Magnanimous

Note: This is a follow-up to "Sometimes, Things Just Happen" published in the Mature section 12/19/2017. It helps if you read that one first but not essential.

It's amazing how one's life can become so complicated in so short a time. Just a few days ago, I lived a "normal" life for a divorcee in her early forties—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would offend or embarrass.

All that changed when Henry Martingale dropped over to see my son Edward, his best friend. Edward wasn't home at the time, so I invited Henry to stay and watch TV; specifically, a tennis match from Wimbledon. Then, one thing led to another, and I don't mean the shows we watched. We had sex. Real sex. Intercourse. All the way. I loved it and so did he. Then my son came home. After Henry left, Edward pressed me with his suspicions, and I told him the truth, sparing him the sticky details. But not the hurt. He stormed out of the house, told me he needed to "process" what happened.

He's still processing. We barely speak. Things are tense. How could they not be? His mom had sex with his best friend. Worse, his mom plans to see Henry again, plans that have nothing to do with tennis or anything else save for a strong mutual attraction on several levels. Henry is no longer his best friend, no longer a friend period. I feel bad about that. Henry does too, though neither of us is willing to cease and desist. I love my son, but I also have needs. Call me selfish, call me irresponsible (remember that song?), call me anything you'd like, and Edward has. "What you're doing is perverted, mom," he says, "screwing around with a guy young enough to be your son. You're a crypto pervert."

"Eddy always did have a way with words," Henry responds after I tell him about Edward's crypto pervert remark. "You're no pervert, crypto or otherwise. You're a beautiful, bright, sexy lady with the prettiest green eyes I've ever seen and luscious skin."

It's Saturday afternoon, and we're having lunch at Joel's Place, a small restaurant that serves delicious soups, salads and sandwiches. I once came here with my ex. Now, I'm sitting across from my son's estranged friend, a kid who wants to become my...well, I'm not sure. Lover? Friend? Boyfriend? Confidant? All of the above? The only thing I know for sure is that I find him incredibly handsome, sexy, gentlemanly, and interested—in me, and not just my feminine assets. He's curious about my career, teaching English at a private girl's prep school. He asks me about my ex, the marriage we had before things went south, before we separated, then divorced. He finds it interesting that my ex remarried, while I stayed single. Part of me wants to remarry, I tell him, yet another part enjoys the freedom of being alone. "Just think," I say between bites of my chicken salad sandwich on toasted rye, "if I were married, presumably to a man my age, I wouldn't be sitting here with you, enjoying this great meal and looking forward to an afternoon that I sense will dwarf what we did when you stopped over."

He grins, looking so cute and sexy in his tight, blue and white polo shirt, his sunglasses sitting atop his thick mane of hair. "Well, maybe you would," he says, "with husband number two."

I concede the point, then say, "You know, Henry, being with you is so delightful that I don't think about a possible husband number two."

"I won't argue," he says, "because I'd be missing out as well. But I hope you're okay with this. Emotionally, it can't be easy, not for you or Eddy. I lost a friend. I hope you didn't lose a son."

With less than complete confidence, I say, "We've always been close. Still are, despite the tension. He'll come around, accept this."

He nods and digs into his gazpacho. "Eddy might be more accepting if he had a girlfriend. We both know that he envies me in that way. Not to brag, but I've never had a problem with women, while Eddy's always struggled."

"You might be right," I say, after taking a sip of iced tea. I sigh, knowing how insecure and inferior Edward feels to Henry when it comes to competence in the social sphere. He obviously finds the idea of Henry "dating" me unbearable, if not downright insulting.

My sense of shame wrestles with my passion for Henry. Not for too long, though. After lunch, Henry jumps into his aging Civic (he's a college kid, remember) and follows me in my red Volvo sedan to a Quality Inn. We pull into the lot next to each other. Swinging from behind the wheel, I flash him lots of leg. Some thought went into what I'm wearing, a sleeveless, form-fitting yellow dress hemmed almost to mid-thigh. It's warm, a low humidity warm for a change, a great day to be outdoors. We could be playing tennis at Morgan Valley, the club where his family and me belong, though I much prefer what we're about to do. Besides, I owe him an orgasm from last time, when Edward came home before Henry had a chance to climax, a classic case of coitus interruptus. That won't be the case today, for we have oodles of time to indulge and snuggle.

The young male desk clerk wears a snickering grin when we ask for a room. Or, perhaps it's just my imagination, my overly conscious awareness of the twenty-plus age difference between us. Henry appears to have no such inhibitions. He acts as if I'm his loving girlfriend, holding my hand and kissing me, acts of affection not required for what Edward and others would call an affair based purely on sex. The venue speaks otherwise, but that's because we don't live alone. Edward notwithstanding, I can just picture Henry's parents' reaction if they came home and caught their son in bed with me. His parents and I have been friendly neighbors and club members for over fifteen years. They were supportive during my separation and divorce. They would not take kindly to what I'm doing with their son.

"Wow, champagne and it's not even close to New Year's!" Henry cries after we enter our room and I surprise him with a bottle of Bollinger. "I'll fill the ice bucket."

"And I'll tidy up a bit," I say, though there's not much to tidy. I'm clean and scented and excited, ready to make love to this wonderful young man. Should I slip my panties off now, do it in front of him or allow him to do the honors? If only life were filled with such mundane but pleasurable decisions.

They're still on when he returns, takes me in his arms and starts to kiss me. "Estelle, this means so much to me," he says, "being here with you."

We stand between the two double beds, as if to decide which one to take. Only we're not lost in decision but in each other. He kisses my neck, strokes my face, runs his hands through my shoulder-length hair, set with a maroon band that I slip off as he starts to unbutton my dress. "It means as much to me as it does to you," I assure him. My knees buckle slightly when he reaches behind my back and unsnaps my bra.

"You smell great as usual," he whispers.

"And, as usual, your sculptured abs and chest reminds me of a Greek statue."

His thighs aren't bad either, thick with slabs of youthful muscle. My hands run up and down them, then they unsnap his jeans. He kicks off his shoes, then steps out of them and his Hanes briefs. I sit on the edge of the bed. Giving him oral is also something I didn't have time for last time. Now I do and make the best of it. This cock, this fast rising cock, is the one that pleasured me to the point where I blacked out during climax.

"Oh, you're good, you're real good," he says.

I sense that he's about to shoot. "Let me come in your pussy," he says, saving me the trouble of asking his preference.

He doesn't need to "prep" me. I'm soaking wet already. Still, he insists on more foreplay.

He slips off his shirt and then sinks to the floor on his knees. Hiking my dress to my waist, I rock back on the bed and let him do the honors of slipping off my panties. With my legs draped over his shoulders, he dips his tongue into my 'honey pot,' as he once referred to it. "Wow, there's a flood down here!" he cries.

In heavy breathing mode, I say, "In case you haven't figured it out, I'm insanely attracted to you."

I suspect he's grinning, but who's looking? My eyes are closed, my emerald greens that he and other men find so seductive. But other men were not like Henry, not when it came to this. "I want you inside me," I say, "doggy style." Then I slip off my dress.

Standing up, he enters me from the rear. He kisses my back and cups his hands over my boobs, my B-cup sized boobs, 'firm and shapely,' he told me last time. He slaps me on my butt, "so cute I could kiss your ass," he says. Leaning over, he does, and I laugh. Then he says, "How's my rhythm?"

"Your rhythm's just fine," I say, still laughing. "How's MY rhythm?"

"In sync with mine," he says. "We dance very well together."

"Yes, like Fred and Ginger." My reference stumps him. Those two were way before my time as well, but I guess that's the difference a generation can make. Either that or Henry's parents didn't expose him to old movies like mine did. 'Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak...'

The words and music swirl around my head as we "dance" cheek to cheek. Well, not exactly cheek to cheek. More like groin to cheek. Gracious as always, Henry waits for me to climax before he finally does what circumstances denied him last time.

I crawl under the sheets while Henry pours some Bollinger into plastic cups, then joins me. We snuggle in the AC cooled, semi-darkness of our room, peppering each other with light kisses and sipping our bubbly. I shrug when he asks me if Fred and Ginger ever "got it on." To my limited knowledge, their romance was strictly an onscreen affair, I tell him. Which begs the question: Where is this going?

I'm amazed when Henry brings it up. "I want more than just this," he says.

"More as in..."

"As in a normal dating relationship."

I hug him tight for that. "I want the same thing," I reveal, "but it can never be normal normal. I mean, there's Edward to consider, and we're over twenty years apart. I came of age just before the Internet, while you don't remember a time before it. Ronald Reagan is the first president I remember, while you barely remember Bush forty-three when he was in office."

"So what?" he shrugs. "Technology and politics might change, but human behavior doesn't. Emotions don't and needs don't."

He's right. Still, what he wants, what we both want, will never feel totally right to me. But I'm not about to argue, to spoil the moment, this special moment that now feels so right, age difference be damned. "You're right," I concede. "Needs and emotions don't change. And right now, I need you and want you in my life. Understand, though, that we'll be grist for the gossip mill."

"Let people talk, I don't care. Do you?"

"Honestly, kind of, because the cougar image just doesn't appeal to me, and that's what people will think, even my close girlfriends. I can hear them now."

"Well, the gigolo-stud thing doesn't appeal to me either, and I know that will be my image in some people's minds."

I plant a kiss on his mouth and sigh. "I guess we'll be branded together, Henry."

"Branded together," he repeats. Then he starts to kiss my breasts. "Garth Brooks could do something with that title."

"And from what I see there," I say, lowering my eyes, "it looks as if you're about to do what you did less than an hour ago."

He shrugs and grins. "Can't help it. You're too delicious to resist."

We do it longer this time, the foreplay and lovemaking. We venture outside plain vanilla missionary, sampling positions from the Kama Sutra. It's incredible what he can do with his tongue and his cock, amazing organs that can shoot me to the stars, that make me ravenous for more. He's always telling me how nice I smell. Well, I love the way he smells also, the way we smell together. The succulent aroma permeates the room. Our sweat dampens the sheets. The sounds we make, our moans and groans, would be unmistakable to anyone who might be in earshot. My emotions run in sync with my carnal passion. I melt under his tender kisses; feel secure in his tight embrace. I'm smitten. Jesus, I could fall in love with this young man. Thinking aloud, my head resting on his chest, I whisper, "What am I getting myself into?"

He kisses my forehead. "Nothing you don't want to, I hope."

"You know I want to," I say. "It hurts that Edward might hate me for it. Then there's the gossip thing. Not something I relish. Both give me pause, Henry, but not having you in my life like this would be worse."

The afternoon wears on, and then evening comes, and we're still cocooned in the Quality, planning to spend the night. We order Chinese takeout, and when Henry leaves to pick it up, I call Edward to tell him I won't be home until tomorrow. When he asks why, I tell him the truth. No surprise, he finds it repugnant. "Edward, it's not like I'm a married woman cheating on her husband," I argue. "I'm a single woman with needs and desires just like anybody else who's becoming very fond of someone who just happens to be much younger. Please understand."

He can't or he won't, same difference. He calls me "disgusting" and "selfish" and a few other choice names that bring me to the verge of tears. "You embarrass me," he grumbles. "Grow up and date a man your own age."

"Maybe I was wrong," I tell Henry when he returns. "Maybe Edward won't come around."

He sets the cartons and bottles of iced tea down on a table by the window, then does his best to comfort me. "Yes he will," he says. "Just give it more time. Like you said, you've always been close. Your bonds are strained, not broken." He gives me a warm hug, followed by kisses. He's over twenty years younger, yet somehow I feel a strange role reversal here. No matter, I feel better, then better still when we chow down to our sushi, moo goo gai pan and fried rice.

After consuming our meal, we snuggle in bed, sipping what's left of the Bollinger. Between TV programs, we kiss and touch as if we're afraid of taking our hands off one other. "Not again," I tease Henry, watching his organ rise once more—and the evening is still young.

"Afraid so," he says. Draping his arms over my shoulders, he leans in and kisses me. "Look, if you're too tired, we can just lay here and hold each other all night."

Honestly, I am a bit tired, but that doesn't keep my juices from flowing once again. "We have all night for that," I say. "So let's indulge."

This is a night to remember, I think as I lay under Henry's muscular body, delirious with joy. If for some reason I never see Henry again, I'll never regret it. This is one of those experiences in life that you know is one to remember even before it's over. "I never want this night to end," I tell him.

"Not to worry," he says, slowing his rhythm. "This will be one of many. This is more than just about sex. You know that, right?"

"I know it all too well," I say, raising my head up to kiss him. Emotionally, it would be easier if sex alone kept us together. Being so crazy about Henry makes me more vulnerable, fragile even. But I keep those thoughts to myself, thoughts that fade into the delirium of my passion.

*****

"Good luck with Eddy," Henry says. "I know it won't be easy facing him. If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know."

It's Sunday morning and we're standing on the parking lot of a diner where we just had breakfast.

"Thanks, I will," I say, before kissing him goodbye.

His words reassure me, but we both know that Edward's hostility is MY problem. My stomach churns as I enter the house wearing my sexy yellow dress. Yesterday I felt sexy. Today I feel more anxious than anything else. In shorts and t-shirt, Edward sits at the kitchen table, eating a breakfast of oatmeal and hardboiled eggs. He looks up. "Have fun?"

His hostile, sarcastic tone annoys me—my empathy for his feelings is beginning to wear thin. Standing over him, I say, "Edward, maybe it's time you get over this and accept my need to be happy."

"Really, mom? Your need to be happy, the way you're going about it, is hurtful to me." He glances at my tan, bare legs. "I bet Mr. Stud had a blast." He knocks back some orange juice.

"Don't tell me you're jealous." I look away and shake my head. "Sorry, Edward, I didn't mean that."

He grins bitterly. "Oh, I think you did. And what about MY need to be happy?"

I take a seat at one of the four chairs. "What about it? I'd love to see you happy, to see you meet some girl that could make you happy. If that happens, I've got a hunch that my thing with Henry would no longer matter to you. You wouldn't be so damn envious anymore."

He grunts.

"Look," I continue, "we both know you envy Henry's easy way with girls. That's nothing to be ashamed of, Edward. We all envy people who do better in something, that achieve what we can't or haven't achieved. It's human nature. What you need is more confidence. Women notice that. Show more confidence around them and you might be going places."

He shoves the last spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth, then pushes himself away from the table. "You know, it's easy for you to tell me that. You're an attractive woman. You've never had the same social problems. Henry's told me the same thing. Easy for him to say, too. I mean, look at him. He's a handsome dude. He's never had a problem attracting women, including one twice his age." He glares at me with contempt.

"First of all, my affection for Henry goes much deeper than his appearance, although I can't deny that he's very attractive. That said, we connect on several levels."

He shoots me a sarcastic look. "Sure you do, especially when your clothes come off."

I pause to take a deep breath, struggling not to smack him. Then I continue. "And second of all, there's nothing wrong with your looks. You don't need to look like Tom Brady or George Clooney to date and have girlfriends."

Being as objective as I can, his looks might require assets such as a vibrant personality and/or keen sense of humor to win a girl's heart. My son, while not exactly homely, is no matinee idol. He's slight of build, small boned, though not like a muscular distance runner or any athlete for that matter. He has thin, poker-straight, dark hair that sits atop his head as if he just woke up. Lord knows where he got those few freckles, which might be okay if not for his complexion, fair, almost sallow. His small facial features would look fine on a thinner face. But they look odd on his face, round and soft and lacking a strong chin and jaw line, the polar opposite of Henry Martingale's strong, chiseled features, to say nothing of a bod that's jacked, as they say.

Of course, I keep my "analysis" to myself as Edward digests what I just said. "My shortcomings with women aside," he says, "you talk as if you and Henry plan to carry on. Do you?"

"I'd be lying if I said we didn't."

He nods and shakes his head. "That's so not acceptable to me, mom."

"What's so not acceptable about it?" I say, my voice softening. "The age difference? The fact that you were once friends? The fact that we're neighbors? What?"

"All of the above, but especially number two, the fact that he was once my close friend. I feel betrayed by both of you. Just picturing you two together, naked in a hotel room..." He shakes his head.

I cross my legs, lean closer to him and hold his forearm. "Edward, if it bothers you so much, don't think about it. Go about your business, which is attending college, chasing girls and pursuing that weight-training program you just started." I say this sympathizing with Edward's feelings. He's seen me naked before—or close to naked. After all, he lives with me. "What I think makes you so uncomfortable," I add, "is picturing me, your parent, having sex, regardless of who it's with. Am I right?"