Free Range Love in an Unfenced World
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. And I’m not being coy, self-deprecating or hyperbolic when I say so. I honestly don’t know what the hell I’m doing. What I seem to be doing is having a nearly six-month, casual, non-monogamous sexual relationship with a 31-year-old man. I’m a 50-year-old naturally monogamous woman with anxious attachment, complex PTSD from developmental trauma, and a history of relational trauma. And I may be in love with him.
I met “J” last year thanks to my Jeep. In August I took her to my regular oil change place for routine maintenance. Miguel greeted me and took down my information, friendly as usual, and I complained about the shitty quality of the windshield wipers they’d installed last time. He called the manager over to authorize the free replacement…and everything stopped. Ohhhh mama. If I’d placed an order with Goddess herself for My Type this was definitely one of the luxury models. He was tall — 5-foot-11 ¾-inches I’d later learn — but more importantly, thin and wiry. His hair was straight, dark and long-ish, peeking out from beneath his cap, and his skin was light brown and smooth. His face was long with great bone structure, his lips strong and just full enough, and his eyes were — — heart-stopping. It wasn’t just their Asian shape or golden honey-amber color, which signaled to me his mixed blood, but the way they looked at me. His gaze was warm, present, gentle, intelligent.
This beautiful being authorized the wiper exchange and showed Miguel how to enter the transaction in the computer. He seemed kind with his people while intently focused on his work. After helping Miguel, he went back to running the well-oiled machine of his shop, like a conductor directing all the musicians in an orchestra to create lovely music. He stepped off his podium occasionally to pitch in, including to change the dead brake light at the top of my back window. On the way he dropped the screw on the floor near my window. As he bent to retrieve it, I thought oh my god, he’s a little awkward and nerdy! Love. I teased him with a Gosh, don’t you hate when screws run away like that?! — and he silently beamed a huge double-dimpled smile right at me. Wowzies. But it wasn’t until I watched his bare forearms working under the hood of my car that I was sold. Sinewy and deft, I wanted those arms and hands under my hood. I wanted to change places with my Jeep’s engine and get all that attention and finetuning for myself.
I glanced at the name on his uniform and thought about hitting on J but realized I didn’t have time to do it right. I’d also gathered enough data by then to know that doing so in front of his crew probably wouldn’t work in my favor. So I thanked Miguel for his help and pulled out of the bay and towards the street. As I did, I felt something inside me tug, and I heard voices inside shouting NO! Don’t let him go!
They didn’t shut up all the way home. I googled J and didn’t find much online (odd for a man his age, I thought), so I tried to stealthily obtain an email address by calling his corporate HQ with the story that I wanted to communicate some praise. That got me nowhere (they told me to call the shop), so I wrote him a note on some flowery-but-not-too-girly stationary. I wrote that I’d appreciated the excellent service as usual. I added that I was also floored by how drop-dead gorgeous he was. I said that if he was single, straight and interested in getting to know a fun, fit, (slightly) older woman, I’d like to get to know him better. I signed with my first name and phone number.
I was very pleased with myself as I dropped the card in the mail. I’d felt dead for years after my last relationship ended, but in the past few months I’d dropped 15 pounds and dallied with a 22-year-old hottie I’d picked up at my local Trader Joe’s. If J didn’t respond, it was all good. Just writing and sending that card made me feel alive. Just feeling how I felt when I saw J made me feel alive — in a way I hadn’t for a really long time.
But J did respond, about a week later. “Intrigued by the boldness of my approach” he left me a voice mail (classy!) on a Sunday evening while I was in Costa Rica on business — just a day after things ended definitively with Mr. Trader Joes over text. J and I had a lovely phone conversation when I got back to the States, and a seven-hour first date. It started as lunch on a Thursday, took an intermission while I attended a work meeting, then continued over drinks until 9:00. The time flew. He walked me to my car, but neither of us made a move.
At the time, I wasn’t sure what I was doing. All I knew was that it had been years since I’d been that attracted to someone and it felt good. And I knew those voices telling me not to let him go were to be heeded. I knew I was tired of feeling dead, and I was going to seize any chance to feel alive, no matter how fleeting or foolish. But as I got to know J and his quirky ways, I discovered that I was attracted to his brain and his heart and his soul as much as his beautiful physical self. It had been years since I’d been into someone on so many levels, probably on purpose. Minor losers that I’m not super attracted to are easier to lose. They’re less likely to leave. It hurts less when they do. I’m safer and less invested in these “meh” dudes. Or so I unconsciously thought, until I found myself still single in my late 40s.
Six months and seven dates later with J, I still don’t know what I’m doing. On our second date, I tried creating clarity by telling him what I was looking for: (a) a committed relationship with a fabulous partner, and (b) chances to make memories along the way. I asked him what he was looking for, and he didn’t really answer, except to say he’d just gotten out of a two-year relationship.
I knew after that (also mega-long) date and our exuberant, drunken frolic that J fell into category (b). He’s got avoidant attachment — which is death to anxiouses like me. He wants kids — which I can neither physically conceive, nor want to parent full time from infancy. He not only smokes, he identifies as A Smoker — while I’m a health and wellness nut who works out five times a week. He’s still “talking” to his ex about getting back together — which I discovered is Millennial Speak for “we’re not committed but we’re still banging and she only sleeps with me hoping we get back together but I’m thinking probably not but I’m scared to fully end it because we’re best friends and I don’t want to be a bad guy.” Sheesh. Also, we’re 19 years apart.
Sometimes I feel like a major dumbass. Who exactly am I kidding? I already knew I can’t really do non-monogamy, or casual sex. I already knew sex isn’t good unless there are feelings involved. Why did I think (hope) it would be different this time? He could get back with his ex at any time. He could ghost me at any time. There are enough holes and ambiguities in his stories to keep me from fully trusting him — — not from paranoia, from experience. It’s incredible how often and well some men lie, and how often and fully I’ve believed them. Still, I get some smug, twisted pleasure from the fact J has told me about his “ex”, but he hasn’t told her about me. Which is fucked up and illuminates J’s character more than either of us might want to admit. He’s even confided in me about her and asked for advice (?!), expressing surprise I’m cool with it. (Shit, even I’m surprised I’m cool with it. Kinda.) He’s thanked me for calling him out on his lack of integrity.
But what am I doing? I’m clinging to life. Psychotherapist Esther Perel refers to the erotic as an antidote to death. Afuckingmen, sister Esther. I’m no longer content to just survive. I’m holding out for moments to feel alive, and I don’t know how many I have left. The truth is that I may never meet my beloved. It may be only one or two years from now that my hair is too grey, my eyelids too wrinkled and my boobies too saggy to attract a younger man — and since my 30s I’ve preferred younger men. Right now the conversation with J is always fun, stimulating and endlessly interesting. He’s one of the best kissers to ever put his lips on me. The sex is fantastic — in fact, he’s given me the best head of my life. He’s clearly into me when we’re together.
I tell myself that if I keep my eyes open and don’t get it twisted I can stay in this “relationship” as long as I want. I remind myself I can end it at any time. In fact, it was I who initiated a conversation about the parameters of our arrangement — monogamy not required, he tells me who he sleeps with, I don’t have to tell him who I sleep with, agree to not ghost, and agree to keep our time together free from interference by other lovers (blowing up our phones and whatnot). He’s yet to break his word to me. He always calls and shows up when he says he will. He’s been respectful and kind about my boundaries and pacing around intimacy. We’re a great team in the kitchen and when it comes to planning. He calls to check in. He says he misses me when he sees me after a dry period. He dresses up for me. He isn’t ashamed to be out in public with me, and even told our Lyft driver on New Year’s Eve that we’re together. He says things like “if we’re going to see each other, you need to know this about me” and “this step means something to me.”
He also doesn’t reply to all my texts. Sometimes he doesn’t reply for up to 24 hours. He never picks up his phone when I call. Sometimes we don’t talk for 2–3 weeks. Twice we haven’t seen each other for almost two months. He’s evasive. I can tell he leaves things out of his stories on purpose, and that he’s not always entirely honest. I’m not naive enough to believe he can lie constantly to his “best friend” and not to me.
Sometimes I want to text and tell him I’m done. I rehearse giving him an ultimatum to tell his “ex” about me or 100% end things with her. I wonder whether I’d believe him if he told me he had. Sometimes I want relief from the ambiguity of not knowing where he is, where things stand, what he’s lying about and when (or whether) I’ll see him again. I resent wanting to know. Some days I’m not willing to say anything that might risk me losing him, and I feel weak because of this. Some days I wish things would pan out with one of my other crushes, so I can be free of him. I hope to meet someone else que me mueve el tapete — someone that “pulls the rug out from under” my heart in a good way — so I can finally stop hedging my bets with J.
Other times I give zero fucks about what he’s doing with whom. I want him to leave my apartment, or I’m glad he’s not there. I feel excited knowing I don’t know when, or if, I’ll see him again. Other days I feel powerful. I see his dishonesty and cowardice in technicolor, and I lose my lady boner for him completely.
And when I see him again, all the uncertainty and anxiety and sting of being left hanging a little too long too many times evaporate. All the conversations I’ve been having with him in my head for weeks no longer matter. It’s all worth it. It’s worth all the bullshit to feel alive once more on a long, half-century journey that’s been more disappointment and heartbreak than joy. That is what matters most right now.
Sometimes I want to invite him to go on vacation with me to an island, my treat. Sometimes I want to invite him to move in with me. I fantasize that I’ll ease his financial burden, cook us healthy meals, help him heal his sleep apnea and reassure his angsty self-doubts. He will smooth the rough edges of my difficult life with his smile and his hands, invigorate my mind with his humor and intelligence, clear the cobwebs from my yoni with his beautiful cock, and spoon away the loneliness that poisons my life with his strong, snuggly body.
How priorities change. For years I was certain I’d rather be mejor sola que mal acompañada — better alone than poorly companioned. I’ve given up relationships because I couldn’t tolerate sexism in my home or my inner circle. I’m still a woman of principle at my core, yet I feel some former ethical dilemmas falling away (e.g., “I will not participate in a man deceiving another woman!”) in the interest of staving off loneliness and bringing human warmth into my arms and my bed. It’s a strange shift, and an enticing bargain as I face the yawning maw of aging — alone and female in the USA.
I tell myself that this is real love — giving of myself while maintaining healthy boundaries and my own authenticity, while expecting nothing in return. I tell myself this is free range love: no cages and no shitty hormone-filled kibble for food, only grass and sunlight and freedom. I tell myself all love is free range love — that despite my deep desire for “a sure thing” guaranteed through promises, commitments and life entanglements, the truth is that most men leave. They change their minds, they break their promises, they lie, their hearts wander though their bodies linger, and they die. After decades of bruises and scars, I know nothing any man does or says will keep me safe, or make me feel safe. We live in an unfenced world, where the rules and boundaries have changed — or no longer exist.
This is why I cling to J — not just to continue to feel alive as much and as often as possible, but because I’m compelled to learn whatever he’s here to teach me, and the lesson isn’t over yet. I have no doubt that whatever it is we’re doing is changing both of our lives. He’s learning about his awesomeness and his suckiness. He’s seeing new possibilities for his life, figuring out who he is, and having a blast with a safe, nurturing woman.
I’m learning to be stronger in myself, to go with what shows up (or not), and to manage and regulate my own emotions. I’m learning to trust my knowing, to stare the truth in the face and not be deceived or deceive myself, and to love more purely and consciously. I’m learning that my feelings — all my feelings — eventually change and are not a reliable compass. I’m learning that I’m having a relationship more with myself and my own mind than with J — and that all relationships are ultimately with ourselves. I’m learning to drop the oars and stop paddling so damn much. I’m learning to trust the water.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I am making memories. There are no role models for this new unfenced world. One downside of being a woman with freedom and choices unprecedented in modern history means there is no script or rulebook. We’re making up the rules as we go, which is both terrifying and exciting. It’s liberating yet untethered. But the fact I can even dare to take risks again means I’m waking up and coming back to life. The fact I’m practicing the once “traditional” model of relationships — where one person is neither required nor expected to meet all our needs, and we meet them through multiple people and roles — means I’m courageous, and helping write new rules.
I don’t know where the hell this is going. None of us does — I’m just not pretending to know. I may end up with regrets, or a sore forehead from slapping it in a “duh!” moment in retrospect. I’ve been there. But not today. This is not only free range love, but free range life. Just grass, freedom…and sunlight.
