Zen and Sex (12 page)

Never, ever, have I woken up and felt the urge to stare at my sleeping partner. I’ve never had another guy admit to me that he’s ever done it, either, so I just assumed that it was only something that was confined to the make-believe lovers in soppy romantic comedies.

Frances looks adorable as she sleeps, in fact, she looks like maybe what a baby looks like as it sleeps, so innocent and sweet you just feel like sighing deeply and saying, ahhhh, how cute. I’d pinch her cheeks but that might wake her.

Her eyes flutter, which I know is a sign of REM sleep and I wonder what she might be dreaming. She looks happy, so, whatever kind of dream it is, I’m sure it can’t be bad. Maybe she’s dreaming of me and our future together? Does she even think that way about me? That we may have a future together? Wow, I have to check myself… I’m beginning to think like a girl.

If we do have a future together, how would that work with the age difference and everything? When I’m forty, she’ll be fifty-four and when she’s sixty, I’ll be still in my forties. What’s she going to look like in ten years, when I’ll be still in my prime and, like George Clooney, probably even more handsome than I am now, because fair or not, that’s how it seems to work out for guys.

Maybe she’ll want to get some work done on her face to make her look younger? Maybe she has had work done already; she does look very young for her age. How can you tell if someone has had work done? She does have some wrinkles, not huge, but there are some definite crow’s feet around her eyes…

“Morning,” says Frances, before even opening her eyes, which catches me by surprise. “You were watching me sleep?” she asks, eyes now open wide and I’m wondering how long she has been awake.

“I was waiting for you to wake up naturally, didn’t want to wake you.”

“I appreciate that. What were you thinking…while you were waiting?”

“I was thinking how beautiful you look.”

“That’s very sweet. What were you
really
thinking?”

“It’s true. I was thinking how beautiful you look and…”

“And what?”

“You’re looking for honest communication, right?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, suppose I say something very honest and it hurts your feelings?”

“If something you say hurts me, as long as you’re not trying to hurt me, then it means that I have some unresolved issues that need healing. You’d actually be doing me a favor by pointing those areas out for me. That’s how a conscious relationship is supposed to work.”

“Cool. It’s nothing really… I was just wondering about the future and checking out the wrinkles around your eyes and stuff.”

Frances smiles, which totally relaxes me. “Do I look old and haggard in the morning, sweetheart?”

“No, not at all. Maybe down the road you will, I guess, I don’t know.”

“Everybody ages, Martin.”

“Of course. I’m just surprised that it’s not a touchy subject for you, being a woman and all.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a touchy subject, sweetie, and I’d be lying to you if I said that I was okay with aging and losing my looks, it sucks rocks, are you kidding? What’s the worst thing that can happen as a guy ages? He gets salt and pepper hair? Which for most guys is an improvement to their looks or big deal, you go bald, which thanks to Bruce Willis and Vin Diesel, something that used to be considered geeky is now considered sexy. So yeah, I’m majorly pissed off about the whole aging thing and the unfairness of it…how men can get away with aging and women get royally screwed.”

By her tone and noticeable increase in heartbeat, I can see that Frances does indeed have a few unresolved issues around the aging thing. I have a feeling that if I ask any more questions, she will most likely go off into another tirade but I really don’t want this good warm and fuzzy feeling inside to get a cold shower. Plus, I’m hungry. Maybe if we have a sexy shower together, Frances will get back in the mood.

“What are our plans for breakfast?” I ask cheerfully.

“Breakfast?” Frances says, still lost in her thoughts. “I don’t know.”

“I’m really liking this honest communication thing,” I say, trying to pull her back.

“Yeah,” she says finally, her mood shifting upwards. “Yeah, it’s really important to do this. Thank you for being honest with me.” She kisses me and inwardly I rejoice that she has come back. “Let’s get breakfast.”

Frances cooks breakfast for the four of us. Doris and Chuck are still in a depressing mood and they both look like they slept miserably, if at all. Call me a philistine but this is the first time I have had eggs Benedict. I’ve seen it on menus but I just never ordered it. I seemed to think that only New Yorkers or people over a certain age ordered it but I’m going to add it to my shortlist of breakfast favorites from now on, although, again, I may be disappointed with restaurant food after now being imprinted with Frances’ fabulous cooking.

It is really weird sitting with Chuck and Doris. Nobody is saying anything beyond small talk and it is obvious that they really don’t want to socialize, anyway. At the other end of the mood scale, Frances and I are like giddy kids that have a secret that we aren’t telling anyone else. We keep catching each other’s eye and smiling. It is exhilarating.

Besides Mike, it’s very rare for me to communicate non-verbally with someone, especially someone of the opposite sex. Women’s brains work in such fundamentally different ways, that even verbal communication with them is a challenge.

But with Frances, it’s like we’ve been communicating non-verbally since the first time I saw her eating alone in the restaurant. I seem to know what she’s thinking and she always knows what I’m thinking. It’s uncanny.

After breakfast, Frances tells me that she needs to help her sister, setting everything up for her mother’s birthday party. She declines my offer of help, and tells me to go out and explore the little town of Fairfax. So, camera in tow, I do.

As I walk the narrow country road to the town, I can’t help but notice how absolutely beautiful everything is. The sun is radiant. It’s warm but not so hot that it’s uncomfortable. With my delicate skin, I don’t take the sun very well. If I have to be in it, I’ll usually wear a baseball cap. Here I find myself holding my face up to the sun, like it is the source of all goodness.

I don’t usually notice flowers or foliage very much but today I’m struck by how pretty all the flowers are: their bright colors and varied shapes and sizes, some of them dancing in the soft breeze. Of the many, probably hundreds of thousands of photographs that I’ve taken in my life, I don’t think I’ve ever taken one picture of a flower. After Still Life, Flower Photography has always been my number two on my ‘most detestable uses to put a good camera to’ list. It’s like what schlock art is to real painting: taking pictures of flowers demeans the medium and cheapens the brand, so to speak. Amazingly, I’m zooming in X10 to get a perfect shot of the petals of a pinkish-red wild grown azalea which is stretching its adventurous little neck over a tight-knit little bunch of hydrangeas.

I need to get out of L.A. more often, I decide. Actually, I have been here a few times before, not in Fairfax exactly but in San Rafael, which is close by (Mike’s parents moved up there from L.A.). It has never looked this marvelous to me before. Now I get why all the old folks describe this place as rustic and quaint. I’m not retiring any time soon, but I could definitely live here if I were.

I spend hours taking photographs of stuff that I never previously considered as photo-worthy subjects. Maybe my project direction is changing a bit and I should go with it. If someone told me a year, or even a month ago, that I’d be taking photos of flowers, bushes and hedges, mixed color ceramic tile and slate roofs, slanted wooden telegraph poles, cracked, potholed and unevenly surfaced tarmacadamed intersections and quirky local signage, I would have laughed in their face. I would probably have told them that subjects like theses were strictly for tourists, hacks and postcard photographers.

When I get back to the house, I’m pretty pooped. Some early guests have arrived. It looks like maybe they got here early to help because everybody is busy doing something to prepare for the party.

“Hi, sweetie. Have a nice walk?” Frances greets me with a tender kiss and a heart-melting smile.

“I had a great walk. Can I help with something?”

“Thanks, honey but you’ll just be in the way. You look all tuckered out, why don’t you rest for a bit? Oh, I know…” Frances takes a newly purchased book from her bag, leads me into the front room, sits me in an armchair and hands me the book. “I thought maybe we could try this,” she half-whispers with a hint of glee.

“
The Art Of Tantric Sex
,” I read the title out loud.

“This will blow your mind,” she says, again in a conspiratorial half-whisper. “I’ll go get you a drink.” As she heads off to the kitchen fridge to grab a beer and bring it back, I’m like, jumping up and down inside, just loving this whole grown-up relationship thing. When on earth did Roxanne
ever
sit me down and tell me I look tired and give me a beer and a book to read and just basically look after me like this, in general? Uh…never.

I was always the one looking after her needs, not so much because that’s the kind of person that I am, which I guess, I am, but mainly because the relationship was so always about her and her telling me what her needs were. We had more than one conversation where she seriously told me how her needs were not getting met in the relationship. Can anyone say, ‘Prima Donna?’ Looking back, I can see how I was a total moron for putting up with it.

“Here’s your beer, sweetie,” Frances says with a kiss on my head. When did Roxanne ever give me a beer and a kiss on the head? Not once. I sigh with peace and gratitude.

As I sit reading the book on sex, I’m dimly aware that more guests are arriving, the party is getting going and is mainly confined to the main room, dining room and kitchen. I don’t know anybody and to be honest, because most people attending seem to be in their sixties and seventies, I really don’t think this gathering constitutes a party, at least not according to my definition of what a party should be. I think one or two of them came on walkers.

Frances keeps feeding me beers and tasty appetizers and never once gives me a hard time for sitting by myself and not mingling. I personally hate mingling, it’s even an ugly word, and too close to the word ‘mangled’ to be a coincidence.

Besides, I’m finding this book about sex fascinating. Rather, I should say, it’s an okay book full of really weird sexual positions, which to my mind seriously borders on porn but what I find fascinating is that Frances wants to do all these positions with me! As I look at the strange sexual positions, I find myself mentally superimposing Frances’ face onto the model in the illustration. It’s pretty steamy and I’m getting turned on just thinking about it.

“Are you still sitting here?” Frances asks, knowing quite well that I’m still here, she’s been sneaking me beers all evening. I should probably get by now that even when she sounds earnest, she’s not always being earnest, she’s being jokey but I haven’t gotten it down yet. I think now that she’s actually being jokey.

“Best seat in the house,” I playact, a secret whisper into her ear. “If I move, I’ll lose it.”

“Don’t you want to go mingle?” she whispers back. Actually, now I’m not quite sure if she is playacting or being serious.

 “Go mingle with the old people?” I say, still going with the jokey. “What do you say to old people?”

“Ask them how they feel about having wrinkles and saggy breasts.”

“And what would I ask the women?” I say, holding in a smile because that was a good one.

“I don’t want you talking to the women. Most of them are widows on the lookout for new husbands who still know how to drive and don’t have heart conditions. Talk to Mr. Darcy over there.” Although Mr. Darcy looks like he’s in his eighties, he still has a sprightly demeanor and a mischievous look on his face.

“What would we talk about?”

“I don’t know. Whatever guys talk about. Sports.”

“What do I know about lawn bowling?” The booze helps and I could have kept up our witty repartee for quite some time except some geeky dude in his forties comes through the front door, waves at Frances and off she goes to greet him. I check him out to make sure that he has no designs on Frances but by the way she greets him, I can see that she has zero romantic interest in him. So I go talk to Mr. Darcy.

“The weather is so unpredictable this year,” I say, hoping I sat by his good ear.

“When I met my wife first, that was all we talked about.”

“The weather?”

“Yes. Whether she would or whether she wouldn’t!” Mr. Darcy laughs hard but it takes me a few seconds to join him. He may have a few years on him but those neurons are still firing. “Whether she would or whether she wouldn’t,” he repeats himself, still laughing.

“That’s funny,” I say with one eye checking on Frances who is in the kitchen still talking to the geeky dude, I think I heard her call him, Ronald or Reinhold or something. Three elderly women come over and sit with Mr. Darcy. Somehow I get sandwiched in the middle, unable to escape without climbing onto or pushing over one or two of the old ladies.

They may be old but maybe Frances is right: each of the women do appear to be interested in Mr. Darcy. Had I not seen the movie, Grumpy Old Men, I would have thought flirting was only for the young but apparently the sexes never seem to lose interest in each other. Don’t know what to think about that or maybe I’d rather not think about it. I don’t want to lose the contents of my stomach putting those kind of images in my head.

“Suddenly you’re married and you have to live with this strange man for the rest of your life. What did we know?” says one of the women, as I tune into their weird conversation.

“My granddaughter asked me if she was marrying the right man. There is no right man, I tell her. You want a pork chop or a lamb chop? Take one or the other and make the best you can out of it. The right man is the man you marry.”

“It’s all about sex, nowadays,” another of the ladies chimes in. “They have to be sexually compatible and what have you. I was married to the same man for thirty years. We did it the same way, every time.”