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Stop in the Shame of Love
Darryl’s self-serving relationship with math should have been the first sign of trouble. After all, his snow white comb-over and liver-spotted hands belied the age he claimed in his online dating profile.
“How does 42 feel?” I asked, having just hit the 40 mark myself. “Are there side effects?” I pitched a joke, hoping he would fess up to the fact that he was an early senior citizen using creative statistics to attract younger dates. With that air cleared, I thought we could continue the evening on honest ground.
“Oh, a number is meaningless,” Darryl said. “In fact, I feel better at 42 than I did at any other age. It’s all about outlook and perspective.”
“I was born in 1975,” I said, “which makes your birth year…?” I wanted to see how quickly he tossed back “1973.”
“Um, 1970?” he blurted as a question, after stumbling over his words for a few seconds.
“Being born in 1970 would make you 45,” I said. “Why add an extra three years?” Both of us knew the gig was up, but Darryl’s misguided confidence made it uncomfortable to watch the flustered facial contortions that were undoubtedly the result of the mental machinations grinding their rusty wheels behind his perfectly Botoxed forehead.
“Did I mention that my best girlfriend and I talk all the time about how aging affects people differently? She is a famous singer, so she feels as though the world has watched her get older.” It was his attempt to shift the spotlight.
Darryl had, in fact, mentioned his “famous” friend more than four times over the course of our initial messages and phone conversations, letting slip early on that they were the same age. And, as it turns out, the well-known chanteuse did, in fact, have a hit song — of the one/wonder variety — on the popular soundtrack of a fan-favorite ’80s film, so it was easy to place both of their ages at 55. She had been public — I Googled it — about being in her mid-20’s during her 15 minutes of fame.
Now, Darryl’s face dropped into an expressionless puddle of skin folds when he realized that he’d basically outed himself as an AARP member. Interestingly, he was the only one at our table for two who had an issue with his actual age. It was the lying that bothered me.
“Will you forgive me?” he asked. “I didn’t think that a 55-year-old could grab your interest, and I just had this feeling we would get along based on your profile.”
Darryl wasn’t wrong about that. His career as a musical theater executive was fascinating, and his good self-esteem was actually a turn on. No, he wasn’t Channing Tatum, but he was smart and funny, two attributes that outweigh matinee idol features on my scorecard.
“I think I can see past it this once,” I answered, “but please be honest going forward, OK?”
“You have my word,” Darryl said. “Now, how about we get out of this restaurant and grab a glass of wine at my house?”
He lied again; there was no glass of wine. He pushed me up against his living room wall with a passionate kiss before he could even ask if I liked white or red. Within minutes, our clothes were off, and Darryl was very vocal about what he wanted and in what positions. He was extremely submissive, making grunting animal noises and begging for sexual release. Admittedly, it was hot, and his stamina could rival that of most of the younger men I had dated. I couldn’t wait to see what vintage he was going to serve up on date two.
Our second meal together was lunch during a workday, leaving no time or place for sex. Darryl’s witty banter and affectionate sensibility, though, made it a great afternoon, leaving us both — or so I thought — anticipating the physical intimacy that would almost certainly come after our third date.
Following a movie and dinner that next weekend, Darryl surprised me by not inviting me into his home when I drove us into his driveway.
“Do you not feel like a glass of wine?” I asked with a wink, nodding to our first date.
“Oh, man, I want to have sex with you more than anything,” he said. “Except for one little problem: I really, really like you.”
Wait, what?
“What I did with you on our first date is what I do with disposable guys whom I don’t plan to see again,” he continued. “It was just dirty sex that I wouldn’t want to bring into the bedroom with someone I actually care about.”
“Let me make sure I am understanding this,” I said. “Are you saying that you didn’t think much of me on our first date, so you engaged in sex acts that you’d consider shameful if applied to a person you might want to see another time?”
“Basically, yeah,” Darryl replied. “Now, I want to do this the right way. I want to keep dating you and make love when the time is right. I want to start over and forget that the first night ever happened.”
For years, I had worked tirelessly to release all of the shame that I’d attached to my own sexual desires, and Darryl’s plan would take me back to that dark place.
“I don’t consider satisfying, consensual sex to be dirty, and I hardly think it’s necessary to forget our first date or to hit the pause button,” I said. “I enjoyed our first time, and I want to feel what comes next — be it frantic, passionate sex or more tender lovemaking.”
“That’s probably a couple of months away for me,” he said. “I need to put some distance between that sleazy banging and the kind of sex I want to ultimately have with you. I just need to move my mind past it.”
“Sort of like the way your mind moved past 1960?” I asked, irritated and feeling jerked around like a yo-yo.
“I know it seems like I am taking a step backward in my attempt to move ahead with you,” Darryl said. “Call me old…”
“Stop right there,” I retorted, before he could get the word “fashioned” out of his mouth. “It was really nice meeting you, but I think this will be our last date.”
“Are you serious?” he shouted, getting out of my silver sports car and slamming the door. “I can’t believe I even considered having ‘real’ sex with you.”
What I couldn’t believe was how concerned a 55-year-old, out-of-the-closet man was about embracing his true physical interests. He was embarrassed about his sexual proclivities and ashamed to act on them with someone he thought highly of — and, at last, I realized that I had too much hard-earned self-respect to run the risk of losing it.
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