Category Archives: Romance

Kisses in the Kitchen

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You’ve read about how I met my husband in Some Enchanted Evening.  I invite you to share the inevitable next step of our courtship.

How about a little fun?  How about a story about a first kiss, that led to a second kiss, that led to years and years of kisses.

This is where Alan kissed me the first time, in my kitchen, with his body pressing mine into the edge of the counter.

A midsummer’s eve, with us racing up the back stairs to my apartment so I could grab something and we could rush out the front door to his car and the next place we had to be, the next party of friends who were waiting for us.

 

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April in Paris

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Here’s another essay I wrote while living in Paris in the 1980’s.  The Men of Paris was the first.

April is the cruelest month
Breeding lilacs out of the dead land
Mixing memory and desire
Stirring dull roots with spring rain

So begins The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot.   My theory is that he was inspired by an April spent alone in Paris.

For one beautiful, radiant week in an otherwise dreary April I walked the boulevards and strolled through the parks of a city superbly designed for love.  I was alone.

Alan and I drifted off to sleep Sunday night in a city caught in the final throes of winter, with a cold rain pounding against the bricks of our courtyard and a northern wind rattling the wooden shutters closed tight over our windows.  Early the next morning as I waved from the balcony as the taxi took him to the airport I saw that, voila, the amazing yearly miracle had happened over night.

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Express Delivery

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My front doorbell rang late in the afternoon.  An uncommon occurrence when unexpected, as this was.  I almost didn’t answer.  No one drops by unannounced these days, especially on Saturday afternoon.  I figured, probably some kid selling candy bars for the school trip or members of the Church of the Latter Day Saints hoping to save my vixen soul.

But I did go to the door, to find  Liz, my dependable representative from the United States Postal Service, package in one hand, pen in the other.

“Hi, Georgia.  Got a package you need to sign for,” she said.

“Wonder what it is,” I said as I signed.

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Toying

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He smiles at me, shrugs his shoulders and says, “Ah, even when we were in college she was buttoned down.  My best buddy said, ‘Your girlfriend makes my old grannie look wild.’  That’s what she was then, and that’s sure what my wife is now.’”

That’s what makes me do it, makes me break my rule.  Never be provocative, never flirt, never cross that boundary.  He’s married, I’m not.  My rule is to absolutely ignore the chemistry between us.

But he’s laid down a challenge.  I can’t help myself.  His wife is conventional, unadventurous.  I’m anything but.  He just doesn’t know it.  Yet.

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Ted Turner

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My friend, Marlys, sets down her latte, turns her most penetrating gaze on me and asks, “What do you think of Jerome Simmons?”

“Never met the man.  Why do you ask?”  I’ve heard of him, for sure; patron of the arts, successful entrepreneur, etc.  Just never met him.”

“ I sat next to him at a dinner party last weekend.  I gather he’s lonely.  His wife died four years ago.  He implied he’s getting weary of going out on his own.”

“Hum,” I say.  “How old is Mr. Simmons?”

“Oh, he might be around 70.  But a young 70.  Tall, slim and straight, silver hair.  Think Ted Turner.”

“Hum,” I think.  “I could see being the younger girlfriend to a Ted Turner,” I think.

Ted Turner

Are you reading my mind?

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Breaking up Is Hard to Do

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Breaking up on the telephoneAnother unexpected first in my mature middle age:  Telling a suitor that I don’t want to see him again.

I’m such a coward.  I told Chet over the phone. (You last read about him in How Not to Impress a Woman.)

I had the best intentions to do it in person.  Truly I did.  I set off to meet him for brunch Sunday morning fully intending to tell him that he was wasting his time with me.

 

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How Not to Impress a Woman

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Take lessons from Chet,  my suitor.  (Remember him from Addled by a Drug and The Poetry of Seduction?)  He’s mastered the art of how not to impress me.

His problem?  He allows one  false premise guide him during our courtship; that he needs to impress me. Who wants to be impressed?  Not me.

Why did he tell me that he got a perfect score on his SATs?  At our age, who cares?  Who even remembers their score?  Maybe if mine had been perfect I’d remember.  But still, all these years later that’s hardly something I’d be chatting about.

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Ecstasy in Paris

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Note to self:  Never try a mind-altering substance while boarding public transit.

Good advice, don’t you think?

I wrote that note to myself 26 years ago because I foolishly swallowed a bit of Ecstasy right before climbing on a crowded bus on a sunny Saturday afternoon in Paris.

I recently found it in the side pocket of an old handbag I was about to throw out.  The note was slipped between a few used metro tickets and a business card from a restaurant.  I’d forgotten about that afternoon until chancing upon this yellowed slip of paper.

I blame Alan for what happened.  What good are ex-husbands if you can’t blame them for your follies?  His Swiss friend supplied us with the chemically pure formulation.  His knowledge of chemistry convinced me I wouldn’t hurt my mind or body with this pill.

We each popped one and then hopped onto the bus headed for Les Trois Quartiers, a chic department store  surrounded by the best food shops in Paris;  Hédiard, Fauchon, and Marquise de Sévigné.  None of these were places Alan had ever visited.  What better idea than to explore them on a sunny afternoon in September?

Les Trois Quartiers in Paris

Les Trois Quartiers to the left, the church of the Madeleine to the right, our bus pulling up right in the middle.

 

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A Touch of Velvet

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When Alan loved me, his love wrapped around me like velvet; tender, caressing, sensual.  I moved through the world as if I were always enfolded in the black velvet cape he gave me for my 50th birthday.

He remained infatuated with me at the time of this birthday.  After knowing each other for 20 years, he still beamed like a boy as I pushed aside the white tissue paper and unfolded the long, hooded cape from its box.  He knew me well, knew I’d be delighted with this gift.  Still, I could see in his eyes that bit of doubt.  “Maybe she won’t like it, maybe it’s all wrong,” he was thinking.

I threw it over my shoulders, pulled the hood over my head, admired myself in the mirror as I stroked the soft fabric, then twirled to enjoy the feel of it billowing out around me.  I looked at him, at the happiness in his eyes now that he was sure of my pleasure at his gift.

Perfection.  My 50th birthday was perfect.

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Entangled

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Gustav Klimt Death and Life detailI am one of the women in this painting by Gustav Klimt.  The other figures are of the readers who leave comments on my posts.  They are also their lovers, children, friends, spouses, all the people that they tell us about.

I am entangled in the web of words that they leave.  They are  my joy each time I dip into The Diary of the Vixen.

I’ve done this before, and I’m going to do it again – suggest that

 

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