Robinson?
(Mrs. Robinson, is that you?)
We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do, okay?” Emilio says to me in the car on the way to the bar. It’s our first date. An hour and a half later, mellowed by sangria, emboldened by shots of brandy in between, and fortified by the empanadas we fed each other while grinning like a couple of high school kids sneaking off to fool around, I know exactly what I want to do. I want Emilio to rip my clothes off and fuck my brains out. In the car or at a hotel, it doesn’t matter where, as long as he fucks me hard. He can even fuck me right on the Brooklyn Bridge for all I care. Just not in this bar.
“That little boy is staring at us,” I murmur into Emilio’s ear, as his lips brush against my neck.
“Yeah? So what, let him stare.”
“His parents are staring as well.”
The bar is one of those intimate hole-in-the-wall establishments, cozy with a clichéd kind of charm, the décor somewhere between a tiki lounge and a gaucho-themed restaurant, which apparently equals “Argentine style” in these parts. It’s both date night central and family hangout. The little boy and his parents are clearly in the family-friendly section of the bar, but with Emilio and myself occupying the bar stools easily within everyone’s line of vision, it appears that we are the star attraction of the evening.
Emilio doesn’t seem to be concerned that we have an audience. His lips leave the base of my throat and travel up my neck till they reach my lips. “I can’t believe you don’t live in New York. Why don’t you live in New York?”
“Because that’s the way it is. Why does it matter?”
“Because I’m going to miss you.” He stops kissing me and looks into my eyes.
“That is such bullshit.” Why do men use such trite lines?
“Why is it bullshit?”
“You don’t even know me.”
Really, how can anyone make that sort of statement after barely two hours together? Even Ariane, my eldest, won’t fall for that line anymore.
Suddenly my mind floods with memories of those interminable phone conversations with high school suitors, here the goodbyes were long, protracted, and ultimately senseless because no one wanted to hang up first. For the nth time that night, I ask myself what the hell I’m doing making out with a boy who, if anyone cares to do the math, could easily be my son, though I know I look young enough not to pass for his mother. Plus it’s barely three weeks since I ended a particularly intense but ultimately directionless relationship, I remind myself. Way too soon. And I’m a commitment kind of girl. I don’t do casual. Which is the only thing this—this thing—can possibly ever be.
Don’t go chasin’ waterfalls,
Please stick to the rivers and lakes that you’re used to …
“Let’s get out of here,” Emilio says, his voice husky. “Vamos.”
It’s about time he said that.
So here I am, une femme d’un certain âge, sitting on the edge of a bed sheathed in yellowing sheets that must be fifty percent polyester and fifty percent shame, in a dimly-lit, nondescript hotel room in Williamsburg, daintily unfastening the straps of my high-heeled sandals, letting lust conquer nervousness. In front of me, Emilio stands, his shirt already discarded, with his hands unbuckling his belt and kicking his pants off with impatience. I put my shoes away and glance up slowly, noting that he kept his socks on, that his legs are strong and not all that hairy, and that his dick … Oh. My. God. His dick is long, thick, fully erect, and perfect.
When my eyes finally meet his, there is an expression of utter seriousness on his face.
Coo coo ca-choo Mrs. Robinson …
I almost cancelled tonight’s rendezvous. That same morning, in a moment of am-I-fucking-insane panic, I wanted to call Emilio and back out. The flip-flopping feeling in the pit of my stomach was telling me that maybe it was too intimate, too soon to do drinks and dinner. Wouldn’t meeting up for coffee be a more appropriate first date with someone who could be considered jailbait?
So I texted him.
Yes, I was one of those people who spelled everything out correctly in a text message.
He replied immediately.
Oooh, nice manners. Mama done bring him up right. But shit, shit, shit, I thought, what could I say without sounding like a hysterical, was-menopause-really-just-lurking-around-the-corner kind of woman who couldn’t even handle a young boy?
Lame, I know, and so touristy, but the sun was shining, it was springtime in New York and it had been twenty-plus years since I’d strolled through the park, bought corndogs off a street vendor, and …
My heart was racing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Was he mad? As tempting as it sounded, there was no way I was baring my body to a twenty-something youth in broad daylight! My tummy may have been passably flat even after three pregnancies, but it was etched with Missoni-patterned stretch marks oh-so-beautifully set off by the scarred slit that was my C-section incision. The ravages of childbirth had faded after so many years, of course, but the last thing I wanted was for Emilio to think—
Massages? Miracles? What in heaven’s name did he mean by “make miracles”? Was that a euphemism for sex? Awww, that was just so sweet, and he was so cute, but NO. Jesus, men in New York were just way too forward. Last Saturday night, at a club, this guy who was, as far as I could tell in my state of wee-hours-of-the-morning sobriety, very hot and very young, came up to me and whispered in my ear, “I’m so sexually attracted to you, I don’t know what to do.” How’s that for direct? In my mind I had a paper bag over my mouth, I was breathing in and breathing out, thinking, oh my God, I have a fifteen-year-old daughter, how can he say that to me? What was I supposed to reply to that? “I think you’re better off having a wank on your own?” Instead, I mumbled a shy, “Oh, sorry, I’m with my friends.” Lame.
And now Emilio was being, well, as direct as he could respectfully be, I suppose.
My mother had left New York a few days before, but my sister was still in town, and the apartment we were staying in belonged to her in-laws. I had no idea what the rooftop looked like, but the views from thirtieth floor of this high-rise in the Upper East Side were stupendous, the kind that made you want to kiss the sky and sweep your gaze past Central Park’s verdant carpet, above the jagged jumble of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, past the crisscross hatch of steel that spans the 59th St. Bridge, and far beyond the East River. Especially on a gorgeous day like today.
This wasn’t working. I texted him again.
So, no Central Park for me today. And no massages or miracles for him, either. At least not this afternoon.
But would it kill him to slip in an apostrophe here and there?
He has no problems, however, slipping his penis inside me. Three condoms later, he’s drifted off to sleep, while I lie awake, my head nestling in the crook of his arm. I am exhausted, yes, but also vaguely energized. Mentally, I cross out a list of “rules” I’ve broken in just one night, biting my lip to suppress an attack of the giggles. Sylvie, my old Paris roommate, who now lives in London, will be proud.
“Mais vraiment, Maxine,” I can imagine her saying through the haze of cigarette smoke, “it’s about time. Et bravo! He’s twenty-five years old, tu dis? Ma chìre, Maxine, you are really full of surprises. But in fact, didn’t you know? There are no rules.”
But there are. And they are the sort of antiquated, cobweb-draped rules someone like me, a well-brought up girl from a good upper-middle-class Philippine Catholic family, is supposed to follow as rigidly as possible. As in:
To be fair, I didn’t hit on Emilio; he hit on me. But by the time he lifts my dress over my head, tears my panties off, plunges his fingers into my warm, waiting pussy, and devours my lips with his, the point is practically moot anyway.
“Ay mami,” he whispers.
And by the time I climb on top him, and feel his mouth hungrily sucking at my nipples while I slowly ease myself onto his hot, throbbing dick and rock my hips back and forth, the sensation of having him inside of me is so wildly and exhilaratingly good that it sure as hell doesn’t matter who hit on whom or how much older I am.
As the air-conditioner drones on, Emilio grunts and I moan, our bodies now moving together in a gentle, then increasingly frenzied rhythm. I’m about to come right there but he suddenly rolls over so that he’s on top of me, only to pull away from me and coax me on to all fours. Then he enters me from behind, thrusting his penis forcefully inside me.
“Estás bien, mami? Así te gusta?”
“Oh God oh God oh God oh God,” is all I can manage between ragged spurts of breath.
And then I think, I’m forty-seven years old. I’ve been married and divorced, with three children and a career that is flourishing nicely after years of struggling financially, post-separation. And now I’m in bed with a gorgeous stud with rock-hard abs who wants to make miracles with me all night. Fuck the rules.
There are still rules you can’t bend, though, at least in New York City. When Emilio drives me to the airport three days later, cruising along the highway, notwithstanding the fact that we’ve just spent the last hour with our bodies glued together, coated in perspiration, limbs entangled, lips locked, tongues furiously lapping the life from each other, we are back to driver and passenger. Madam is once again sitting in the back seat of the Town Car all the way to JFK.
So I overtip him. But you know what? Fuck the rules.