I had a hard time finding somewhere to have sex with my gorgeous lover Eliot. He was 27 and lived with roommates. I was 48 and lived with my three kids, a Cockerpoo and an angry ex-husband from whom I had not yet officially divorced.
Seven months ago, Simon had moved back into the family home to claim it as his own; the only benefit of this arrangement was that I could stay out all night. But the hotels Eliot and I were forced to stay in added up.
So I was relieved when Eliot suggested I go to his house.
Eliot’s apartment was carved out of the attic of the kind of house that many of my generation could have fully afforded at their age.
Eliot lived in North London, more than an hour’s drive from me. His room was so small he could barely stand up.
He said he would cook a curry, like a real boyfriend, even though he wasn’t one yet; the terms of our four-month relationship hadn’t been discussed. I was crazy about him, though. All day long he was cumming under my skin like electricity.
But I figured if Eliot was willing to let his freshman roommates see me, things should be okay.
Eliot lived in North London, more than an hour’s drive from my house. But there he was, handsome as hell, standing on his doorstep in his shorts and T-shirt, like a prize I hadn’t yet been able to claim.
Still, it felt strange to be there. Eliot’s apartment was carved out of the attic of a house that many of my generation could have fully afforded at their age. I envied my married friends and their single, orderly life. I had two lives now, and I still didn’t know who I was in this new one.
My phone vibrated. “Hey Mom (sad face emoji), when are you coming home?” read the text from five-year-old Emi.
“See you tomorrow!” I replied. “I love you!”
I tried to shake off the guilt. Instead of slaving away at a family dinner, I was admiring Eliot as he leaned over the oven. My phone’s middle-aged algorithm had recently suggested an article titled “Five Ways to Fix Your Stagnant Sex Life.” I just need one, I thought.
Before we could escape to his room, one of his two roommates arrived. Did Eliot flinch, or was I imagining it? Maya was from Spain and very talkative. “Eliot told me all about you!” she exclaimed. “And I didn’t know what to expect. But you look great!”
How to respond? Apparently it’s okay to be old, but it’s still not okay to look old. My face had a time limit.
Eliot quickly said, “She’s gorgeous!” As Eliot and Maya caught up, I didn’t mention my kids or my real life. Thankfully, Eliot soon led me to his room. It was so small that he could barely stand up.
“I haven’t done my push-ups,” he said, dropping to the floor. “Can you count them?”
He did push-ups the hard way, with his elbows resting on his ribcage, a hundred push-ups. I watched his muscles move under his skin.
“I like the feeling of being tight,” he said as he stood up, slapping his muscles. He envied that feeling, which he’d never had, even when he was young. My body had always been an adversary, and now more so, with its treacherously flabby stomach and inability to open its tightly shut eyelids.
“What do you see in me?” I said. Ideally, he would shower me with kisses before listing my smartest comments. But he responded in general terms: “You’re funny, you’re sexy, you’re cool.”
Before getting into bed, Eliot got on the floor and did 100 push-ups.
But when we lay together my worries faded away. Being so close to him made me dizzy. I needed my glasses to see him clearly, but that wasn’t an option now that we were in bed, so I inhaled him. It was delicious: salt and earth.
When he kissed me, I thought I was going to faint. I put my hands on his muscular pecs; I could never get over the feeling of touching him: hard muscles, soft skin.
When we started having sex, I heard Maya in the kitchen putting away the dishes. I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I wasn’t quiet enough.
Instead of feeling constricted when he placed his hand gently but firmly over my mouth, it only made me feel hotter. The secrecy of what we were doing behind a thin wall really turned me on; Eliot might have felt self-conscious.
My orgasm brought tears to my eyes, which I hid from Eliot by turning my face away.
In the morning we had sex again and then I staggered out of his flat into the bright grey of a north London suburb.
I felt like I did 20 years ago, when I woke up from a child’s bed not knowing where I was, only this time I was coming home to three kids, an angry husband, and a dog. It was a strangeness that couldn’t be fixed, but a good strangeness.
- Names have been changed. Annabel Bond is a pseudonym.