Fear of Fifty (36 page)

Some men clearly had been passed around the singles circuit. Everyone had riffled through them. The shopworn men tended to be perfect on paper yet have some fatal flaw when you got to know them. The fatal flaw was rarely obvious on first look. He was only missing a heart, say, or a cock.

One of these paragons was tall, dark, and blue eyed and lived half the week in another country. On the three days he allotted to New York, he had to get plenty of dating in before the Concorde left—so you always felt you were being juggled or squeezed. He would vanish at eight A.M. on Monday and not call for three weeks. You had just about forgotten him when he seemed suddenly to remember your existence. He seemed to rotate women on a schedule as precise as a meal plan in a health spa. It seemed you should get a bonus for fucking him—frequent-flyer miles perhaps.

But his weekends were often cut in pieces like a cherry pie. Perhaps he was afraid a single cherry would ooze out. Oh, he was smart and attractive all right, and he unfailingly carried condoms. More amazingly, he
used
them. Afterward, he unfailingly disappeared.

But at least he was actually
single.
And he
seemed
to be straight—though who can tell these days? I dated him on and off for a year, but wisely never gave up my other beaux.

The most depressing thing about being single is the glut of married men. That any woman gets married again after eight years of singledom in New York—or anywhere—must be attributable to “the triumph of hope over experience” (as Ken and I put it on our wedding announcements). Either that or amnesia.

Married men are, of course, the best lovers—unless you happen to be married to them. They
always
have time for you. Besides, they tend to be around just about enough for a full-time writer. With married men, you have weekends, holidays, New Year's Eve to write. When the whole world is pretending to be delirious, you can be really delirious, writing. It may not be for everyone, but for writers in mid-career, it's perfect. When your child is with your ex, you have the whole blessed weekend free to work. How many married women long for that?

Where did I meet these men? Just about everywhere. If you are genuinely friendly, it's not difficult to meet men. Most men are so terrorized by their mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters that a woman who's superficially nice to them and laughs at their jokes turns out to be rarer than the unicorn. The secret of meeting men is
liking
men. And having a little
rachmones
¹¹
for them.

I met them on the Concorde in the days when I still thought I could afford to fly it. I met them at conferences, at openings, at parties. The world is full of married men, as Jackie Collins wrote. You could modify that:
The world is full of lonely married men.

For they do seem to be genuinely lonely and genuinely grateful for a little listening and a little tenderness. They don't come to you for sex alone, but for affection and a listening ear—something they apparently never get at home. As a mistress, I am my best self: charming, tender, funny. When you live apart from a man, it's easy to be nice to him. You have your own bathroom, bedroom, closet, and kitchen. You can sleep all day and write all night. You can have weekend dates with your children or with yourself. You can soak in a bath, read poems, eat yogurt for supper. You and your daughter can give each other pedicures. All the female nurturing things that men seem to find silly (unless they are the beneficiaries of them) can become the main-stays of your life.

Since I disliked dating, I slid easily into relationships with married men. (Besides, the “eligibles” were always so arrogant. They were sure you were out to nab them. As a result, the more they liked you, the more they ran.)

My analyst warned me that I liked married men
too
much. She claimed I was afraid of marriage. After my three marital outings, why
shouldn't
I be afraid of marriage? Marriage had usually been a bad bargain for me. I had married for love and wound up fighting for my child in court. Wouldn't I have been better off never to have married?

Perhaps I was just a terrible chooser of men. If a nice man was pursuing me, I'd inevitably choose the elusive cad. Why not just admit that marriage was not for me and give up?

My shrink was very pro-marriage. Famous for getting her patients hitched, she looked askance at the married men in my life.

I have burned my little black book. In its place, I plan to create the composite married man.

You meet at a screening, a publishing party, an art opening, or a political event. He meets your gaze more intensely than others do. He has read your books and claims to love them (perhaps his wife loves them). He looks at you with that shy, foot-scuffling teenage look.

The conversation starts and doesn't stop. At some point you wonder if he is prolonging it, or if you are. For a moment, you look in his eyes and see the little boy he once was. He says something intimate about your perfume or your hair. He asks if he can drive you home. In the car, you become aware of something drawing you toward him—a quasimagnetic force that, however, you do not act on. At your door, you proffer your telephone number and no kisses. He touches your hand a little too intimately or he touches your hair with an almost proprietary pat. He doesn't want to let you go, but you make it clear you're going. He looks like a beloved dog left in a kennel before a vacation.

In the morning before ten, you get a call. He invites you to lunch, very soon—perhaps that day. You know he is married because he doesn't invite you for dinner. And also because he is openly yearning. Single men never openly yearn.

At lunch—which is at a charming place a little off the beaten track—you confirm that he is married. Not because he says so but because he
omits
so much about his life.

He says things like “I went to the movies” or “I went to Europe,” but from the description you know he was not alone. Men don't usually stay alone at the Splendido in Portofino or at the Hotel du Cap or the Eden Roc. An empty bed with pure white linen sheets may be
your
idea of heaven, but it's usually not his.

It's safe to ask about his children. That way you can confirm his marital state. If he's divorced, he will mention the mother of his children—usually negatively. But if he's married, it will appear he had them all by himself.

If you're still in doubt, you can always ask point-blank: “Are you married or divorced?” He will usually say something disingenuous like, “In between” or “I'm trying to find out” or “We have an open marriage.” It may be open for
him,
but it's probably not for her.

One married man once even told me, “We're former hippies and we've had an open marriage since the sixties.” Later I learned that this had been true twenty years before, but was not now—which probably accounted for their still being married. Another said, “My wife doesn't
want
me around, she's
happy
to get rid of me.” Another said, “She's at our house in Barbados with the kids.” Another said, “She's on a business trip to California.” The implication was
out of sight, out of mind.
Men have an ability to compartmentalize their feelings that women cannot even comprehend.

The lovemaking takes a while to start. He seems endlessly patient, more interested in your mind than your body. He calls you several times a day, but is oddly silent after sundown and on weekends. You always call him at the office. You don't even
have
another phone number for him. And this omission is carefully not mentioned.

Do you really want another number? You have plenty of work to do. You like going to bed alone, reading as late as you wish at night, having your own clean kitchen, bathroom, car. You slide into the clean white envelope of sheets like a bread-and-butter note. You remember the chaos of dirty socks, towels, and empty soda cans—and vow,
Never again.
Yet you feel aroused, alive, female. It's nice to have a man who doesn't live in. It's nice to have a man and not have a man at the same time. You feel serene. Perhaps you will just keep it this way forever—with all the power on your side.

But just as you back away, he becomes crazed to possess you. This is the way the male of the species is built.

The place is set. Your house on a weekend that your kid's with her father, an inn in Vermont (on a weekend the wife is away), an island in the sun (on a week the wife is in Europe or Asia). If he suggests his house, don't go; and reconsider the affair. A man who has no scruples about bringing another woman to his wife's bed is not to be trusted—even as a sometime lover. Besides, you want a part-time man, not another woman's head on a platter. She's the wife so you can get to be the mistress. Being the mistress has its own particular charms.

He arrives that day, looking like a shy petitioner. He may have flowers, wine, CDs, or a red silk nightie. (If he plans to wear it himself, reconsider.) He may have all of these. But no jewelry yet. He is wondering if you're a good investment. (Are you succumbing too soon? Should you have made the chase longer? Will you get better jewelry if you don't succumb? I don't know—but perhaps that's why I have no good jewelry.)

And so to bed. This is when the power shifts. If he's good for you in bed, you're now in trouble. If you're good for
him,
he's now in trouble. Bed is the fulcrum of the power shift. Bed is the seesaw between
before
and
after.
What happens next is up to you.

If you get grabby, you'll push him away. When he calls on Monday with sexy romantic praise, stretch it out. This could be the most fun you ever have in your life. No one ever understood him better. He even uses the word “love.” That's another reason you
know
he's married. He is vaccinated. He can say whatever he wants and not catch anything.

Men are very simple creatures. Feed ‘em, fuck 'em, but withhold the keys to the castle. Territorial to the core, they're sweeter when they don't park their shoes under your bed.

These affairs can go on for years and still give you time for the whole rest of your life. They are not to be sneezed at. They are not necessarily to be turned to marriage. One married man took a leave of absence from his marriage and rented a country house close to mine. But he still went home on weekends. When the crunch came and he wanted to be invited to move in, I reminded him of how much his wife loved him. I don't think he expected this. But I liked my freedom and thought the relationship might become strained if I had his problems all the time.

Can this really be love?

Why not? Can't women love without giving up their lives? Men have done it for all of time.

We tend to think that unless we give up everything, we are not really in love. But this is
not
a model that can work after fifty. And why should it? After fifty, our lives belong to us, not to the species. Our lives are more important to us than they are to the male world—at last.

But I was still in my forties then, so I was forced to wonder,
Will I marry this man if he leaves his wife?

I decided I would not. So my conscience told me to send him home to his wife. She wanted him in a way I did not. It was only fair to send him home.

Other affairs never end. They go on intermittently through the years—even after one (or both) of you have reunited with a spouse or married someone else. The affair becomes a private place that has nothing and everything to do with the rest of your life. It has no pain, only pleasure, because it is, by its nature, impermanent. The ultimate fantasy is that of lovers who meet once a year (as in
Same Time Next Year
) finding a little oasis out of time—from time to time.

But sooner or later, even the best affairs dwindle. Perhaps the you that needed that particular oasis is outpaced by another you. Perhaps you find refuge in another relationship, which seems fulfilling enough in itself. Perhaps you get too old and tired for the necessary deceptions. Or you decide you want your life to be clean and honest.

It was really the affair that took you to this point. You will always be grateful. And so will he. You meet your former lover at a party or on a plane and he looks at you with his little-boy look. You have touched him in his most playful place and he is grateful to have been known. Being known breaks the loneliness of being human. You are grateful for it too.

You hug tightly and part—without kisses.

All good boys are also bad boys. And we love them for being both. How boring to have the perfect man—if such a prodigy exists. How boring to be always
good.

Nice women are drawn to rule-breaking men because our female-goodness training is so absolute that we deeply need to find the suppressed part of ourselves: rebellion. We can't always break free alone, we need a man to cut the ribbon with—if not for—us. What ribbon? The blood-red ribbon that still binds us to our mothers and our fathers.

Think of all the great feminists who ran off with bad boys! Mary Wollstonecraft ran off with Gilbert Imlay—a bad-boy revolutionary who left her broke and pregnant. Did she rail at this? On the contrary, she wrote, “Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite pleasure, which arises from an unison of affection and desire, when the whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination.”

George Sand married a bad boy in Casimir Dudevant and chose a bad-boy lover in Alfred de Musset (if not in the far-too-moral Frédéric Chopin). Before them, there had been plenty of bad boys, including one, Stéphane de Grandsagne, who was the father of her only daughter, Solange. Her first lover, Aurélien de Sèze, had a name that began with the same three letters as her own name, Aurore. After these two, there were plenty of other bad boys who excited her passion and peopled her books.