The List Pt. 04: The Silver Fox Interlude

The List Part IV. The Silver Fox edition

There should be a word for the way a familiar street looks different after leaving a lover, for how the interior of a car takes on the scent of sex, how the tilt of your head looking over your shoulder into traffic recalls the feel of his lips on your neck.

None of this is what you need right now.

What you need right now is dinner. A beer. A shower - long and hot enough to rinse him away.

Two hours of rush hour driving on 101 provide more than enough time to ruminate. You hate that you're like this. Ruminate. It's what cows do with cud. Do you really need to regurgitate every experience? It never tastes better the second time around.

He made you come. The thought of it makes you flush. You're grateful. How could you not be? You went in for a tune-up and now you're purring. You should feel shiny and new.

But you're not a car. By the time you're ready to cross the Golden Gate Bridge, you're wondering, picturing him in the plane, reaching for his (non-alcoholic) drink - is he caught aback when the flight attendant says: "Can I get you anything else?" and his mighty brain instantly teleports back to the Hyatt.

Yes, yes you can get me....

Instinctively, you shake your head. He's not like that. Veni, vidi, vici. It's why he's a conquerer and you're not. He wanted something, he got it, he's done.

He's not speculating about the nature of desire while waiting in line at the McDonald's drive through in Marin City.

You collect your change and throw the bag on the passenger seat and, as you do, you see your phone vibrate.

It's a picture of a pencil case.

You forgot your present.

Yes, you did. You forgot your present. And your past. Not to mention your future.

I'm sorry.

That last text fills you with rage. He's sorry? What the fuck is he sorry for?

You, on the other hand, are very sorry you cut off that escalade driver who just gave you the finger.

The cheeseburger you scarfed down is pushing back up against your uvula. Sorry?!

You're sorry, too. Sorry you're 50 and you clearly don't really know how to do this. Sorry (not sorry) that you still want sex - real sex - sex with a real person and not with a perfectly competent toy. Sorry that your heart is a badly trained dog - one that doesn't heel when you whistle, one that will feast on all sorts of shit if you let it.

Fuck him. Fuck his pencil case.

And still you're sorry you left it. He was in some random Staples and he thought of you. The pencil case is evidence - proof you cross his mind outside of bed.

And you were in such a hurry to get out of there, you forgot it.

By the time you get to Petaluma, you're ok with it being gone. He is not the kind of guy who'd bother to mail it. Sure - he could ask his secretary (no - personal assistant - that's what they call them nowadays) but what would he say then: Kim (or Madison or Heather or Sarah - whatever) could you please see that my fuck buddy gets this?

This was supposed to be a mental health day. Was it? Maybe, you think as you put your key in the lock. Your little house. You love it. Unabashedly. It is the one good thing that came out of your marriage. You have a small oasis in wine country and you earned it. For twenty years you were 'emotionally available'. Bruce had the better career - you agreed on that. You were a team. What was some rinky-dink professorship against full partner in a hot shit law firm in Napa? Wasn't that the big time you both wanted? Bruce, the labor lawyer who got his winery clients what they asked for - no liability and cheap wages? What did you get in return - big money and the gala nights and a husband who - at best - politely ignored you and - at worst - publicly diminished you.

The gowns were the first to go. You and Audrey pulled out the garment bags together. Thousands of dollars worth of couture. Good riddance. You never felt comfortable wearing them. Ok - comfort might be the wrong word. That sort of dress is not about comfort - it's about display. Did you like it?

Did you like it?

If you're honest - yes. How could anyone not like thousand dollar dinners, the glare of lights and then the dark insides of limousines? You gave your ambition for his. Wasn't this your due?

Was it?

Shouldn't you have insisted? Stood your ground? Instead, you silently resented Bruce and his success, his life. The life he made with your help - your consent. You never pushed back. It was so easy to drift - let him set your course and go along for the ride. Maybe if you'd had children...

That hurt. Is that how women save themselves?

Your head begins to ache. How to stop it? Aspirin or a drink and a friend?

Or maybe tea and a good book?

===============================

Routine can be constricting but it can also be freeing. Tuesday comes and you get up, put on the black dress because black is always ok by Lauren, your manager. Drive the 20 minutes to Kenwood. On Tuesday the mist rising over the vineyards doesn't register. You hardly notice the doe grazing on the side the road. She's looking right at you but your thoughts are elsewhere. On Wednesday, there are turkey vultures on the weathered fence. One of them has spread his wings to the faint morning sun. He's got to dry himself off to fly and so should you. By Thursday, you're happy again to snap photos of that cute engaged couple under the hundred year old camellia.

Look. They're going to risk it.

When you hand the camera back to them and turn on your heel to return to the tasting room, you catch yourself smiling.

The smile deepens when you check your phone at 4 pm and see a text

Hey Beautiful

Con

Little life experience

Which is definitely nothing you'd say about Gerald. He's got life experience in spades. Not to mention three Emmys in his hall closet - the crowning achievements of a career spent in television. For more than three decades, his vision has shaped how thousands of viewers see San Francisco.

Another man who lives for his work.

{sigh}

But he's got one crucial thing on Boy Wonder. He's always been scrupulously honest with you. Somewhere back in his storied past, something bad happened and the door marked 'relationship' swung shut - permanently. Gerald likes to squire you around - happy to have ready access to a well educated, well spoken, attractive companion on his arm when duty calls (which it does quite often when you're the head of major TV station in a large American city). You've accompanied him to fundraisers (yawn!), to celebrity golf tournaments (who knew Pebble Beach was so cold after dark?) and company parties ("So nice to meet you! We always assumed darling Gerald was gay.")

Darling Gerald was anything but gay. Your pussy could bear witness to that. No, Gerald was a handsome, witty, Stanford graduate from a storied San Francisco family who had created himself as a legend: The One Who Got Away. Which is not say that the determined mothers of SF debutants ever gave up trying, any more than did the yearly parade of interns.

Year after year, he smiled, bought drinks and wrote wonderful recommendations.

And stayed quite glaringly single.

Hey Handsome! Are you in town?

Briefly.

Gerald had retired to his family's massive estate near San Luis Obispo a few years back. Now his forays into his old happy hunting ground, San Francisco, were few and far between.

Miss me? Bastard, you think, but you smile. Gerald was the man who had jimmied you out of your marriage, despite always insisting he didn't want to be 'that guy'. A home wrecker.

He wasn't. Your home was already wrecked when you found him. He was just an excuse to sweep up the pieces and finally put them in the trash.

Of course. What brings you up north?

I've been named executor of my friend's will.

Pro

completely untainted by death

Gerald is 65. 15 years old than you - more than a generation, if your anthropology classes were to be believed. Of course some of his friends were dying. Hell - he'd had his own brush with death a year ago, a heart attack that had necessitated bypass surgery. Yet he was so vibrant, you never thought of him like that. And he had all his own hair...

Let me take you out to dinner in the City

Con

still developing what's known as 'taste'.

No one could top Gerald in that department, certainly no 28 year old who didn't care about the difference between a burrito and a brûlée.

Meet me at the Mark. We'll have drinks and go to Boulevard

That's more like it. A real date. None of this 'four hours in an airport hotel' shit.

`

I'd love to.

Wonderful! Meet me in the lobby at 7:30.

Full sentences! It's enough to make you nostalgic.

You dress with care. Gerald is the kind of man who notices what color your toes are polished, the kind who knows without being told what scent it is you're wearing.

Spice bomb? Inspired choice.

Waiting for him in the beautiful lobby of your favorite San Francisco Hotel (except maybe for the weird and wonderful Hotel des Arts, with its blood red cage elevator - the one you told him you wanted to fuck in. The one he paid the teenaged night porter to stop in between floors so you could),

it occurs to you that he could have been gay. His wardrobe is stylish without being flamboyant. He takes excellent care of his hands. His former apartment was filled with interesting outsider art. He owned throw pillows.

You try to imagine Boy Wonder's apartment. He's sent you some photos, mostly of the Seattle skyline as seen from his wall of windows.

I want to fuck you up against these.

Well, that's not likely to happen - considering he's almost never IN his apartment.

You pull up the photos on your phone. His apartment is painted gray. There's a gray leather sofa. Maybe it's actually called 'charcoal'; it's a shade darker than the walls. The bed has a gray duvet on it. You imagine it's $400 dollar linen called 'shadow' but - knowing Boy Wonder - it's actually from Target's dorm room line. You're pretty sure the apartment came decorated. He's not the kind of guy who'd waste time on a 'home'.

As you're thinking this, you see Gerald exiting the elevator. Now that is $400 linen....

He looks like he always looks - captain of the Stanford crew, the product of five generations of California aristocracy. His ancestors divvied up this city (though he did share with you that the family money originated with a very savvy madam who made some extremely judicious real estate purchases back around 1860...)

"Hello Gorgeous"

He leans in to kiss you as you tilt your face up. He's a full foot taller than you are. He steps back to appraise you. You know you look good - a blonde in black. Your nipples peak up under his appreciative gaze and suddenly, you're glad you skipped the bra.

It seems as if everyone in San Francisco knows him, starting with the bartender at Top of the Mark.

"Mr. O'Halloran - what will it be tonight? The usual?"

Gerald nods. "And for the lady?"

For a moment, you can't help but wonder how many women he's brought here. Does the bartender (Josh - you remember) take note of their individual favorites? (Jessica - cosmo, Leah - chardonnay)

Your drink of choice is a Tom Collins and Gerald is quick to order it for you.

"Please put it on my tab."

Of course he has a tab. He lives here when he's in town, and has done so for years. Why does the thought of it stab you a little?

He swirls his Manhattan. You can see him relax. He loves the City as much as you do. This is his element even more than it's yours - the deep, plush seats, the twinkling lights beyond the window.

The promise of a large, luxurious, anonymous bed.

How long have the two of you been fucking? It must be going on ten years.

You talk about nothing in particular - his deceased friend (a long-time colleague, also unmarried, a collector of rare pulp fiction), his most recent project (punk in SF - you're sorry you missed it, having not arrived in the Bay area until the end of the 90s), his golf hobby, your job (can you still get him industry discount on that cab?), your writing (slow - have you spent too much of your time sleeping around?), the latest films you're both going to see but not together.

That's when you see him remove the small, silver case from his jacket pocket, shake the two blue pills into his hand and casually toss them in his mouth.

He stands up first and moves to pull out your chair for you.

Con

lack of good old-fashioned manners

Jordan would never do that. Why are you even thinking of him?! It makes you mad - that your thoughts go to him even as your body rises to join someone else. You wonder if it's the chair or the fact that youthful erections are wasted on the young that irritates you more.

Gerald still has use of the station driver. You remember him.

"Good evening, Ms. Abel."

"Nice to see you again, Tom," you answer as you slide into the back seat.

You notice Gerald doesn't have to tell him to take you to Boulevard.

Oh sweetheart... You think as he lays one, warm hand on the satin covering your thigh. For no good reason, your memory flashes on your brief ride in Boy Wonder's beat up minivan - how he had to move the propellor (yes - a full size wooden propellor) from the front seat to make room for you. The van smelled vaguely of motor oil and Indian take out. It rattled when he drove over pot holes. You tell yourself it wasn't charming; it was grody. But, if that's true, why are you so wistful - here in this immaculate limo, its permanent 'new car aroma' wafting gently around you?

The charming, young hostess takes you to the table immediately - his table.

It's a good dinner. It's always a good dinner. Sometimes you start with oysters, sometimes with caviar. Gerald helped bankroll this place back in the day but they've not forgotten. The chef sends out tidbits that aren't on the menu - tonight it's some tiny, exquisite mushroom creation, pillowed on something that might have resembled cornbread in some other, less exalted life.

Once upon a time, he'd have had an expresso with you but - since the heart episode - he's switched to a small glass of port.

The color of your panties.

But he doesn't know that. Yet.

After the oysters, the beet salad (your favorite!), the perfect tuna and the tiny profiteroles, each a sculpted bud of caramel flavor bursting on your happy tongues, you're so relaxed, you wonder that you haven't melted into a giant puddle of buttery bliss. You love the way he smiles at you - so happy to indulge you - confident in the knowledge that 'what goes around, comes around.'

It's a pas de deux you two have perfected. Especially the encore.

He extends his hand to you. "Ready, baby?" he says, expertly pulling out your chair again, his hand slipping to the small of your back. It's warm and familiar and it sends a little tingle up and down your spine.

In the car, his kiss tastes faintly of tobacco (his not-so-secret vice, though he's cut way back since the heart attack) and the ghost flavor of the nutty port. Kissing him is like a great conversation - the kind where the back and forth is effortless, a little sly, with the occasional joke thrown in. For some men, kissing is like playing whack a mole - their tongues chasing yours, cornering it in your mouth as if it could somehow get away. Bad kissing is the one thing that cannot be forgiven in a first date.

All of which takes you back to the first time you went out with Gerald. The Herbst Theater - an American tenor you'd wanted to hear for as long as you can remember, though you never did. (Why was that? Because Bruce was not a fan?) You were not quite divorced, in counseling but living apart. Bruce's things were still in the house; you were still wearing your ring.

You had actually shopped for that evening. The black printed mini dress was so not you - or so you thought. The persuasive sales girl at the fancy boutique clearly thought otherwise. You didn't recognize yourself in in, still less when you added the new thigh high black boots. (Hey, in for a dime...) You wore fishnet stocking for the first time in your life.

So much effort...

The minute you saw him - no, the minute he saw you - you knew it was worth it. It had been a long time since you recognized such genuine appreciation in a man's eyes. The mere memory of it showers you with anticipatory goosebumps.

Just like tonight, he was not all over you. It felt like lion taming - what you assume lion taming feels like. You know you're in the ring with a handsome, dangerous animal. You're not without skill - without experience. And yet - this particular specimen is new to you. He's playing nice but you sense he's toying with you; he's not going to show you what he can do - just yet.

But then, at intermission, when the elderly lady next to you remarks what a lovely couple you are, he reaches over, takes your wrist and turns it to the pale underside where the blood pulses just enough to warm your perfume into life. The heat of his mouth descends directly into your veins where it sails through the channels of your body as naturally as a bird through air.

You want more than anything for it to land again on your lips.

And it does. Does again tonight. When he's done exploring your mouth, he pulls back to look at you. Slowly, he puts his thumb on your lower lip, right there where the tiny scar is.

It's a promise and you know it. You are an open book - soon he'll thumb through you, taking his sweet old time.

What is it about you and elevators? This one is brassy bright - all mirrors and light bulbs. You have no idea what floor his room is on. He pushes a high number.

This is going to be a long ride.

It's the last thing you think before he pushes you up agains the elevator wall and thrusts his hand up your skirt.

You give a small start but his hand covers your mouth.

"Shhhhhhhhh"

He doesn't need to say more because his other hand - his talented, manicured hand - begun tracing small, concentrated circles on your clit.

You're so wet it's like ice skating. Figure 8, backward glide....

How many more floors?

The doors could fly open. Conceivably, someone could summon this same elevator, wait for it to stop - only to see the back of a tall man and the legs of a much smaller woman. A pair of maroon silk panties on the floor.

But - by the time they registered all that - the doors would be closing again.

The only thing consistently opening is you.