The Romance

He was older than any man I’d ever been with.

I was younger than any woman he had ever been with. 

I don’t know what it is about May-December romances, but this one worked beautifully, harmoniously.  He taught me things about his era, I made him more current and in-the-know.

He got me to quit smoking, saying “I want you to out-live me.” Like I wasn’t going to already…he is seventeen years older than I am.  I’m sure the day I was born, he was listening to Bruce Springsteen and talking to his friends about “The Empire Strikes Back.”

We met on accident, a coincidence.  We were at the same comedy club, a table away from each other and laughing loudly at the same terrible jokes.  I thought my laughter was just echoing in the small club, but then I realized someone else shared my obtuse sense of humor.  I was immediately smitten.

He sent me a drink–a diet soda.  Later, after the comedian died a horrible stand-up death and the crowd was mingling before the next “up-and-coming comedy sensation!” took the stage, he came over to my table to introduce himself.

“Hi. You’ve got a terrible sense of humor.”

I became even more smitten. 

He sat down across from me and we began talking.  The next comedian took the stage and he stayed sitting at my table.  I didn’t mind.  This act was worse than the first one, and we kept shooting each other glances during his set.  He would make funny faces at me, crossing his eyes or sneering at the more terrible jokes and I found myself laughing loudly again, but this time to the show going on two feet from me and not the one up at the microphone. 

At the end of the night, we stood outside the club and he watched me smoke.  I was nervous and didn’t want to make a fool out of myself by saying something off-putting, so I kept taking large drags off my cigarettes.  He stood next to me, his hands buried deep in his jeans pockets. 

“You know I’m going to try to get you to quit, right?”

Such a bold statement, and my stomach fluttered at the thought of him being around long enough to make this happen.

He was reluctant to start dating me, making our age difference a bigger deal than what was necessary.

“I was SEVENTEEN when you were born. Do you know how odd that is for me to think about?  Imagine me, looking down in your crib and wanting to fuck you.”

“Ok, first of all, age is just a number and completely irrelevant, and second, you’re vile. And apparently, a pedophile.”

He smiled, the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes cut into his face.  I stared at him, looked into his deep brown eyes. Age is just a number…

Sex with him was incredible.  He was insatiable, and he did not need any little blue pill to help him, on the contrary. If anyone needed help, it was me.  I had come out of a ten-year relationship where the sex was, well, it just was.  A few times my ex and I had memorable fuck sessions, but I could count those on one hand.  I lost my sexual desire long ago, a terrible thing for a not even thirty-year-old woman to say, but he helped me find it again and then some.  I lost track of our memorable fuck sessions within one week.

I loved when I’d come home from work, back aching from a long day on my feet, and he’d sneak up behind me and place his hands on my hips and nip at my neck with his lips, his chin and cheeks scratchy with five o’clock shadow. He’d pull me in close to him, and I could feel him become hard.  His hands would wander from my hips to other places, his touch firm and expert.  Precise. His touch invigorated me, revived me. 

I remember when he had to have hip surgery–an old basketball injury from high school finally got the best of him.  During our more…adventurous romps in the bedroom, he’d wince in pain.  After he was home from his hospital stay, I was helping him change the dressing over the wound.  He was laying in bed, pants around his knees and sans underwear due to the bulk of the bandages.  It had been a few days since we had sex, and I was starting to feel the effects of the absence. 

I was changing the bandages and about to put the new one on, when I leaned close to his hip and gently began kissing it.  He gasped, and I looked up at him with an alarmed look, thinking I had maybe unintentionally hurt him somehow.  He reached out with his hand and touched my hair, letting his fingers comb through it gently.  I looked at him with wide eyes, and he asked me to keep going.  I smiled at him and continued kissing his hip, covering him with soft kisses.  My lips wandered from his hip to his other parts.  He was moaning and part of me was still nervous I was causing him pain, but I figured out quickly this was exactly the opposite. 

I straddled his torso, taking great care not to hurt him, and began kissing his chest and neck, then his soft lips.  He was kissing back with fervent desire, soon we were going at it like teenagers.

We were together for five incredible years, until he succumbed to a massive heart attack out of the blue.  He was out walking the dog and never came back. 

When he died, part of me died, as well.  A huge part.  I had never met another human being who understood me so well, who got all my stupid jokes, who made me feel like we were the only two people in this world.  Meeting him in that club was the best thing that had ever happened to me. 

I’m not a religious person, but I’m willing to believe there was some higher power looking over me that night, and sent my own personal savior.

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