The Wild Oats Project: One Woman's Midlife Quest for Passion at Any Cost

by Robin Rinaldi

  “You got it.” I kissed him on the cheek and he left.

  Later that night, Jude came by. He often did so after attending a workshop next door or hanging out with various women in the residence. We were both hungry, so I got dressed and we walked to a twenty-four-hour diner in Union Square, where we ordered a huge plate of French fries. When we got back, we crawled into bed, him spooning me. “Goodnight, Jujube,” I said, squeezing his hand. He nestled in closer and I felt his erection against my sacrum.

  “My god,” he whispered. “I’m suddenly so turned on by you.” We cuddled often but hadn’t had sex in nine months. Surprised, I turned to look at him and without thinking pulled him to me. Memories of our first kiss at Joie’s apartment flooded in: his thick lips, long hands, the tattoos on his forearms. I barely remember the details of the sex, just the initial rush toward each other, how warm his arms and legs felt around mine, and the fact that we ended in missionary position like an old, established couple. In the morning I awoke to find him seated on my floor meditating. “What the hell happened last night?” he said.

  “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone, that’s what happened.” I grabbed a towel, rubbed the crown of his shaved head, and stepped over him to go take a shower.

  Andrew circled back around that same week. He emailed to tell me that he and his girlfriend had broken up. Was I free for a drink? We met downtown and ordered manhattans. She didn’t appreciate the work he was trying to do with his dissertation. She didn’t allow him time for it. She was jealous and controlling yet she couldn’t commit. She’d already started seeing another guy. As the waitress took the bill from him he exhaled loudly and said, “It’s so good to just get all this out.”

  He walked me back to the residence. At the door I simply unlocked it and went upstairs, letting him follow me. In my room, we grasped at each other. I recall loud grunting, flinging our clothes off with gusto, his legs in the air as I fingered his asshole. I got on top and came easily, just as I had the first time with him. The next morning while I dozed he tucked his shirt into his jeans and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I mean it. Something happens when I’m with you. I feel healed.”

  I was brimming with goodwill: for him, for Jude, for Joaquin and Hugh and anyone else who needed me for a minute or a night. That week was my best at OneTaste, possibly—with the exception of Alden—the best week of the entire project.

  * * *

  Though I wasn’t officially related to Amelia, the child Susan had six years earlier, she called me Auntie. I’d been privy to so much of Susan’s decision-making before she went to the sperm bank that I felt I’d known Amelia since she was nothing more than an idea. The two times a year when Susan and Amelia came to visit from Los Angeles were typically some of my happiest, a chance to cook for more than two, gather on the couch for The Sound of Music or The Wizard of Oz, and watch Scott read to Amelia or show her how he bottled wine.

  Susan and I had never lived in the same city during our twenty-year friendship but each always kept keys to the other’s house. She arrived with Amelia on a Friday. On previous visits I’d leave work early and meet them at home, but this time I couldn’t. I had an afternoon date with Roman and Margit for a threesome. Margit was leaving the country on Monday, Roman had secured permission from Annie, and I was moving back home in two weeks. The timing was terrible, but no more so than the timing of the entire project. I should have sown my oats during my short stint as a single woman in my twenties. My threesome should have happened spontaneously, in the wee hours after the rave I never went to, and I should have met my one-night stands on European trains I never rode, instead of on Nerve.com and at OneTaste.

  I scheduled it so that I’d have Roman to myself for the first hour. He was waiting for me in my room. I straddled him, both of us clothed, and began kissing his ears and neck. He slipped his hands under my dress and grabbed my ass, then flipped me over and kissed his way down my belly. Roman was the rare man who gave as much head as he got. After he was done going down on me, he propped my head up on several pillows and planted his knees astride my shoulders, fucking my mouth in slow motion. On every stroke he pulled out completely, letting it hover above me until I reached for it again. I could have sucked his cock like that for hours, except the doorbell rang.

  Margit entered, flushed and smiling, unable to contain her giddiness. She dropped her coat and purse to the floor and without aplomb climbed onto Roman, making out with him. I lay next to them on my side, watching. Fevered, panting, she sat up to unbutton her black shirt and black lace bra, revealing perfectly formed breasts. She impatiently pushed her jeans off. Roman and I both sat up. He slid his finger into her from behind while she and I kissed. Then I moved down to her nipples while Roman kissed her, and so on, until she and I fell onto the bed and he burrowed his mouth between her legs, never taking his eyes off mine.

  There were things I would have wanted to initiate—having her go down on me with him in my mouth, for instance—that didn’t occur to me until later. In the moment, my senses surrendered to overload. Several times I stopped to merely watch them, overtaken by the thrill of seeing two people up close having sex. Margit moaned and laughed and gasped, much louder and faster than me. I deferred to her, since I was, in a way, the hostess.

  It ended with us going down on Roman together, a scenario over which I’d long fantasized. He gathered my wavy hair in one hand and her thick, straight hair in the other. We made out like that, then sucked at each other’s breasts while one of us took his cock, and finally we shared him, her above and me near his balls, until he came with a violent groan.

  I looked at the clock; I was late. As Margit and Roman joked and thanked me for setting up the date, I quickly slipped on my dress and gathered up my bag. “Stay in my room as long as you want,” I said, kissing each of them on the cheek before heading out to catch the train.

  When I got home, everyone was at the kitchen table playing Uno. Scott and Susan were drinking glasses of homemade strawberry wine. Amelia, a darling child with brown tendrils and intelligent eyes set in an imp’s face, was drinking a sippy cup of water.

  “Hiiiiiii!” I sang, dropping my things, hugging Susan, kissing Scott, and gathering Amelia up in a cuddle. “I’m so glad to see you guys.”

  “Was work busy?” Susan asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “As usual.” She was the closest thing I had to a sister, the one friend who knew all of the project’s details, and she supported me unconditionally—listening, asking questions, empathizing, which was amazing, given the fact that she had long graduated from sensual adventures into the maturity of single motherhood. I desperately wanted to tell her what I’d just done, but even when I got her alone later that weekend, I didn’t.

  Scott poured me a glass of wine and I joined the game. After a few rounds, I got up and said, “You guys keep going, I’ll start dinner.”

  “Rob!” Susan said, pointing. “Your dress is unzipped!” Amelia looked up and erupted into six-year-old giggles. “Auntie Robin!” she squealed, hiccupping with laughter.

  “What?” I said, reaching back to the zipper. It was open to the waist, my bra strap showing. Scott looked up from his cards momentarily, then back down. “Oh shoot, I must not have zipped it back up when I went to the bathroom.” I felt my throat and face go scarlet with a shame that was more sorrow than embarrassment. It was obvious the dress didn’t need unzipping to go to the bathroom.

  “She must have stopped at OneTaste,” Scott said, louder than necessary, still looking at his hand. He sighed and flipped his next card onto the table. Later that night, when Amelia asked Uncle Scottie for a bedtime story, he told her the tale of Pandora’s Box.

  * * *

  When Margit returned from her business trip, she was more than willing to step into Grace’s shoes where the strap-on was concerned. Scott went camping for the weekend, leaving the house to me, and okayed the idea of my bringing Margit there. In preparat
ion, I went to Good Vibrations and bought a white, medium-sized silicone dildo with a bulbous head, and a black velvet strap-on harness.

  I met Margit for dinner at my favorite restaurant near the house. We sat at a table in the bar and ordered martinis and finger food. As usual, she was in high spirits, alternating her own excitement with rapt attention whenever I talked. In conversation Margit was spontaneous and unedited, completely unafraid to speak her mind. Everything I said she playfully challenged.

  When the bill came, she swiped it from the center of the table and pronounced, “You’re my date.”

  “No, Margit,” I protested.

  “Plus, you bought the dildo!” she said, inserting her credit card with a smile.

  Back at my house, Margit put her hand on the pole. “Will you dance for me?” she asked.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” she declared with a sharp nod. “I’ll sit right here.” She walked to the nearby chair, plopped herself down, and crossed one leg decidedly over the other. “I just hired you. Now show me what you can do.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I went into the bedroom and changed into the G-string, stripper’s shorts, push-up bra, and tank top I’d used for Scott’s lap dances. I squeezed into the six-inch Lucite platforms, mussed my hair, applied a quick coat of dark lipstick, and clicked on down the hallway to the living room, the heels forcing me into a snaky burlesque gait.

  I had a playlist on my iPod called “Pole.” I lowered the lights, cued up Massive Attack, and did the same routine I’d devised for Scott. When I backed my ass up against the pole, she shaped her mouth into a silent “ah.” When I crawled up onto the chair, she took in a sharp inhale. When I peeled off my tank top and ran my fingers under my bra, she said, “Oh my god. You’re amazing.”

  In the bedroom, I slid into the strap-on harness first, naked now except for the platform heels and the white dildo hanging from my hips. I felt neither sexy nor awkward, just curious. I entered her slowly and soon she wanted more. Unlike the exhilaration of penetrating Grace with my own finger or mouth, the dildo put me at a remove. While Margit panted and moaned below me, I watched as if from a slight distance.

  I was eager to switch places. When we did, the hardness of the dildo surprised me, much harder and more unyielding than even the most erect penis or any vibrator I could recall. It didn’t hurt exactly; it just felt dead somehow. Visually, I kept registering the thrilling scene taking place. Sexually, I had plateaued, the artificiality of it all neutralizing whatever excitement the novelty had generated.

  After Margit left, I couldn’t wait to put on my warm robe and monkey slippers. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, brushed my teeth, poured a big glass of water, and crawled into bed. Cleo jumped up on my chest and I lay with her a long time, reading. Out front, the Castro weekend was just revving up, but here in the back of the house, facing the yard and garden, it was as quiet as evening in any small town. It didn’t occur to me until much later that Margit was the only person I’d slept with in our bedroom.

  And the last. I made a mental count: twelve new lovers in the past year. Some had become close friends. Most had helped me befriend parts of myself that had been lying in wait: little girls both wounded and free, teenagers both adventurous and insecure, grown women both fierce and unsteady. There was a loving mother inside me, a sacred whore, a wise healer, a selfish bitch, and an observer of them all.

  From what I gathered, sex wasn’t the only route to this kind of self-discovery. I probably could have taken up painting or traveled the world or sat in silent contemplation and ultimately discovered the same lost facets of myself. But I will say one thing about self-knowledge gained through sex. When you’re pressed for time, it’s efficient and sure. It lands in the body, and the body remembers.

  PART THREE

  House of Shadow and Desire

  Do I contradict myself?

  Very well then I contradict myself,

  (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

  —WALT WHITMAN, “Song of Myself”

  27

  The Crash

  THE WILD OATS PROJECT ended one year to the day after it began. As April came to a close I had begun spending weeknights at the house. I thought we might just end things a few days early, but Scott told me he wanted to spend the night of April 30 with Charly—she was expecting it—so I decided to stay at OneTaste.

  “You’re going right up to the line,” I said, worried about how emotional their parting might prove after such a long affair, and about Charly’s ability to let go in the long run.

  He shrugged. “It’ll probably be the last time I ever sleep with anyone else.”

  When I awoke on May 1 at OneTaste, it was cold and raining. I had all my things packed into one suitcase. I’d promised Grace a ride to Berkeley before heading to work, so at 6:30, we went downstairs and I propped my suitcase outside the front door of the residence. The others were inside the workshop center doing their morning OMs.

  “Wait here, I’ll go get the car,” I told her. Just then a blue pickup rolled toward us down Folsom Street, silently, as if stalled. Without a screech or a brake light it careened straight into the parked cars along the curb. I heard the sickening sound of metal on metal and saw the driver’s head collide with the steering wheel, causing the horn to start blaring. Instead of bouncing back, whiplash-like, it remained there.

  I was shocked immobile for a second or two, then ran up to the driver’s open window. He was conscious but seemed paralyzed. His right cheek lay on the steering wheel, drool hanging from his chin, and his eyes rolled lazily in their sockets. He kept trying to lift his head up but it kept bobbing back down onto the horn.

  Grace ran over and called 911. I opened the driver’s door, leaned him back in the seat, and held his arm. His face wasn’t cut. “You’re going to be okay,” I said. “The ambulance is coming.” He focused his uncontrolled eyes on me for a second, then dropped his chin to his chest. He didn’t seem drunk. There was no smell of alcohol, no redness. A stream of saliva ran over his bottom lip into his lap.

  Grace got off the phone with 911 and stepped closer to him, touching his shoulder. She looked at me silently. I saw her visibly inhale and exhale.

  “You’re okay,” I kept repeating, holding his arm while Grace held his shoulder. “They’ll be here any minute.” He took ragged breaths, looking about the cab with confused eyes, his free hand grappling with the air in front of him. He made little nonsensical sounds as if deep within a dream.

  The ambulance finally arrived and the paramedics took over. They said he was having a seizure, maybe a stroke. The police arrived and Grace and I had to answer two pages of questions about the accident. By that time, she’d decided to skip Berkeley. I got in my car to go to work and found myself driving toward Scott’s office instead, down Folsom and up Spear Street. It was a little after 7:00 a.m. and he’d probably just arrived, straight from Charly’s. I called him as I approached.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi. Can you come downstairs for a minute? I was just leaving OneTaste and a man had a seizure and crashed his truck into the curb.”

  “Shit. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just want to see you for a second.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  I pulled up to his office building and saw him standing outside in black chinos. I got out of the car and walked straight into his body, wrapping my arms around his waist. He put his hands around my shoulders. “It was really upsetting,” I said into his chest, smelling his familiar earthy scent, hoping I wouldn’t detect anything feminine. Luckily, Charly hadn’t left her trace behind.

  “I’m sure he’ll be okay, dumpling,” he said as I pulled back, looking at the wet spot my tears had left on his purple shirt. “The paramedics are taking care of him.”

  “I’m just … I don’t know … I’m glad you’re here,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “I’ll see you at home tonight,” he said.
“We’ll have a quiet weekend.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”

  “I love you too, doll.” He kissed my forehead and turned back toward Spear Tower. I got in the car but didn’t start it, watching him walk through the glass-enclosed lobby, waiting until his long body rounded the corner of the elevator bank, out of sight.

  * * *

  After months spent in one-room studios, I took to my kitchen with renewed vigor. I cooked Persian rice and lasagna. On weekends Scott lounged in the sunny dining room reading the paper and drinking coffee while I made pancakes. I took baths in my large tub and we lit nightly fires in the fireplace. Upon waking, or turning a corner into a room, I would momentarily be struck by the beauty of our home. I’d pause and stare out the window or at the sepia photos of Scott’s parents and my grandparents lining the hallway, and breathe a sigh of relief.

  Our emotional and sexual connection was slower to rebound than our resilient domesticity. We were careful with each other, as if tiptoeing away from a minefield. The once-a-week sexual frequency that had satisfied me for years now left me wanting two or three times that. I’d assumed that a year of talking dirty to nearly every lover would free up my inhibitions with Scott, but sure enough, when I tried to utter even the most mildly raw sentiment—a simple “Fuck me” or “You’re so hard”—I found that the words still stuck in my throat. I’d wince below him, mystified at the strength of the force keeping them locked in. Afterward, as we lay side by side, I confessed, “It’s so weird. I want to talk dirty to you but I literally can’t.”

  “You can say anything you like.”

  “I know. You always say that. But I can’t. It won’t come out.”

  “Why? Are you embarrassed?”

  “Maybe. It’s not quite embarrassment. It’s more like, dirty talk just isn’t us.”

  “I don’t want to be the guy you have the boring sex with.”

  I wondered if he felt freer with others, too. If Charly liked dirty talk.