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 Into many a lucky young man's life comes a slightly older woman—and into her life comes a slightly younger man. At their young ages, a slight difference in years is a significant bridge between spring and summer. Theirs is often a unique and important relationship that leaves its tender mark on each for life.
He is about 20, a Spring. She is two to five years his senior, still quite young—Summer to his Spring. He thinks of her as older—forbidden fruit, the Establishment, the possessor of knowledge and rituals he has not even dreamed of. She brings a wisdom and erotic experience (or curiosity). Each is a lock, and the other the key.
He steps through a mysterious door into the delightful garden of that amazing, more mature angel and her secret knowledge. She does much to initiate him into full adult sexuality when younger girls had not a clue—or, having escaped an pleasureless marriage, maybe she comes to him like an innocent, an empty cup thirsting to be filled with the wildness of the young berry.
All the doors are open to a carefree, lusty involvement with virtually no strings attached. For many a Summer it is a flawed relationship that she will remember through rose-colored glasses as the most romantic, free, and lustful of her life. For the Spring, it is often the wildest erotic experience of his life, and he will never forget her. She may be a cool and skillful player, or she may fall in love and get hurt when he runs. There are risks for both, but anyone who has had a good relationship of this nature knows how special and unique it can be.
If she is wise, she will avoid getting involved with an abusive Spring. The last thing she needs is more sadness or ugliness in her life. If she picks carefully, she will have, however briefly, a handsome, if bumbling, and zesty toy she can hop in bed with, in a relationship where she is largely in control. She will first put her Spring through a testing process before getting too involved—she may invite her Spring to dinner with friends, and get some third-party opinions. She may walk with him down a dark street or a remote corner of the mall, to see if he displays predatory or undesirable traits. If she intends to sleep with him, she'll adhere to the not-on-the-first-date rule, or maybe a rule that says goodnight kiss on the first date, light petting on the second, romp from the third going forward. A Spring worth his salt will respect her pacing, and will show some class by being patient and not pawing her. She can instruct him in this, and he should be eager to learn new subtleties in life.
This book is my erotic memoir. Both I and my Summers, seen in these pages, are still in the blush of youth, as seen from the perspective of the now much older man I have become, who looks backward in time at a very different person he was long ago. I'll have more to say about this, later, but briefly. I make no excuses for who I was, nor how I lived. I am grateful I could share those wonderful long-ago moments with the Summers who allowed me into their intimate and alluring gardens.
Summer is the most alluring, primal, and sexually gratifying event in a Spring's life. The affair may last a few months, or a year or so at most, but it leaves its imprint on both for the rest of their lives. In a sense, she is the standard by which he gauges all his later amatory experiences. He may leave her, for any number of reasons—he often does love her, truly and deeply, in his muddled manner, but he may dump her because he isn't ready for commitment—or she may decide to move on, when she has tired of playing, when she has healed from her bad time, when she starts to need a man of means who is ready to launch a new family with her.
My stories are from a period in my early to mid-twenties, when a year or a few years makes her the 'older woman.' Maybe there are guys who go on living in this mode beyond their mid-twenties, but I know nothing of that, and I know nothing of May/December. She isn't strictly what we call a cougar today. The age difference generally isn't that great. In this context they are each a cougar cub, though she is the older and more cunning.
During that phase of my life, I was still living life in a chaotic, primal fashion. I lived from day to day, month to month, job to job, place to place, woman to woman. I had finished college—had a B.A. in Liberal Arts, was beginning to pick up the thread of Graduate School. I chose not to teach, and stayed out of academe. I was a rather lost soul. I careened from one affair to the next. There was not a ready paycheck for what I had studied. I could not show any Summer prestige or high pay. She usually did better in those things than I, and wasn't looking for that in me. Quite often, she was still wounded from her bad marriage or relationship, and needed time to heal—so why not play and have fun during those months?
Aside from some immature self-centeredness, I was a charming and kind enough guy. I didn't have a car, being an urban animal adept at getting around the city on foot or by public transportation, although I worked as a taxi driver at some points. I was blessed by a reasonably cheerful nature, a certain quiet confidence, a mixture of integrity tempered by total cowardice in the face of any sort of commitment. I had the blush of youth on my cheeks and the taut, trim lines of a twenty-something body. One Summer told me I was the youth in her dream who bicycles, sails, plays guitar on the sea wall while his hair flies in the wind. She, as was typical, did not let me take over her life, not that I sought that; nor did she take over mine, but she made a niche between child care, work, and social commitments for a candles by the tub, walks in the park, romps in the hay romance.
This is a loving memoir of a time and its women. I was never intentionally unkind or thoughtless (although the nature of being the younger man in a woman's life makes it almost inevitable). Nor is this a series of prurient titillations, though it fondly recalls, in explicit detail, the minutiae, the sounds, feelings, and excitements, of each relationship. I remember each woman with love and respect, although in varying degrees and ways. Some deserve more than others. Some cannot be thanked enough. In each case, it is a true portrait of a moment in time, of lives entwined however briefly, and deserves to be captured on the photo film of memory.
There was a short story I once wrote. It was called 'Piano Music.' It was about a young man living in a large house with many other boarders in a New England city. It was a story about how the young man was lonely and drifted from job to job, from one lone meal to the next at a diner, just to be close to a certain pretty waitress for a short while. Lest you think this is a rake's tale, think again. The younger man lives his own life, most of it actually separate from his dalliances with the older woman. He does meet and enjoy younger women and women his own age. The story 'Piano Music,' is dry and autumnal as one of those Swedish movies in which the actors do nothing but talk and make bored or tragic faces while walking along dismal canals under black and white skies. That's enjoyable in its time and place. In the house on which I based that story lived a piano player I never saw, probably a university student, who practiced night and day. He or she was quite good, and on some days the concertos just rolled out under the hammered keys in great swirls, whirling down darkened hallways whose walls glistened with underwater light. On other days the notes were as sparse as the distances between crows on a telephone wire in winter. It might be Chopin or Satie or Pharaoh Sanders. Poignant arpeggios and solo notes and carpets of chords minor, major, augmented, diminished, Persian and Western, rolled around the bleak corridors of that great empty house the way October leaves roll and circle on gray streets. The younger man is attracted to his older young woman because they are at the intersection of her hunger and thirst with his, maybe at a place like that—a house of loneliness and longing, near an intersection of fulfillment.
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