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Page 1.
Prolog: Poignant Arpeggios
 This memoir, based on true events, is constructed as an erotic alphabet, from A to Z, detailing my youthful adventures as a lover of the slightly older woman.
Yes, there is that famous memoir of a woman mysteriously named O. I have constructed a memoir of my Summers, naming them all the way from A through Z. I loved and respected each of them, and want to protect their identities long after our enchanting, tempestuous affairs of the heart. Or more to the point, no pun intended—affairs of the heart and of the heat.
I want to make a memoir of graceful and elegant romantic romps, celebrating the beauty of youth amid the chaos and strain of life, without losing any of the funny or rough edges, the occasional spats, the storming out and next day reconciliations. All of that is painted into the landscape of love, along with frank carnality, but never pointless vulgarity. I want to bring to live the wet, slippery, pungent moments. I want to hear again the sweet laughter, the passionate murmuring, the casual conversation in a young woman's bright voice along with my own delighted responses—moments of wondrous life, all now past but not forgotten, and hovering in memory like thousands of dandelion spores drifting in summer air.
If I repeat myself a bit in this preface, dear reader, please forgive me; I am close to my subject, and passionate about it. I want to make sure, doing justice to those loves and my lovers, to say all that needs to be said; better twice than overlooked. This is more than a list of romps, but a panorama of a special type of human relationship that is as intense as it is evanescent. It's a bit like a snowflake, falling on the hand under delighted gaze, only to melt as soon as it touches warmth.
If I were to choose a music for this memoir, it would be a solitary trumpet, speaking in slow and thoughful jazz clauses, the way you would cut paper into origami shapes. Trust me. This is good.
The May-June or May-July romance I describe here is a rare and wondrous gift, both for the young man and the slightly older (but far more experienced, worldly, needful, and passsionate) woman. This particular bonbon in the box of life's love affairs is special, not given to all. Too often, such tempestuous relationships are wasted on the immature or even abusive. None of that applies here. Each of my Summers brought with her a unique bouquet of her needs and passions that meshed with mine in the Garden of Eros.
Such a love is rare, coming once in a lifetime if at all for men and women fortunate enough to find those brief but unforgettable and intoxicating few months of a love that cannot last. Most often, it is a matter of the slightly older, more world-wise and experienced woman typically between marriages, seeking a vacation on the island of Eros, hidden and secret from her own family and all but a few friends she brings in to examine the young (moi) Adonis or Chanticlair so dangerously and deliciously in her life. It is a matter of the na&#iuml;ve, sometimes clumsy or even crude, but always well-meaning young man who cannot believe his luck for it to be given him to drink from such a graceful and elegant fountain. He has won the lottery, so to speak. I won it several times, and those stories deserve (no, demand) to be told.
May-June is a unique and special, transitory species of romance that deserves its own little corner in some shadowy, distant corner of the memoir library. So I am going to re-enter my long ago journals and notes, and a few love letters to boot, and construct for you, dear reader, a memoir of those special summer passions. I was fortunate to experience it more than once, each time a different experience with a wonderfully special and unique young (slightly older) woman.
I loved younger women too, but that is a story for another book. Strangely, what eluded me were women of my own age (early twenties). The women of whom I tell in this book ranged from a year or two older to, in one instance, seven years older than I was (and a youthful seven at that; we could pass for the same age).
I am not writing about a May-December thing, but I've thought of it as a May-Summer love story. I was May, and she was June or July or at most August. I had sufficient such entanglements, with all of their passion, to fill this book.
In those days, again, I strangely never seemed to make love to a woman my own age. I lived two separate love lives, one with younger women, the other (to which this memoir is lovingly devoted) slightly older women. They were, in fact, all young, as I see it today, long after the fact. Perhaps I will write a memoir some day about my younger women. My memoir about women my own age would largely be a blank book. The real treasure, I believe, lies with my Summers. That's what I call them. I was Spring, and they were Summer. I had a pleasure, the privilege, the intoxicating honor, to revel with her in her hot, still-young summer years. That's the memoir that this book is about: Summer in the Garden of Eros.
This is a very special memoir, but I am not unique. For one thing, the Summers and I were all young thinking people, with educations, feelings, ideas, sometimes wild and crazy ideas.
It started with a certain slightly older woman, who taught me the simple things, like licking her in a certain way until she lost consciousness during her orgasm (honest, it really happened). There was the blonde surfer who liked just a bluff you-me let's get down and do it. There was also the woman who…well, read the book. They are all in here.
My memoir is a string of episodes in the lives of good people, a very young man (me) and the beautiful, sensitive, erotically starved divorcees and librarians whose proper makeup and carefully designed clothing hid a howling wilderness of hormonal adventure let loose for the first time. Oh yes, it was mostly fun and intoxicating, and we had a good time, too.
Someone once told me that the expression on a woman's face, when she is orgasming, is similar to that when she is in pain. I would differ slightly, saying it is more similar to the look when she bites into a fine chocolate with a raspberry or caramel liquid center. She rolls her eyes up and gets a dazed look. Someone else told me that the stuff in chocolate is the same complex array of carbon and other atoms that is in our brains when we @ like bunnies. So I must be on to something.
I have learned to be very delicate about certain matters. Throughout this text, I have substituted the symbol @ for the f-word. It's as if I were putting a condom over the f-word and it seems a more hiegenic way to express the wild, intoxicated passion with all of its bedspring creaking and flesh-on-flesh noises and moaning and wet sounds. As another added touch, I have replaced all instances of the c-word with the word oyster. I simply find it's easier on the page, much less the eyes. I'm older now, and sometimes wince at the boldness and vulgarity of my youthful notes on these matters. I have done my best to smooth over the occasional crude expression with one sort of verbal fig leaf or another, for the reader's approval and ease of passage from one tempestuous situation (and bed, and warm tangling pair of arms, and oh I shudder deliciously at the memories, mammaries, whatever. We must always keep a stiff upper # and never take ourselves too seriously. With those matters noted, we can review my youthful days in the Summery Garden of Eros and enjoy the passionate reminiscences.
Limerence is, in this book, that state of madness that newly in love couples fall into, which lasts a few weeks or a few months, and then they either marry or move on. If we all remained in limerence, there would be no skyscrapers or airplanes or post office boxes. There would only be men and women, @ing in the woods. There would be no Camembert, no white wine, not even beer. We'd all be too busy @ing in caves to take time out to invent the pencil, or the telephone, or spoons.
When you are young, as I was, and reasonably attractive without overstating it, you have the event horizon of a mosquito. Tomorrow is already years away. Like a child, you can only plan for the next hour. Mostly, it's can I get laid now? Or do I have to wait another hour? Geez, can I endure? Here I was, in a perpetual state of either confusion and depression, complete with English degree, curbside guitar, and long flying dark hair, or I was in a state of limerence with some woman for whom I felt moments of love, hours of affection, and, well, that's as far as I could see. I loved them all, in my own way. I certainly respected them. This is a memoir of, if not quite love, affection and deep respect. In thee I see myself.
I was that guy most of us are at that age, who would panic, would escape out a tenth-story window down the fire escape, at mention of the word Commitment. It was like saying Communism to Joe McCarthy, only I wasn't drunk or frothing at the mouth or biting people. All you saw was my pale face, and then a puff of wind, and then nothing. I had vanished, often bare and still holding my underwear in one desperate hand.
My Summers understood that, for the most part. Some were still bruised and tender from their failed marriages. Some still confused limerence with true love. I was not ready for true love. I wasn’t even ready for true life. But I was ready for true sex. People are wrong to call sheer sex an animal act. That's not what interested me. What my Summers and I had was freedom, sex, and wild affection.
Typically, she was done with some horrific relationship, but still smoldering and damaged as if from a forest fire. She may have known subconsciously that ours was just a time inbetween; she would soon enugh fall (over a banana peel) into another relationship with the same exact guy, just a different name. But meanwhile, in the interim, she left her baby with grandma and lied about going to the movies with Sally or Biffette. Then we went to her place, unplugged the phone jack, turned off the lights, and, well, read the book.
There follow some introductory words written by me long ago, after which I will tell you the stories one by one.
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