HE WAS 27

ROBERTA MILES 

 

He was 27, I was 40.

He was tall and lanky.

I most definitely am not.

He had a mustache and I could only hope that I didn’t.


I’d been in similar situations before, fun but awkward, sometimes a bit worrisome. I took being
crushed on very seriously. Guys were always falling in love with me. I didn’t want to lead him
on. I would never take advantage of someone so much younger. I had my principles.


And then there was my husband.

But per usual what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Would it???


I met him at The Academy in Life drawing class. He reminded me of a dead uncle and so I was
very drawn to him. He was flirty and fun. From the moment I saw him I knew we would be
friends. We teased, we laughed, we entertained one another.

 

Drawing nudes can be very arduous and having someone to lighten things up made the hours seem more manageable.


My other job at school, in addition to being an inspired portrait artist was working in the library.
Every morning there was a large coffee waiting for me outside the door before I opened up.

 

So sweet, so good, I was never much of a coffee drinker, but to find that coffee waiting for me, from
an ardent admirer, made it delicious. He was crushin’ and I was feeling good, albeit a tad jittery.
One morning he brought me a present, a small stuffed rabbit all pink and fuzzy.

 

It was clear to me we were growing closer. I was touched but concerned. I didn’t want fun to go sour. On the next day he kissed me. One of those surprise kisses, the kind where you turn your head to look at someone and unexpectedly they kiss you on the mouth. I realized something had to be done to stop this behavior before it turned tragically. So the next day I wore my wedding ring. I never used to wear my ring. I felt it would get in the way of all my mischievous adventures. And so it did.

 

When he noticed it, I felt this blanket of sadness wash over him. We were sitting at our
drawing benches in the back of the room. Our model was a particularly round, voluptuous
women with a beautiful necklace around her neck and nothing else. I remember her as clearly as


I remember that moment when he lifted my hand and sadly croaked, “You’re married?”

 

I nodded and tried to make light of it.


I had sucked him into my little flirtation and things were turning badly.


The next morning there was no coffee waiting outside the library door. And the classroom only
held a cursory greeting. Love or the promise of love had evaporated. The hope of sex between a
very short woman and a six-foot seven-inch man had vanished.

 

The whole experience was only a brief encounter in time and as I looked up, from behind the crowed counter, strewn full of art books I saw the cutest, youngest art professor, wearing a pork pie hat and smiling the biggest smile I had ever seen. Love was in the air. 

WAITING IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL

ROBERTA MILES

 

Waiting in the depths of hell, the smell of urine so profound. Waiting for the damn train to
whisk me away, to beautiful West Rogers Park where I lived with my mother, stepfather and
little sister. Waiting. And thinking about growing up.

 

“I will never get involved with an older man even if my parents are divorced. Divorced parents can make a person do self-destructive things.”

 

Ah, the notions I had at 15. There were a lot.


However when I was 18, I did get involved with an older man.

A much older man, a 30 years older, older man.


By then my boyfriend had become a full-fledged alcoholic, I had worked in a mental hospital
and dated some of my patients. My parents had been divorced for 3 years, and I had decided
never to see my biological father again, because my mother told me not too.

 

I think I was ready, for a sugar daddy.

 

Or at least, another daddy.

 

Or at least, someone who I perceived as sane, like someone 30 years older, who wanted to have in-depth conversations about life with an 18-year-old, while he sat next to me, brushing my long and luxurious hair. It really did feel good.


Turbulent doesn’t even begin to explain my life and my state of mind. We met in an elevator.
He pinched my butt and my mind exploded. I had just found an older man who found me
attractive. This extraordinary event changed my life, literally, to this day. As he rushed out of the elevator he blurted a bunch of numbers at me and told me to call. Call? By the time I got to my destination, I had already reasoned that my life was over and I was a sexual risk taker so, what more could go wrong?

 

I called. Told him who I was, the butt that he had just pinched in an elevator.

And he told me to meet him the following night at the Howard Street Station.

 

It’s a color now. Maybe red. And I hear it doesn’t reek of urine anymore.


And then it began.


In my mind it’s a small dark room and I’ve taken off all my clothes. I scramble into the bed and
pull the covers up, over my vulnerability. But the blanket doesn’t cover my neurosis, my need to be loved, my confusion.


I’m staring at the grey shadows and the cold darkness. Then you walk in, so full of yourself,
pumped up, all decked out in your long, crisp, white undershirt and white boxers.
My brain feels like it is going to explode. It’s not all as sexy as I thought it would be. It was
dangerous and confusing. And it was my life being changed forever.


If I hadn’t been so giddy and excited, while I was teasing you into my life, if you hadn’t been so
susceptible to crossing a boundary, so eager and ready to dance with me, we wouldn’t be here.


So you got into the bed and took off your crisp, white underwear and held me fast and kissed me while my brain kept repeating run, this isn’t right or good or normal.
And then I became lost in the magic, the sensation of your kisses and the comfort of your
embrace, the safety.


Your eagerness repulsed me and your kisses were a violation.


I was a child flirting with daddy. But this daddy became lost in the seduction and crossed a
forbidden boundary.


I told myself this wasn’t sex.

 

I was doing what I needed in order to survive. Survival.


Yes, that’s what it was, survival.


He rushes me into an exam room and lifts up my crisp white nurse’s dress. He is so agitated that
I start to feel heady and neurotic. Why am I here? Why am I working in a place where anyone
can just push me up against a wall and just play with my nipples, my wet crotch and my huge
bundle of paranoia? What is wrong with me?


But the perks of this job surpass what I really get paid for. Sucking on someone’s old, shrinking
dick. He had opened a portal into another world. And I grabbed on and never let go.
I have had a psychotic break, spent time in an institution and have been on heavy medication,since his death.

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