She was a ghost from the old days. My “Poly” partner from the Scottsdale wars, back when I was still pretending that “open” relationships were anything other than a beautiful, complicated, and completely fraudulent excuse to be a whore. I hadn’t seen her in… Christ, seven years?
And she calls me. She’s taking care of her elderly parents out in Benson, that beautiful, dusty, and completely forgotten shithole, and she wants to drive an hour to come see me.
I said yes. Of course I said yes.
It was… refreshing. To see a familiar face, someone with history. We’d been through a quiet, little war together, her and I. She was smart, always had a brain, a beautiful, sharp intellect that I actually enjoyed. And back then, she was safe. She was married to some other poor bastard, which meant she was a beautiful, convenient, and completely “no strings attached” lay.
But now, she was single. Divorced. The safety net was gone.
She pulled up to my little rental shithole in Tucson, and I have to admit, she looked goddamn wonderful. Fifties, but aged like a good, expensive whiskey. A little curvy, a few cracks in the foundation around the eyes, but still a beautiful, natural, and completely honest-to-God woman.
And the click… it was instant. It was like we hadn’t missed a goddamn beat in seven years. We got in my truck, and she just… grabbed my hand. No hesitation. No awkward, first-date bullshit. We just… were. A couple. And I have to admit, after the long, dark, and completely fucking depressing parade of crackheads and shadow-women I’ve been dating in this armpit of a town, this connection… this was a different goddamn league.
I wasn’t the one doing the work. I wasn’t the “entertainer.” She was. She was leading the conversation, pulling me in with that smart, beautiful, and completely intoxicating mind of hers. That was always her power over me. She was the one goddamn woman who scared me a little.
We hit a pizza joint. I got tequila, she got wine. We laughed. We talked about the old days. About her ex-husband, the “primary,” and how the only man he was ever jealous of was me. Of course he was. The poor, dumb bastard, he knew. He knew his wife was lying to him. He knew all those “poly rules” were just a beautiful, ugly, and completely fraudulent set of suggestions. He knew she was breaking every goddamn one of them with me, that she was saving the real intimacy, the real fire, for the side-piece.
It’s the great, beautiful lie of the “poly” world. “We’re not jealous.” What a load of horseshit. Their “passive-aggressiveness” is just jealousy in a quiet, respectable, and completely castrated costume.
We’re sitting there, the pizza’s gone, the drinks are low. We’re watching the beautiful, ugly, and completely predictable parade of Tucson nightlife stumble by.
“What do you want to do next?” I asked.
And she looks at me, with those smart, clear, and completely honest eyes, and she doesn’t miss a beat.
“I’d like to go back to your place and fuck your brains out.”
Christ. I just… I think I blushed. A 57-year-old bastard, blushing like a goddamn schoolboy. After months of wading through the shallow end of the gene pool, dating these broken, hollowed-out women who can’t even form a coherent sentence, here’s this… quality. This beautiful, intelligent, and completely confident woman, just laying the cards on the table. It got me.
We went back to my place. No wasted time. And it was… a goddamn dance. It wasn’t the fumbling, awkward, “where-does-this-go” bullshit of a new lover. It was history. It was two people who already knew the music, who could foresee every goddamn move. It was a beautiful, ugly, and completely honest reunion.
She was the first to speak. Panting, her voice a goddamn purr. “God damn, I missed this,” she said. “I forgot how fucking amazing you are.”
It was like we’d never stopped. Eight years, and she just handed me her body, trusted me, let me take control, knowing I was going to do the work, that my focus was on her.
And when it was done, the finale, the fireworks, the whole beautiful, messy, and completely glorious explosion… she just curled up, her body shaking, and she started to cry.
“My god,” she whispered into the pillow. “I haven’t felt that way in so long.”
And in that moment, the “perverted pig,” the “shallow” bastard… he just disappeared. I put my arm around her. I held her. I didn’t make a joke. I just… let her be. I knew she was going through it. The divorce from her best friend, selling the dream house, the debt, the new job she just lost, the mother who was fading away… a whole goddamn clusterfuck of a life. And in that moment, she just needed a connection. Someone who gave a shit. Someone she could be real with.
And I was happy to be that guy.
But then… the morning comes. The light hits. And the beautiful, ugly, and completely honest math starts to add up.
I told her my plan. “I’m leaving, you know,” I said. “Two months. Packing my bags. Vietnam.”
And she didn’t blink. “Oh, James,” she said, all bright and encouraging. “You’re going to love it. That’s incredible. The alternative lifestyle.”
Of course she’d say that.
I watched her drive away, this beautiful, smart, 50-year-old woman. And I’m just… stuck. Stuck on this one, beautiful, ugly, and completely devastating question.
What is the goddamn purpose?
She’s 50. She’s got no job, no savings, no husband, no best friend. She’s borrowing money from her parents. And what’s her grand plan? Chasing the “shallow excitement,” the “endorphins,” the next man, the next chaotic, beautiful, and completely meaningless fuck?
I’m a taker. I’ll take the connection, I’ll take the sex, I’ll take the goddamn memories. It has value to me.
But her… what the hell is she getting out of it? What’s the endgame?
It’s a beautiful, ugly, and completely terrifying mystery. And it’s the best goddamn reason in the world to get on that plane.
