"Why did this young man have such a hold on me?" How Dating Someone Half My Age Rebooted My Sex Life
During the decade I lived in California, before returning to Britain in 2018, men sometimes approached me in cafes or at the gym, a time at the Norton Simon Museum, where Eve Babitz had played naked chess with Marcel Duchamp. On the 12 hour flight home from LAX to Heathrow I lost all call. No man ever spoke to me again, starting with the customs officer who turned his head as I walked with the rest of my legal weed. When I flew later that year to take my child to his father who worked in Atlanta: lots of attention! When I landed in England…silence. After a year, I gave in to my friends' requests to join a dating app.
I uploaded the biggest photo of me that exists: writing, in a city with a view, wearing a pretty dress that made me feel powerfully "Rita Moreno". It was literally Rita Moreno's dress, which I had bought at a consignment store in Venice Beach. There's a cat leaning over me and next to my computer you can see Richard Avedon's photo of Truman Capote, Julian Opie's painting of Blur which hangs in the National Portrait Gallery and, in front , a snapshot of my mother as a student.
A young man in Hackney, East London, promptly messaged me. When I read it, my stomach turned. "Is this an Apple iBook? How old is this photo?" He didn't even see the dress. It hadn't occurred to me, when I selected my photo, how all my years had been flooded together. The beautiful burnt orange dress was 20 years old and so, I realized, it was the photo. By selecting my photo, I inadvertently committed dating app fraud. I deleted application. I put away Rita's dress for charity.
Soon I lost my humiliation to the rhythm of the day. gift of the age of responsibilities. But as I write this, I miss that burnt orange dress. I hope it has been retained. I hope the owner and the dress are happy. Maybe to be that he was given again. Maybe it's a dump now. He had a great life, just like me.
The move to London was preceded by the election of Donald Trump around the time my divorce was dropped off around the time I turned 40. His distaste for middle-aged women, and the palpable disgust he and his wife exuded when photographed together, alchemized a feeling I marinated: having been sexually active since I was 16, I wanted to get it all away. Reaching an age where women have to contort themselves, physically and emotionally, to continue to be "chosen for the team", it was liberating to say, "I don't play". Don't dare judge me for my bikini body - just let me be the ocean.
So from the moment Trump was sworn in, I've stopped having sex and kissing me and holding hands, and swore not to back down until he was gone. I needed to know that when the time came, I could let someone inside me – even for a little while, even for some nights – and it wouldn't take away my power. But getting to that place would take all the time it takes. You can't keep opening the oven door to check.
By the time I got to London and the lockdown I could smell every one of the men who had already been in me . When we weren't allowed out of the house more than once a day, I revisited the greatest loves in my mind, like a practicing Buddhist for their death. I remembered when I had a rash on the side of my mouth and when my breasts were so epic because of birth control that I didn't have to wear a bra. I remembered when I lost weight and they looked like bananas to me when I was in doggy style. I remembered how I cupped my arms on either side of my breasts to conceal the loss of density when my husband was on top of me, and how he looked down and said, without malice - in fact, with a real affection - "I know what you're doing." Since no one except my child had held my hand since I filed for divorce on Christmas 2016, I began my sensual memory dig thinking I was holding my hand.
< p class="dcr-3jlghf">A friend hearing about my Hackney experience told me I had been on the wrong dating app. I let her sign up to hers and hook up with I guess who I was supposed to hook up with algorithmically: a divorced dad in his 50s. He was successful, well dressed, had all his hair and teeth. I was furious to have to go meet him. The day before we met, he had sent a long letter about how he had ordered my memoirs and read them straight through, and all the ways it had moved him. Just because I published a memoir didn't mean I wanted people to read it before a first date. Upon meeting him in...
During the decade I lived in California, before returning to Britain in 2018, men sometimes approached me in cafes or at the gym, a time at the Norton Simon Museum, where Eve Babitz had played naked chess with Marcel Duchamp. On the 12 hour flight home from LAX to Heathrow I lost all call. No man ever spoke to me again, starting with the customs officer who turned his head as I walked with the rest of my legal weed. When I flew later that year to take my child to his father who worked in Atlanta: lots of attention! When I landed in England…silence. After a year, I gave in to my friends' requests to join a dating app.
I uploaded the biggest photo of me that exists: writing, in a city with a view, wearing a pretty dress that made me feel powerfully "Rita Moreno". It was literally Rita Moreno's dress, which I had bought at a consignment store in Venice Beach. There's a cat leaning over me and next to my computer you can see Richard Avedon's photo of Truman Capote, Julian Opie's painting of Blur which hangs in the National Portrait Gallery and, in front , a snapshot of my mother as a student.
A young man in Hackney, East London, promptly messaged me. When I read it, my stomach turned. "Is this an Apple iBook? How old is this photo?" He didn't even see the dress. It hadn't occurred to me, when I selected my photo, how all my years had been flooded together. The beautiful burnt orange dress was 20 years old and so, I realized, it was the photo. By selecting my photo, I inadvertently committed dating app fraud. I deleted application. I put away Rita's dress for charity.
Soon I lost my humiliation to the rhythm of the day. gift of the age of responsibilities. But as I write this, I miss that burnt orange dress. I hope it has been retained. I hope the owner and the dress are happy. Maybe to be that he was given again. Maybe it's a dump now. He had a great life, just like me.
The move to London was preceded by the election of Donald Trump around the time my divorce was dropped off around the time I turned 40. His distaste for middle-aged women, and the palpable disgust he and his wife exuded when photographed together, alchemized a feeling I marinated: having been sexually active since I was 16, I wanted to get it all away. Reaching an age where women have to contort themselves, physically and emotionally, to continue to be "chosen for the team", it was liberating to say, "I don't play". Don't dare judge me for my bikini body - just let me be the ocean.
So from the moment Trump was sworn in, I've stopped having sex and kissing me and holding hands, and swore not to back down until he was gone. I needed to know that when the time came, I could let someone inside me – even for a little while, even for some nights – and it wouldn't take away my power. But getting to that place would take all the time it takes. You can't keep opening the oven door to check.
By the time I got to London and the lockdown I could smell every one of the men who had already been in me . When we weren't allowed out of the house more than once a day, I revisited the greatest loves in my mind, like a practicing Buddhist for their death. I remembered when I had a rash on the side of my mouth and when my breasts were so epic because of birth control that I didn't have to wear a bra. I remembered when I lost weight and they looked like bananas to me when I was in doggy style. I remembered how I cupped my arms on either side of my breasts to conceal the loss of density when my husband was on top of me, and how he looked down and said, without malice - in fact, with a real affection - "I know what you're doing." Since no one except my child had held my hand since I filed for divorce on Christmas 2016, I began my sensual memory dig thinking I was holding my hand.
< p class="dcr-3jlghf">A friend hearing about my Hackney experience told me I had been on the wrong dating app. I let her sign up to hers and hook up with I guess who I was supposed to hook up with algorithmically: a divorced dad in his 50s. He was successful, well dressed, had all his hair and teeth. I was furious to have to go meet him. The day before we met, he had sent a long letter about how he had ordered my memoirs and read them straight through, and all the ways it had moved him. Just because I published a memoir didn't mean I wanted people to read it before a first date. Upon meeting him in...What's Your Reaction?
