After two decades of being called an ugly effin fat frog my heart catches up with my head and my marriage ends. Almost 55 with too little time left to live on hope, I turn to the web through a daze of separation shock.
Somehow I find a dating site, register my profile, pay my dues. Deliberately, I photograph myself as I really am, chubby cheeks, daggy smile and all. As a writer by trade, I automatically put in lots of information, truth well told being more powerful than the cleverest lies.
Then I abandon hope. Am I mad? Who would have me anyway? But hang on, have I just been hit on? One contact in my email, another, then another! Emails bounce back and forth, my easy way with words giving me an advantage. Like me, the women want to talk with a kindred spirit to make them comfortable with uncomfortable emotions. Phone numbers are offered and long conversations ensue.
I start to learn the first box on the divorced woman's checklist: No Projects! They who have been around the singles scene for a while, have picked up, put back together and seen off too many rebound men. Often these women come to love their charges and are deeply hurt when the time arrives for thanks-but-no-thanks. But I persist, taking my knockbacks. It will be a process of elimination like panning for gold.
Then a date! Virginia has agreed to dinner after an hour of phone bashing. We natter like schoolgirls. She's a writer too. A whole book! My commercial techniques seem to surprise and enthuse her. I'm excited that she's excited and dinner is on! So much in common, so much to look forward to on my first date as a senior single.
She arrives, looking more 63 than 53. Do people lie in their profiles? Spends most of the meal holding one hand in front of a severely crossed eye, while the other hand throws down chardy faster than I can sink light ales. The book she is writing is left of Lenin, in fact her fond wish would be to reincarnate during the 1917 red revolution, if such were possible. Mouth faster than brain, I respond, "If your husband and father would have let you." The meal peters out and she goes for the close. "Are you going to ask me out again?" I am a rabbit in her spotlight. What to say? Prevaricate! "Maybe."
"That's a no then I take it!" Harumph. At least she ended the evening feeling in control. I retreat in dismay. Is this how it's going to be?
A healing hug
Now German lady has advertised for a friend. That will do me. Some female goodwill is my first need. If romance and lovemaking follow ... too soon to even think about those. She sends me a phone number and greets me with a Marlene Dietrich voice, hating her marriage, separated under the same roof, hoping to find a friend, don't even think about sex. "The loving comes before the shoving," I quip. Fortunately, she laughs, "Sounds good to me." We have a date.
She is dainty, wistful and about as gorgeous as we can hope to be in our sixth decade. She confides about the cold, aloof chasm in her marriage. Me about the irresponsibility and cruelty I have left. Especially about the ugly effin fat frog. She stops in mid-bite, frozen into a stare of disbelief. I will see that look several times again, from different women. "But vy vould she say that? You are very handsome man." She is straight-faced, guile free. My turn to freeze. It is decades since I last fielded a compliment from a love interest. Did I even thank her? I hope so.
We clasp hands, kiss cheeks and plan another date which ends in the sweetest, most healing of cuddles. We are both close to tears as she drives away, fingers waving. Our first post-marital hug! Yum.
With that cuddle, I have rounded a gentle bend in the river of senior singles. Whether I drown or stay afloat there is no turning back on the current.
Second virginity
The emails I send are always personalised, reflecting each woman's profile and telling her how I might match her lifestyle and standards - only if I first believe I would. It takes time but it works and soon I am on the phone with four prospective dates.
The first move, although I fail to recognise it at the time, is made by Holly from a country town. Will I visit her? Will I stay the whole night? Sure, chuck me on the couch, I promise to be good. In retrospect, what can I say but "Durrrr!"
Driving into her town I face my demons. It could be on! If she decides to have me it will be the second loss of virginity, the defining moment.
Dinner at her local is all done by nine-thirty. Sipping a cuppa and leaning on her kitchen bench, I suddenly find her face inches from mine. Lovely. A big smooch coming up?
"I like what I see," she declares and the rest is bed and breakfast, the first of many with Holly. She becomes my home away from home.
Her divorce story is a variation on the theme I will keep encountering. The selfishness, the unyielding, thoughtless, pointless, self-destructive scoring that drives people apart, even after decades invested in each other.
Holly believes, because her experience had proved it, that there is only one way for her to orgasm with a man. She must take the saddle and do the work or nothing will happen. So she is amazed that I wait for her, encourage her, delight in her pleasure while savouring mine. She comes in a man's hands, at 53 years of age, for the first time in her life.
"I didn't know it was possible. Better than three pokes and a roll off!" They tell it straight, these country women.
I am equally amazed. Do men like her ex-husband still exist? How do they find women who put up with it?
After I have made love with Holly, I tell her that she was the defining moment. But it really happened inside my head, not inside her. The frayed old rope of my marriage has disintegrated, nothing left to repair. In Holly's arms, in her bed, I peer into the future with awe. Much to my surprise I am handsome for one woman, sexually appealing and satisfying to another.
Holly has a house for me to live in, work for me in her business, a big divorce settlement imminent. All for me to share. But she is just not the one.
She had deluded us with the classic "If we only have a few good nights, what have we got to lose? At least we will have that." It sounded good but rationalise as we will, there is nothing objective about love.
Tangles
Marlene was still good company whenever she came down from her hills and we were good for each other, sharing complaints, cuddles and laughs. Just listening to each other was a tonic. But her partially separated life made it impossible to develop a real relationship.
"I would love to make a lover of you, Marlene but I really can't see how. Not while you're still bringing up your son. Not while you're living it two ways," I reasoned, thinking it sealed the friendship and took the pressure off her. But her imagination was creating pressures of its own. Another surprise in store for this exploring senior single.
