Treat Me Like a Lady

After my visit last summer Martin sent me a note taped to this wall in front of me: “Don’t wait another ten years.”

Thirty years ago he and I lived together as lovers. It was a year or perhaps less before I became impatient and found Larry who lasted about the same amount of time before I gave him the boot, too. Then the two of them went off together on glorious adventures around the world that I could only envy.

What did I want? I wanted to move into a real partnership, down that long, winding path to Forever. A joined-up life. Travel was exciting but I wanted to build a nest, fix up old houses because that’s what I knew. Neither one of these guys had the money or the inclination to throw their lots in with me. They had their own paths to follow.

As I look back on that time in my thirties and forties I realize now that I only flattered myself that I threw them over. They were just being gallant guys by letting me be the one to say tootle-oo.

The great thing about men is that they intensify our womanliness. Not by pawing our panties off but by acknowledging that we are feminine. There’s always the potential erotic connection even in forbidden relationships, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters, but masculine gallantry is a special kind of love. These guys always treated me like a lady.

So, bereft now of my old lover, Martin, who died last month, I lose a few dance steps in the rhythm of my femininity. I am grateful that other old flames still stop by or call to keep up. I can hear the old music in their voices and see that same bright spark in their eyes. For me. Well, I'm sure they tell all their old girlfriends they are still special. Cricky, who expected boyfriends would live past eighty? Who knew they’d die?

I loved them once and I love them still. I am still beautiful in their hearts. How I miss the dance.