband would soon deduce the truth. What kind of woman was I that I was this way?
"Excuse me please, I hate to eat alone and as I have watched you these past several days, you have been alone too. Surely that dreadful book cannot be of such interest," he said, this tall, elegant man with a distinct French accent to his perfect English.
I learned his name was Philippe Du Monte, a painter by inclination and an art restorer by trade. He was a bit taller than my husband, and thinner—what is called lanky. He had an unruly mop of black hair on his head, flecked with gray befitting a man of forty-two. Which made him more than twelve years my senior. However, he had youthfulness and a joy of life about him that sparkled from his brilliant blue eyes. His angular face was handsome in that oh-so-Gallic way.
"I wouldn't eat that if you care anything about food," I said, as he put down his standard cafeteria tray loaded with some chicken covered in flat paste gravy, and instant mash potatoes.
"I have learned in just two short weeks that food is a lost art in your ALL-BAN-e," he said doing a good imitation of the northern New York accent so influenced as it is by Western New England.
"You are too harsh. There is good food to be found here; you must only know where to look," I said.
"Perhaps you will be my guide. Possibly dinner some evening?" he asked.
"Sorry, no can do—married," I said, flashing the modest wedding and diamond engagement rings I wore. "But let me do something about that drink," I said, replacing the bagged tea of unknown content from the cafeteria with the brew from my thermos.
"Ah, that is good tea! Both beautiful and bountiful, surely you can spare an evening from your husband to bring a starving man to food," he said.
In the end, I agreed. I stood little chance against his charm and sophistication. It was easy to arrange an alleged late work night. We had dinner, and I was home by nine, and I was alive again. I was hot for sex. The first beneficiary was Rob in our bed that night, but the man I was with in spirit was a devastating French Canadian painter. Philippe was a unique individual who was sweeping me off my frustrated wife and mother feet.
It took Philippe only three weeks to get me into his bed, or more accurately the couch in his workshop in the nearby museum building. There were no extremely late nights. I swapped around some hours at work, and we had mornings or afternoons as we pleased. I saw him sometimes in the early evening. He was sensitive to my situation. His wife Avril had a boyfriend, whom he called a suitor or companion. Thomas was his name. Philippe said that Thomas was younger, and, therefore made up for her being tied down at a young age with children. As I lay in Philippe's workshop that first time curled into his arms, I felt no guilt. I knew the guilt would certainly come later, but at that moment, I was at peace. He understood my sexual problem, seemed to sense it.
"You will regain desire for your husband. Relax and enjoy the sex, the thrill of a new man, but remember you owe your husband the first claim on your heart and the right to reclaim your body when it is ready," he said.
The sex had been rather conventional, but he knew how to stroke a woman, build her desire, and play with her mind.
"It is mostly in the head. The mind does the arousing, but we need to give it some help," he said.
Neither Rob nor I were very experienced. We tried different positions and practices, but we lacked any technique. Philippe showed me how.
"You like rear entry?" he asked.
"So, so, I guess."
He showed me how to get down, front low, rear high, wiggling and spreading my legs.
"Now bend just so and use your inner muscles. Pull me," he said.
It was an explosion of feeling. We were working together to achieve our mutual coupling. Mostly that is what he taught me: how to participate. Be active, and yet be the acted upon party.
"Who taught you all this? Avril?" I asked.
"No, No, I taught her just like you. My mother arranged for my schooling," he said.
He told me the story of the young Philippe and Colette. She was older, his mother's age, and a friend of his mother. She was by profession a companion that is the word that he used for mistress. She went from man to man as a kept woman.
"She was not a prostitute," he said, "Just not a woman who would marry."
"I did not call her one," I said.
"No, but you thought it— my American housewife."
"You need to understand us," he continued. "My parents immigrated from England right after the War. The Germans made them flee France for England. My mother was a prominent Communist before the war. It was easier for them in Canada, but never easy. Papa was a museum curator and art historian. He was, of course, an armature painter. In Canada, my mother was a secretary. Colette was a friend from France. Mama believes that sex is a natural thing, but one that should be taken seriously. Colette was tapped to be my teacher. She was well experienced for the task. Once a week for a year, I studied under, over, or behind her, as the course required," he finished with a laugh.
"And now you will teach me?" I said
"But of course. I owe it to Colette," he said, with another of those little laughs that I was becoming fond of.
My biggest problem became my desire and need to share my new found skill and knowledge with my husband. I could not just sit Rob down and say listen, honey, I met this great French lover, and he taught me everything we have been doing wrong and a whole bunch of things we should be doing.
But you know, I am nothing if not inventive.
"What's that?" Rob said, climbing into bed.
