Katharine and Gizelle

When I was younger I used to go to work wearing no underwear. Sex in my late-20s was exciting, quick, performed without attachments. I allowed dick to satisfy my needs in order to mollify the guilt I felt for my same-sex preferences. When the AIDS epidemic came, promiscuity disappeared; we all got more conservative. We became automatons, our lives focused on work.

Last week I started going to work with no underwear again. It felt exciting, It felt liberating. It felt good. Same job. 14th floor of the Kitzinger Building. Same elevator. Different things occupied my purses now. Same parking place. Different car.

I'm still single. Still living in the nostalgic shadows of the love I had for my former boss--who'd long since retired. Still fantasizing about our love-making during our ever-so brief affair despite the fact that I haven't been with anyone for 30 years.

I'm 62 now. So lucky to not have any health issues, to still have a fairly spry body (for which I credit my childhood years of ballet training). I weigh only ten pounds more than I did when I started here in 1983 (for which I blame a life-long weakness for McDonald's ice cream cones). It feels so great to be on the prowl again.

It happened at a corporate party last week. At one of the partner's summer homes on Long Island. His wife is the one I had fallen in love with back in the 80s. She was there. At the party. I hadn't seen her for years. When I had seen her, it had been randomly: in public; by chance; never planned. She'd usually be with her kids: at sporting events in the park or, more often, at the grocery store or in Central Park. She'd never acknowledge me--which I understood--but that's how I knew that I was still in love with her. Every time. But this time--at the party on Long Island--I hadn't seen her for at least 15 years. Her kids were all grown, I knew (gossip still flies around the firm), and I knew that she'd survived a few rocky periods in her marriage, but it still caught me by surprise to see her at the party. I don't know why I wasn't expecting it: she was, after all, the wife of the partner who was hosting the party. What surprised me more was how strong my emotions were--how seeing her brought back all of the butterflies and hypervigilent thoughts that had kept me alert those 30 years ago. I was alive!
    There she stood: on the edge of the flagstone terrace, above me some 30 or 40 feet. Between us lay a carpeting of dark green: a steeply-sloped grassy hill.
    I remember actually starting to feel guilty for trying to look up her skirt when my friend (and co-worker), Gavin sidled up next to me, catching me in the act.
    "She's still got it goin' on, doesn't she?" he said with his stereotypic gayness.
    A lump in my throat prevented me from responding. Instead, I took a drink from my champagne glass. (The party was happening in order to celebrate Ross--the partner--Katharine's husband's--retirement.)
    Seeing through my awkward feint, Gavin added, "You still have the hots for her!"
    Which caused me to spray the liquid in my mouth out onto the grass in front of us.
    "What?! No!" I stumbled to get out. Then, succumbing to the heat of Gavin's unrelenting gaze, I melted. "Okay. Maybe I do. So what?"

    "Dude! You've got to get a life!" he responded. "You've got to get yourself back out there! Ride some ponies. Fondle some titties! Whatever it takes! Just get back to living your own life!"
    I looked up at my blue-skinned friend with part surprise, part amusement, and a very large amount of relief.
    "You are still young!" he continued. "You've still got it goin' on! You got to pack up that chastity belt or whatever that is you been carrying around with you for the past twenty years and have yo-self some fun!"
    "Thirty," I blurted out--partly to be funny, part to acknowledge that I was, in fact, listening to him, while the other part was in a reactive effort to dispel his seriousness.
    Then, with a far more penetrating look he added, "You only got this life, Honey! Only one time for some fun. Ain't nobody stoppin' you but yo' own self!"
    

For the rest of the party I was walking around in a half daze. Part of me was looking at people, trying to figure out what they possessed that made them alive--or even if they were, in fact, alive. The other part of me was trying to figure out how to wake up that part of me that had gone into hibernation 30 years ago. That's when it appeared in my brain: Underwear! a little voice spoke out. Try going commando again. That ought to liven things up!
    I'd never been one to get into that thong-wearing fad. "Butt floss." I cringe at the thought of such discomfort. I'd also never surrendered to the waxing and bald pussy trend. Don't get me wrong. I'd always trimmed the crotch hair around the ladyship whenever I deigned to shave my legs--which, in the 70s and 80s, was pretty much every day (less if pants were in season). I count myself as one of the lucky ones in that my crop of body hair has always been quite light, rarely requiring any extra attention, but I was never one of those back-to-nature au naturel types. And, thanks to good genes (and the general apathy that came from corporate torpidity), I had been able to resist the lure of the cults of plastic surgery, body sculpting, and botox fillers. My problem was . . . the anesthetic of routine; I had allowed myself to become comfortable with my "just desserts." Do my job. Pay my bills. Censure my dreams and desires. Follow the herd.

    The issue I'm having with my newly-reclaimed freedom is that ponies and titties are not among the interests that immediately come to mind: I'm old enough to realize that wanton promiscuity is not enough to assuage my hidden and/or suppressed desires. The reality of my situation is that I've awakened a long-sleeping beast, that is, my repressed obsession with Katharine Danziger.
    Though I love the airy feeling and exciting sense of near-arousal that my unencumbered genitalia have given me, it has only served more to rekindle my carnal desire for Katharine. I've always thought of it as "love," but now, with the re-introduction of sensory awareness to my life, I'm having my doubts. I know I want her. I know I am obsessed with my memory of the taste of her, the feel of her lips melting into mine, her hands moving in impatient frenzy to find me, have me, satisfy me--all of which is trebled by the sudden and overpowering desire to have it all again.


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Tracking Katharine down--making our "bumping into each other" seem like an accident--was no small feat. Ever since leaving the firm--to focus on raising her children--she had been residing more in their house in Manhassett--until, that is, they bought the first of their "summer home" mansions in the Hamptons. Whereas young Katharine and Ross used to commute to Penn Station by rail, they had long ago switched to helicopter to get to their Manhattan apartment. Having herself been a country-raised girl, she had won the dispute to have her own children raised outside of The City--in Nassau and, later, Suffolk county schools rather than Manhattan public or private boarding schools (though I had heard that one of their children--their "troubled" middle child--had been sent away to a private "finishing school" in rural Connecticut). "You make the money, I'll raise the kids," was her bottom line. So, unless she and/or the kids had business (meaning, "entertainment") in Manhattan, the likelihood of running into her in The City was rather low. Even now, with all three kids "flown," Katharine was quite happy to stay in her provincial home in Westhampton 24/7. At the same time, with her husband still putting in office hours (despite his official "retirement"), I was able to stay attuned to the occasions in which Ross could lure his wife into Manhattan. Opera and ballet season were two such draws as the firm held season tickets to a box at The Met and Katharine was rather an avid fan and patron of the arts--especially where dance and music were involved. So, while I happily sashayed my deodorized cleft to and from work, I kept my ears peeled for any word of the boss's wife coming to town.

The first occasion to match my schemes came at the November opening of the first Puccini opera: Turandot. (The one with "Nessum Dorma" and the huge cast of beautifully-costumed and -coifed choral singers.) 

    I knew that Puccini was one of the shared favorites between the two--where, in fact, Ross and Katharine had first kindled their mutual attraction. I also knew of Katharine's proclivity to follow up an attendance to The Met with a visit to her favorite restaurant bar in Midtown: the Caffe Toci on Broadway--especially if there was an opera night following one of the Metropolitan Opera Sunday matinées--which is exactly what was occurring on the coming Sunday. Though our "little" affair had only lasted part of one winter, I remember well many of my lover's preferences and habits. Opera Nights at Caffe Toci were definitely one of them.
    So, I planned accordingly. 

    In what I thought was a stroke of elevated genius, I even convinced Gavin to attend with me. (The Opera Night at Caffe Toci, not the Met performance). Sure to place ourselves at a table that any entering guest could not help but notice, I was delighted to imagine that I perceived a flash of recognition in Katharine's face as our eyes met upon her entrance--not only recognition but I feel that there was a shy, almost-awkward embarrassment to her response, as well. Then, as she and Ross were about to pass next to our four-top table, Ross caught our eyes and seemed totally surprised and utterly delighted to see two of "his people" at this "real world" event--so much so that he asked us--and his now-blushing bride--whether they could join us at our table!
    The events that ensued are almost a blur to me. I can attest to three or four courses of some fine Italian food and some amazing and delightful impromptu and semi-planned "dinner theater"-like performances from singers who "happened" upon the place, but mostly I remember the colors in Katharine's still-beautiful though somewhat-fuller skin, the sparkles in her gorgeous gold-flecked blue eyes, the alluring upturned wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth--signs of a life lived in a positive, more-happy-than-stressful milieu. And I slept that evening with the memory of several of her gentle and ever-so-awkward laughs that I know were responses to her own associations to events in our past. Perhaps, I hoped, intimate events.
    We parted in high spirits (enhanced a bit by our intake of adulterated beverages) with the shared promise that this wouldn't "be the last time" and that we'd make a point to "get together again soon." I found myself floating above the ground for few days afterward, sure that my plan was unfolding in my favor. Though nothing had been said out loud with regards to our intimate past, I felt fairly confident that Katharine understood and maybe even shared a little of my feelings for our connection. I didn't know if she had harbored any memory much less fondness for me after our fling, but I felt sure that there was an unmistakable mutual affinity between us. My cherry-on-the-top offering was a "thank you" card that I actually gave to Ross, at the office, with my hope that he would share it with Katharine, coupled with my verbal compliment as to her look of "beauty and well-being," my enjoyment of the event and, "more," of their company, as well as my sincere thanks for sharing their "date night" with Gavin and me (while assuring him that Gavin and I were not "a thing"--were only good friends). (The antiquated though still-quite-handsome dolt seemed clueless to either of our sexual preferences--though coming from his Old World background, I am not surprised. [Both of Ross' parents were childhood emigrés of World War Two: Polish Jews whose families had been terribly traumatized by Herr Hitler's "Final Solution."])

As I patiently bated my time, the relations between Ross and I within the confines of the office became more cordial, even friendly, until one day--after the family gatherings of the Christmas holidays had passed--(a period in which Ross' appearances in the office curtailed noticeably--which, I temporarily feared, were to become the new pattern: that his "retirement" would become more de facto than dubious)--I received a rather overt visit. He came right up to my desk in the common area (I'm just one of the firm's myriad paralegals) whereupon he issued a verbal invitation for me--"from Katharine"--to "come out to the house" for the weekend. "She's really serious about rekindling your friendship," he said to me. (Those were his exact words!) Then he went on to say how "rare" and "special" that was (for her to say those things) because she "didn't have a lot of friends" outside of family and that he "sometimes worry that she's a bit lonely" now that the kids have all left. (No grandchildren had yet appeared on the scene despite two of the three children having given in to the marrying bug.)
    "That sounds lovely!" was what I said, trying to downplay my internal jubilation. "When were you thinking?"
    "Katharine says that any of these next three weekends would work for us," he responded.
    My look of confusion was genuine. The whole weekend?! was what I was thinking--with no little amount of panic rising inside me. But instead, while pretending to look at my calendar on my iPhone, I said, "This weekend won't work but either of the two after that would work." To which Ross simply smiled and shrugged his shoulders, saying, "Fine! I'll clear it with the boss." Then he turned and sauntered back through the jungle of cubicles to his corner office.
    A half hour later he returned on his easy-going gait to say, "Katharine says, 'Let's do the twenty-second," to which I gulped and stared wide-eyed. 

    "Would you care to fly out with me--in the helicopter?" he continued. "Or would you prefer to drive yourself?" Then, correcting himself, "or take the train?!" adding with a look of paternal concern, "We could pick you up from the station." 

    After a moment's thought I blurted out, "I think I'll drive out, if that's okay." Then I nervously added, "I do love driving through the countryside," which was an outright lie, but served well enough to cover for the internal line of worry that my brain had conjured up concerning the safety of my seldom-used car in the event of having to deal with snow and/or ice on the roads. 

    "Are you sure?" he pressed, perhaps reading the hesitation in my face. 

    I decided to come clean. "I don't know. Can I let you know as we get nearer to the date? I haven't driven my car in a while. Plus, the train is pretty easy--and scenic--"

    "Pish-posh," Ross interrupted with a wave of his hand. "With the helicopter we'll be there in half an hour--and no snow or ice to contest with." You hope, I found myself nervously thinking. [I'd never been in a helicopter.] "I'll count you in," he said as he prepared to go back to his office.
    "Okay. Thank you, Sir,"
    "Ross," he corrected. "We'd probably leave before sunset," he added. "Call it an early day that day."
    "That's fine."

What was scaring me about the sudden prospect of having this weekend with Katharine suddenly thrust upon me was how layered and nuanced it seemed. First came the realization that my dreams were all close to becoming real--which meant that I would have to be prepared for the next levels of engagement--over the course of a 48 to 72 hour stretch of time! The second level of fear-factor was due to the fact that I would be deceiving such a nice guy: a man who'd survived 40 years of marriage and, on all perceivable accounts, was still blissfully in love with his bride--and, for all I knew, she with him! The third troubling cluster of facts mounting an unsettling feeling inside me was the remaining "big question" that was still sitting out there: would, does, should, Katharine want to have anything to do with me--I mean, on the level that I was dreaming? Should she show no signs of reciprocating my feelings and/or curiosities could I, in fact, "fake it" enough to pass an entire weekend in the company of the woman I had loved for over 30 years while remaining in "friend mode"? I was really unsure. I mean: I'd only been planning this whole thing--awakened to a life that still had potential and unfulfilled dreams--for a little over two months! The steps that were to follow "making contact" were unfolding way faster and with much greater ease than even my wildest dreams had visualized (though I must admit that I had visualized several scenarios in which we would proceed directly to face-snogging and bathroom sex). And fourth was the fear of impotence: the very real fear that our ability to "find ourselves alone" would only amount in some spurt and fizzle out event in which neither of us would be able to "get it up" when faced with the prospect of physical contact and, well, sex! And that's not even to mention stamina and mental second-guessing and fear of being found out!

     Despite all of this--all of which only compounded, deepened, and expanded in a ratio that was inversely proportional to the amount of time left before The-Day--I kept myself very busy trying to plan: wardrobe, conversation topics, how to occupy myself were I left alone, how to occupy myself were I to be left alone with Ross sans Katharine, and most of all, how I would try to conduct myself if I were fortunate enough to find myself left alone with Katharine. For this latter possibility I needed to prepare for several levels of interaction and/or engagement: superficial, "family history" type of conversations as well as personal history; hobbies and habits, personal itinerary, "how I spend my day, week, vacations" and travels topics; the "feelings" and "relationships status" conversations; and then the "What do you remember about us?" and "Do you ever think about us?" conversations.


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Friday, January 22 came much faster than I was expecting. The days just kept flying by. That morning, I found myself in a panic. Years of numbness, of living life as if on auto-pilot, had left me totally unprepared for the amount of unpredictable variables and unknowns ahead of me. At least, I could say I had been to the Danziger's home--so I had a bit of the lay of the land (though this was now winter, which made outdoor activities a bit of a different beast than the comfortable end-of-September days that graced Ross' retirement party). At least I knew that I was the one who had been invited--that I was the wanted guest--and would, then, probably be treated rather congenially. (Which elicited yet another wave of sudden panic: Was I the only guest invited for the weekend? Would other people be around--even people flitting in and out of the house?! What if Katharine and I never had any time to be by ourselves?) 

    And then there was the anxiety of my first helicopter ride. Though crashes were rare, my rather safe, insulated life had left me prone to catastrophizing. (Ross had assured me that less than a dozen fatalities had occurred in the time since he had started using the helicopter for commuter transportation--which prompted me to do my own Internet search: 38 fatalities since 1977, the majority of which were related to commercial sight-seeing tourism as opposed to private commuter usage.) But when the event came about, it went so smoothly you would have thought it was the safest, easiest amusement park ride at Coney Island. 

    The days leading up to the event were peppered with many impromptu visits to my desk from Ross. "Katharine wants to know . . . if you have any allergies or sensitivities," and "Katharine needs to know . . . if you have any dietary restrictions," and the like. It was almost humorous--especially in light of the fact that Ross had not been known as a very touchy-feely kind of boss--usually sending lackeys and messengers and emails to satisfy his correspondence needs. The number of raised eyebrows and smiled eye contacts among my peers in the common room were increased geometrically the closer we got to January 22nd--though no side-bar conversations seemed to come out of the boss' attentions--which brought up its own set of concerned questions: Is this typical for Ross? and Have I been this oblivious to the goings-on in the office? and Is this following a pattern of precedent that Ross and/or the Danzigers have repeated before? Which evoked the sudden realization, Is this what he was like during his affairs? and Do my co-workers all assume that I'm the object of his latest dalliance? 

    Anyway. Suffice it to say that we made it there, the helicopter ride was fine--even fascinating to see so much from a perspective that surprised me to no end. When Ross led me to the Range Rover that he kept waiting at the airport, he was even gentlemanly enough to open the door for me and load my small carry-on and Briggs & Riley garment bag into the back. The drive to their Gatsby-like woodland estate was no more than ten minutes with the impediments of winter weather manifesting minimally in the form of a mildly discomforting mistral. (It had been an unusually-warm winter.) 

    Arriving through the owners' entryway is a bit different than that of arriving as a party guest. (Parking in a garage!) I remember feeling as if I was acting out a scene from spy movie as Ross led our entry from the garage into the back of the house (a part that I had never seen much less been near during the party) through a door in the wall of the garage (all things that feel so foreign to someone who grew up in and resided in city dwellings my entire life). And then, to top it all off, there she was: positively glowing as she stood leaning next to one of her kitchen-that-was-bigger-than-my entire-apartment islands with a glass of red wine in her hands. Her smile, with its reveal of burgundy-stained teeth and lips, looked as if a vampiress was reveling in the delivery of her next meal. (Yes, please! part of my brain was squealing. Help! another part was wanting to scream.) 

     She swished toward me in her long, rather more-formal-than-I'd-expected dress as Ross ushered in my bags and hung up his keys and coat. Casting a glance toward his wife he said, "You look nice!" in a complimentary if every-day kind of voice just as Katharine leaned toward me to deliver two European style faire les bises kisses to the air between my ears and cheeks. 

    "Welcome, Gizelle. It's so nice to see you," she said as she disengaged and turned to the island where she had another couple wine glasses set to be able to receive liquid from the simple-looking dark wine bottle sitting next to it. 

    "Might I interest you in a glass of wine?" she asked as she looked back up to me. The she added, "How 'bout you, Honey?" as he pecked at her cheek while whisking by her on his way to the refrigerator. 

    "I'll settle for a beer, thank you, Honey," Ross answered just before reaching into the door of the fridge to pull out a green bottle of European-looking beer. Then, twisting off the top, dropping the cap onto the maple block table top of the kitchen island and taking a quick swig he said, "I'm going to get out of my work clothes," at which time he spun around to walk out of the room.

    Fuck! Alone! Already! I thought as I could feel my level of discomfort rising. 

    "I would love a glass of your wine," I said.

A sip later and our pleasantries out of the way we found ourselves on a little tour--prompted by the premise of bringing my bags to my assigned bedroom. This turned out to be a true "guest room" on the main floor, one that had its own private full bathroom. This area of the house, which was tucked behind the kitchen, to the right of the mudroom and door to the garage, was reached through a long hallway that passed some storage and laundry room facilities. It felt like its own self-contained apartment: it even had its own little efficiency kitchen--perfect for a temporary residence for an aging or convalescing relative.

    "This is lovely!" I said as I pirouetted inside the room. "Don't fault me if I never leave!" I added mischievously--without really thinking of the ramifications my words.

    "Are you hungry?" Katharine asked, changing the subject.

    "Famished!" exploded from me with a little more enthusiasm than I really intended. Obviously, I was nervous. "I've been starving myself all week!" I added--which was partly true: more from a total lack of appetite due to my apprehension of the upcoming weekend.

    "You look as fit as you did back in the eighties," she responded. Fit?! Was I ever fit? I thought.

    "Whoa! Thank you!" I said, trying to conceal my blushing. "And you look amazing, Katharine! Are you working out?"

    "Doesn't everyone in this age?" she asked rhetorically. "Especially with all the research on menopausal women." 

    "Do you go to a gym?" I asked, genuinely curious--not quite sure of the "research" that she was citing.

    Katharine cast me a little sidelong glance that seemed to convey discomfort--or perhaps embarrassment. "We have a workout room in the house." Then, turning as if to leave the room she added, "I have the luxury of having a trainer come to the house three days a week."
    "That's amazing!" I exuded, again a little more enthusiastically than I meant. Stop being nervous. Breathe!

    "Well, I expect you might need to freshen up," she said as she stepped toward the door. "Just meet me back in the kitchen when you're ready."

    "Will we get to finish the tour?" I asked, knowing that I was pushing a little. We were definitely each coming from different echelons of society.

    Once Katharine had left, I closed the bedroom door and then flopped onto the bed, luxuriating in the size of this room: again larger than my entire apartment. Just keep breathing, I repeated to myself though already my inner critic was kicking me for several missed opportunities to broach deeper intimacy. I'm just one of those people that freeze in the moment then, as soon as I'm back in the solace of my own safe space I come up with a litany of "mistakes" as well as an even bigger list of shrewd lines or moves that I could've/should've done. Don't start shoulding on yourself! I said, trying to preempt my critical self. 

I joined Katharine in the kitchen where she was busy peeling back the foil from a cornflower blue vintage Pyrex casserole cooking container that she had just removed from an oven. Inside the luscious-smelling dish was a coq au vin, still simmering in its wine sauce. Next she removed another covered dish from the stove which revealed a pile of steaming rice pilaf--which she proceeded to spoon out onto three fine china plates that she had lined up on the maple block island top. To each plate a modest dollop of already dressed mixed salad greens had been applied. "Ross said that you're okay with Caesar Salad, right?" Katharine asked as she continued to focus on her portioning.

    "Yes! Fine! Perfect" I replied. "Is there anything that I can do to help?"

    "Well, yes. You could make sure I laid out the appropriate silverware," she said. "We'll be eating in the breakfast room to the left there," she added, motioning with a shrug of her left shoulder toward a door leading off of the kitchen to the left. 

    "Awesome!" I said as I tiptoed behind her to get to the appointed room. Inside the "breakfast room"--which was centered by a long table that would have sufficed for the serving of ten people, easily--I found the three places closest to the kitchen door set with some pretty fine silver (probably authentic), very fine crystal and chinaware that I thought I recognized from my own maternal grandmother's collection: Swode or Spode, I believe was the brand name--china that matched, of course, the plates that Katharine was plating in the kitchen. Seeing that the water in the glass pitcher in the middle of the table had not been poured into the water goblets I proceeded to perform the task. A minute later Ross and Katharine emerged from the kitchen, each carrying plates and, in the case of Katharine, her wine glass into the room. 

    "Please! Have a seat," Ross insisted, indicating with a nod of his head the place to the left of the head of the table. Placing the plates down in their appropriate locations, Ross asked what I'd like to drink with dinner. "Whatever Katharine is having will be fine with me!" To which he responded by whisking back to the kitchen to return a few seconds later with the bottle of pinot noir that we had started when I arrived. 

    I hesitated to start eating for fear that the couple might have been religious and, therefore, used a ritual prayer to start their meal--but no such observance was made, other than Ross' "Well! We're honored to have you with us, Gizelle! I'm so glad we could make this happen!" With which he lifted his fluted glass of amber-colored beer to salute--to which we all clinked glasses before sipping and lifting our silverware to start eating. 

    The food was wonderful: the salad so fresh and perfectly mixed; the coq au vin so tenderly cooked that it just flaked onto my fork and practically melted in my mouth. I think I commented as much at least three times, but the conversation rather lagged: for Ross getting the food into his stomach as quickly as possible seemed the primary objective of the dinner, while Katharine, I noticed, kind of picked at her food without really finishing any one thing. And then, suddenly, we were done! (Or, rather, Ross was done.) He sat back, wiped the linen napkin across his mouth before tossing it onto the table over the unused items of his setting of silverware, looked at us both, and then pushed back his chair, saying, "Wonderful as always, My Love." Then getting up he added, "I'm going to unwind in my study for a bit. Perhaps we'll see you a little later, Gizelle? In the drawing room?" 

    I didn't know what to say--especially as my mouth was still busy chewing on a bite--so I just nodded and arched my eyebrows while employing the universal hand signal for "I'm busy chewing and it would be horribly impolite to speak until I've finished and swallowed"--which he had totally missed as he had already turned to step out of the room. I was a little miffed at his assumption that someone else would clear his dishes for him, but then, I was not familiar with this family's rules and rituals.

    Less than a minute after Ross' departure I was startled by a breath of soft laughter bursting from my now-sole dining companion. "Men!" Katharine said as her sparkling eyes met my own. "Such boors!" To which I chuckled obligingly. "I wouldn't know!" I said. "It's been a long time since I've lived with any!"

    "So, you never married--never cohabitated with," here she hesitated. I could see in her penetrating gaze that my answer to this question meant a lot to her. ". . .  a man?"

    I responded with a doe-eyed look and slow side-to-side head movements that had proved successful in gaining heart-endearing sympathy from my peers during my teens and early twenties--a look that I realized later probably looked totally ridiculous with my droopy-lidded 62-year old eyes and salon bleached hair-do.

    "Have you ever cohabitated with . . . anyone?" she asked. I suddenly felt sorry for her tip-toed line of questioning.

    I straightened up while picking up my wine glass, saying, "Nope! I've always lived alone." >sip< "Even in college." 

    "Doesn't that get expensive?" she asked--totally surprising me. "I mean, sharing one's living space certainly cuts expenses down."

    "Yes, of course," I responded. "But I've had the good fortune of having found an apartment that I absolutely love--in a neighborhood that has fared fairly well over the course of the forty years that I've lived in it--and then had the doubly great fortune of having my father price-lock the rent for me way back in the eighties."

    Katharine looked a bit confused. "Your father pays your rent?"

    I chuckled. "No! Sorry! He did when I was in college--at NYU--and then he helped out for a bit when I was getting started at the firm, but, no! I pay my rent. All by myself!"

    "How admirable! An independent woman!" she said as she lifted her wine glass in a kind of mock toast to my success.

    I could feel myself blushing a little.

    "And how are you? How has your life been?" I asked before adding, "I mean, you started out as, what, an intern? A paralegal? Or were you a full-fledged, board-certified attorney-at-law?" I realized as soon as I said it that it came out wrong: came out sounding as if I was being caddy and snooty. Before she could even start to respond I cut in to apologize. "I'm sorry, Katharine. That just sounded awful. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm very happy for you and the life you've achieved. To successfully raise three children to adulthood--independent adulthood--is something rather extraordinary in this day and age."

    Katharine smiled and exhaled but said nothing--just kind of stared off into space for a minute: focused somewhere between the white linen table cloth and the next universe.

    I found myself suddenly feeling rather daring. "Katharine. I was wondering if you remember our little affair? Back in, what, the winter of eighty-eight. Before you had your first baby?"

    She responded without looking at me--speaking as if recalling a distant dream. "Back when Ross and I hadn't decided whether or not we even wanted kids much less wanted to stay committed to our marriage."

    "So that was what was going on," I responded. "I was never really sure."

    "I know. I apologize for that."

    "It's okay," I started. "Water under the--"

    "No. It's not okay," she asserted. Now she was looking right into my eyes. "I treated you abominably," she said. "I used you--for my self, to try to make my husband jealous, as revenge for his own 'indiscretions'. What I didn't account for--or ever admit to you--was how deeply I had fallen for you--how much I enjoyed--no loved or time together, our special connection, our sublime, heart-wrenchingly perfect love-making--how much I learned to crave that time with you--time in which the rest of the world simply ceased to exist--time that was ours, just you and me--where no one else lived, no one else was allowed. Or belonged.

    "But I knew what I was doing. And it worked. I won Ross back. I won a life of comfort and ease. I won the ticket to one of the roles that I had been born for--raising children. Running a household. Commanding the image and legacy of our family. But I didn't know what I would have to give up in order to have all of that. I didn't know that I would have to let go of the one truest, happiest love of my life in order to 'have it all.' I was torn to pieces by my decision. It took me a long time to hide away my pain, to compartmentalize what could have been the most important relationship of my life so that I could lead the life that I knew I was meant to lead."

    I had nothing to say. All I could feel was numbness. Not even hurt or sadness or anger or joy. I was just filled with numbness. Total dumb numbness.

    "I'm sorry, Gizelle. I'm really sorry. But, given the chance to do it all over again, I know that I would do it just the same--if I could win Ross back again."

    "You love him." I managed to squeak out.

    "Of course I love him!" she responded. "He is a wonderful, decent, and ethical man--something that I find so rare among that half of our species."

    I nodded in agreement.  

    "Does he know . . . about us? About me?" I asked.

    Katharine nodded.

    "Does he know what might happen--what could come out of our . . . reunion?"

    "I think he does. But he also knows--and, I choose to believe, understands--what I sacrificed for him and this family. He is a decent man. Like a said: a rare breed in this day and age--in his profession."

    I nodded again. Yes, I had to admit, as far as bosses go--and the reputation of our law firm seemed to exude it--he was one of the good ones.

    "How does it feel . . . seeing me again?"

    Katharine looks on a minute before responding. "I don't know if I have words. But when I first saw you in the Caffe Toci I felt as if an earthquake had awakened my soul. 'There is the one true love of my life' it said. My spirit wanted to scream out loud." Then she added, "In exultation."

    I sat frozen in my seat, not knowing what to say, how to act, what to do, where the next moment was going to take me. This was all so totally unexpected--so much more than I had ever dreamed. Finally, I found some words.

    "I never knew. For certain. I had this feeling that what we had was real. I mean, it has certainly been the one--and only--" I blurted out, looking straight into her eyes, "love of my life. After you left the firm I just kind of stopped trying. I just allowed myself to settle into routines, comfortable routines--with work at the center of my life, my everything. The rest of my life--outside of work--fell into place as routines for one's health and safety do. But I'd been walking around as a virtual automaton for over thirty years now. And I didn't even know it. Until Ross' retirement party."

    "Here?"

    I nodded.

    "I didn't even know you were here!"

    "That's okay. I saw you, though. And when I did--it was the first time in years--I knew that you were the most beautiful ray of sunshine my life had ever received. I realized that I was so very lucky to have even been given that gift--even if it were just for a few months; I realized that not everyone is given such perfect bliss. At least, not while still on this planet!" I remember laughing as I said this.

    "But the meeting at Opera Night. At the Caffe. It felt--I don't know--planned. As if you meant for us to meet."

    I could feel myself blushing.

    "Did you plan it? Did you plan for us to meet again?"

    I nodded.

    "But why? What prompted you to become so, so, courageous?

    "Gavin." I responded. "Gavin was at the retirement party as well. He happened to be with me when I first caught sight of you. He immediately recognized how much you meant to me so he gave me this impromptu butt-kicking pep talk to get me 'back out there'--back into the 'land of the living.'"

    Katharine laughed. "Gay men."

    "Aren't they the best!?"

    "The world would truly fall apart if we didn't have them to call the rest of us on our own bullshit."

    "Amen to that!"

    There was a bit of a pause as we both receded into happy places of memory and association.

    "Well!" Katharine jolted to a straight-backed posture. "Are we finished? Have you had enough to eat?"

    "Yes," I responded as I began to gather my dish ware into a single pile. "It was really wonderful. Thank you so much--" with that it felt as if Katharine suddenly leapt over the table--or at least quickly rounded the table's head--where she almost violently pulled me into a frantic, frenzied full-bodied kiss--catching me so off-guard that I pivoted on my left foot and spun around to fall back onto the table--bringing her with me. Luckily the long table was stable--and quite sturdy--as it held the weight of the two of us as we fumbled and fondled our way over our bodies with the ferocity of two lions who hadn't eaten in years. I remember one of her hands working its way to my pubic bone and then snaking beyond, through my legs, circling around to cup my tail bone and lower back while her forearm applied the most wonderful pressure to my vulva that I'd ever experienced. Almost instinctively I began grinding my crotch against her forearm, meeting her pressure with my own, friction forcing amplified excitement to my clitoris and pussy until I suddenly burst into the most explosive orgasm that I've ever experienced in my life. I was so taken by surprise that it was all I could do to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs! Had Katharine's mouth not been passionately engaged with my own, I fear we would have brought Ross running from whatever room he was peacefully occupying. As it was, I had to stop--to speak. "Shouldn't we . . . go somewhere?" Katharine's fiery eyes look animalistic. "Ross!" I added.

    "He's watching sports," Katharine said before adding, at the exact same moment that I refrained, "or porn." Which caused us to both fall into fits of girlish laughter. This proved to be the perfect segue for us to break apart for the few minutes it took to clean up the dinner table as well as the kitchen--all the while noticing the furtive little glances we kept passing to one another--each knowing how very much we wanted to go back to being in each other's arms but also feeling a bit obliged to be the proper hostess and guest and make an appearance to socialize with Ross. So, against all of our most base urges and instincts, we made the horribly challenging decision to seek him out. Katharine chose to plate some slices of banana cream pie to take with us to Ross' study--where we managed to lure him out for the better part of an hour of small talk while we dabbled at our pieces of pie.

    "So, have you two had a chance to reconnect?" Ross asked--in complete innocence--totally ignorant, we think) to our very recent escapades--we both eventually realized. 

    "We're starting to," was Katharine's response.

    "Good! I'm so glad we were able to make this happen," he repeated. "Katharine deserves good friends. She hasn't had many. You know, everything for the family and all that stuff." 

    "So I've been made to understand," I think I said. I have to admit that carrying on any kind of conversation at this point in the weekend was a supremely monumental task. All I wanted to do was be naked in Katharine's arms--to have her tongue in my mouth, her arms squeezing the life out of me, her legs grinding their way between my legs. I was going so crazy; I was fit to be tied. But then, miracle of miracles, Ross himself finally gave us the opening. "Well, there's a game I've been looking forward to watching. The Knicks, you know. This could be their year!"

    "That's fine, Ross," Katharine said. 

    "I'm sure you guys aren't even close to catching up yet," he said almost mindlessly as he rose to leave the room. "Thank you for bringing the pie, Dear. Why don't I take the dishes back--I'll rinse them and put them in the dishwasher."

    To which Katharine and I both looked at one another with mischievous looks of wonder and amazement on full display on our faces. 

    "Is it ready to run, Honey?" he asked just as he was about to exit the room. 

    "Hunh? Yes! Oh, Yes!" Katharine managed. "The dishwasher is ready to go. Just close it, pull the lever and push the start button."

    "You got it!" Then he left, saying over his shoulder, "Great dinner, Honey. I'll see you both in the morning, then. Okay?"

    "Yep! See you in the morning, Hun," Katharine said before breaking into hand-muffled laughter.

    "What the fuck!" she said, looking at me incredulously.

    "Did he just give us permission to have a sleep over?" I asked, fully intending every morsel of mischief in my question.

    Katharine laughed. "Come on! Let's go! I know the perfect place!"

    And yes, we were granted free passes to spend the entire night together--a night that included a constant stream of fucking and sucking, licking and rubbing: in bathtubs, the basement workout room, not one, not two, but three different beds, and even slip-sliding in the walk-in shower that my guest room's bathroom had to offer. And when the sun rose, we had still only slept fitfully, waking every hour or less to find ourselves in the arms of the other, whereupon the celebration of union, the attempt to become one, would start all over again--ending up, sadly, as it always did, with the disheartening disappointment of finding ourselves still occupying two separate bodies instead having merged into the oneness that we so desperately craved.

        *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

I can understand if you feel it obvious that Ross knew of our exploits--that he had even had an active role in making it all happen--but, this time, I was the blissful ignoramus; I hadn't a clue that Ross had helped orchestrate his wife's reunion with the one person that he knew she loved above all else--a person that he had, in fact, helped test the fact that his beloved wife had never stopped loving despite 30 years of sacrifice to he and their family. Needless to say, Ross also had no problem fitting me and my presence into his life. Yet, he never once tried to insinuate himself into our relationship--never tried to suggest a "threesome" or other unnatural juxtapositions of dynamics into our patterns of behavior. From the time of our weekend of "reunion," Ross merely made room for Katharine and I to continue to develop our relationship in whatever form and commitment that we thought it might require. He never even tried to push his wife into "socially acceptable" public behaviors. He openly welcomed me into family gatherings, even openly acknowledged to his own children (and their partners) the nature and history of my relationship with their mother. The man was a saint! But, then, his arguments always seemed to make so much sense. 

"The sexual aspect of my relationship with my wife has never been the most important or even foundational element of our relationship. It's not even in the top ten! In fact, one might say it's immaterial, even irrelevant. It served its purpose when we decided we wanted to have children together--to raise a family. But thereafter it became superfluous. I love her to death, but it is her happiness that is most important to me. I know first hand that sex is not a vehicle to happiness. It can be an expression--a celebration of love--but it is not even in the ballpark of what makes a loving relationship successful. I love Katharine. I love having her in my life. I would miss her terribly were we separated. But I would never like myself if I thought I was the cause of her having to deny her own happiness over mine--especially now that the children have succesfully launched." 

 

And, so began a chapter of my life in which my days revolved around my loving relationship with Katharine Danziger. I began to scale back my practice with the firm. As a matter of fact, Ross was kind enough to dovetail his own helicopter trips to and from Long Island with invitations for me to join him--which turned, eventually, into us both conforming each of our individual schedules into one: creating a schedule that revolved around our mutual desire to be around Katharine--which, in turn, led to both of our full retirements and full severance of ties with both the firm and my Manhattan apartment. Yes: I was invited to move into their home in Westhampton. Eventually, I was even let in on the secret that the comfy "mother-in-law apartment" that I had first occupied in their home on that eventful first weekend had actually been designed with me in mind back in the late 2010s when he and Katharine did their remodel/makeover--that it was then that Ross had disclosed his intentions to create "space" for Katharine to "live her own best life" once the kids had all flown the nest--and that I had been included in those plans! His suggestion! And so, yes, that little "mother-in-law apartment" became my home! Their Westhampton home became my home! Ross lived quite happily, jealousy-free, with his wife of 40 plus years and her lover-partner integrated into the fabric of his home. In fact, I think it fair to say that I think that the three of us enjoyed very much our mutually-supportive dynamics, feeling free to openly acknowledge and address our truths and differences in ways that always seemed fully empathic, even prescient and prophylactic: resulting in the number of instances of conflict, discomfort, or disappointment being resoundingly low. And Katharine and I got to live out our dreams--even going so far as traveling together, on our own, with Ross' complete support and understanding. As Katharine had said, Ross is not your average guy.

By the way, I'm still enjoying not wearing underwear. (And I think Ross likes it, too.)