I imagined Marc, in all his adorable hotness, coming over for an evening of crazy-hot adventurous sex. Walking in the door, taking off his jean jacket, pushing me up against the living room wall, bending me over the couch, watching himself screw me in front of the mirrored walls in the dining room.
I answered his text, smiling to myself, with a simple Yes, sir?
He replied immediately.
I’m a single man again, Leslie. Let’s have fun.
I wanted to drop the phone like a hot cookie sheet. Though I was appalled by the realization, I had zero desire to see him. So, instead of telling Mr. Fuckable Junior to hustle on over stat and charge his ride to my Uber account, I sent Marc a response that probably shook him as much as it did me.
Hey, Marc, thanks for your text. Fun is good, as Dr. Seuss says. But I’m actually looking for more these days. (And I’m sorry about the breakup. Never enjoyable. You’re a great guy and it’s her loss for sure.)
Me, saying no to a night of crazy sex with a man twenty years younger because I wanted “more”? What the hell had happened to me? The five-boyfriend plan was broken.
To my surprise, it felt good to say no. Because saying no meant saying yes to something better. Better than staying in a dead marriage. Better than unforgettable one-night stands with men twenty years younger. Better than Jake cheating on me. At least, that’s what I hoped it meant.
* * *
I wanted my mermaid back. I didn’t know for sure where Jake had her, but my best guess was that after Christmas, he’d taken her to his cabin in Connecticut. She was probably on the front porch, covered in dust, pollen, and spiderwebs. I couldn’t bear imagining her alone there. In late May, due to a coincidence that didn’t feel like coincidence, I had a family reunion at a resort thirty minutes away. I’d only been to Jake’s cabin once, years before, but the layout of the rough-hewn, two-room place was simple enough to navigate, even if I had to poke around inside. There was no alarm; I couldn’t remember if there was even electricity. I emailed Jake to let him know I was taking her. He shot back a terse email: Wasn’t that a gift for me? I reminded him of his agreement that he’d return her if we broke up. I could sense his pout, like a child forced to share a toy, when he asked for the hotel address, writing curtly that he’d drop her off there instead.
As I drove to the reunion, I thought about what I’d learned from Jake and a year of men in my life.
First of all, divorce, or any breakup, hurts like hell. The only person who shares your despair is usually the one person you can’t talk to anymore. But going at life alone is worth the anguish, because, over time, being treated as invisible, or being loved inadequately, by a person you adore can be as painful as being hit.
Second, I’d had a great year, despite the fact that I was still single. By leaving a husband who no longer cherished me, navigating a variety of lovers at once, and rejecting a beloved but self-destructive boyfriend, I rediscovered the best parts of myself. My skin may have gotten more wrinkled, but I was more comfortable in it than ever. I could admit now what the feminist in me didn’t want to acknowledge at nineteen. Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved boys. The way they look, and smell, and make me feel.
As I’d been packing my car for the reunion, a man had stopped on the sidewalk and said, “Dang, girl, you still got it. Will you marry me?” In my second half century, I’d rather hear that than get a hundred Instagram likes. Only a man can rock me in that primitive, sacred, physical way.
I’m not suggesting all women need men in this blatant fashion. But in my case, male energy revitalizes how I view parenting, work, money, death, sex, and myself as a woman. Men show me who I am, in ways that my female friends, as much as I rely on and adore them, do not. The key is to keep an open mind, and to not expect or demand things men won’t ever be able to give me.
I hit the hotel check-in bell around ten o’clock. The night clerks, a young man and woman who looked like high school students working their first jobs, smiled eagerly as they entered my credit card information. Their enthusiasm made me wonder if they were anxious to get rid of me so they could go back to making out in the supply closet.
“Did anyone drop off a statue under my name?” I asked, wondering how odd my request sounded. The clerks broke into synchronized smiles. “You’re the one picking up the mermaid?” the girl asked. “She’s so beautiful.”
Sure enough, there she was, in the fluorescent light of the storage room behind the counter, listing slightly sideways next to a computer printer on a patch of indoor/outdoor carpeting. She was covered in silky cobwebs but still dignified in her armor of gray-green scales. I smiled when I saw her pretty copper face, her voluptuous breasts, and her wide hips flaring into her mermaid tail.
“Was there a note?” I asked the girl. Her face fell, as if she was disappointed for me. “Um, sorry, no, he just wrote down your name.” The news hurt like a bee sting, but without the surprise of one.
I brushed off my mermaid’s cheeks. I picked her up with both arms in an awkward hug (her curved metal tail was a pointy, potentially lethal weapon). I gingerly carried her to the TT and strapped her into the front seat before going up to my room. Three days later, after hugging my relatives farewell, I drove back to Philly with her as my passenger, imagining she was whispering her thanks for the rescue.
Driving home, flicking through rock stations, I took a vow to keep chasing boys. While it may seem contradictory, I also promised myself I wouldn’t search for that one perfect man. The times I’ve believed one person was going to complete my life, I inevitably panicked, mistakenly believing, with claustrophobic certainty, there were no available substitutes. But the problem isn’t a lack of men. There are men everywhere. (And women, too.) At every age of our lives. On sidewalks, in airports, supermarkets, and yoga studios. The problem comes, for me at least, when I choose a frame that’s too narrow, closing my eyes to potential partners, to the uniqueness of romance, sex, and love.
Even when passion comes into our lives, it can slink away unexpectedly. Both my marriage, and my postdivorce year of dating, confirmed that lasting intimacy can prove as elusive at fifty as when I chased boys on my elementary school playground. It’s outside my control whom I catch, how long I keep them, who they turn out to be over time, and whether or not they want to be with me. No matter how tough I grow, how fiercely I absorb life’s sly lessons, how wisely I choose.
I hope that one day, I’ll find someone I love as deeply, or even more deeply, than I did all of my boyfriends and husbands combined. Maybe I will find a great man who will stay forever, treat me right, and hold my hand while I die.
Maybe not.
Sometimes, happily ever after doesn’t happen. But happier than ever before can, and does. Perhaps the most priceless lesson my year of five lovers taught me is that self-love is, in fact, far more important than the perfect partner.
Spending my life seeking soul mates taught me this: finding true love is rarely a good measure of how much you deserve it.
That gift, you give yourself.
And if anyone, including Jake, ever asks why I wanted my mermaid back, I’ll say I brought her home to someone who deserves her.
Me.
THE NAKED TRUTH
* * *
CHEAT SHEET
1. Forget everything everyone ever told you about meeting menI and dating.
2. Go to where the men are. Don’t expect men to magically come to you. They won’t. Men are everywhere. In airports, restaurants, the supermarket, Starbucks, yoga class, the local dog park, online dating sites, you name it. But you have to see them. And make them see you.
3. Don’t play hard to get. You’re a grown-up; be confident and go after what you want. If you like someone, flirt with them. If someone you like flirts, flirt back.
4. Go out solo as much as possible; being alone makes you more approachable than being in a group or with a friend. Sit at the bar, on a bench, or next to an empty seat whenever you are out alone. Never order roo
m service and always walk or take the subway—you will never meet someone in your hotel room, in a taxi, or in an Uber. Well, except the driver; and if the driver is cute, well, lucky you.
5. Revel in your sexuality. Whatever that means to you. Discover what makes you swagger and then don it like a magic cloak even when you take out the garbage.
6. Be transparent. Wear as little makeup as possible; don’t disguise who you are or how old you are (it doesn’t work). Great hair is more important on an older woman, anyway.
7. Make eye contact with every person who catches your eye. Smile. Even if you’re never gonna see them again. Even if they are twenty years younger.
8. Make yourself easy to approach. Sit next to people. Get off your phone. Wear clothing that prompts an easy opening line, like a splashy dress, an unusual hat, or crazy shoes.
9. Get their name and number (even if it kills you).
10. Smile, be nice, and look for niceness in other people. Friendliness is the sexiest quality on earth, whatever age you are.
* * *
I. My viewpoint is from the perspective of a heterosexual woman, because I am one. But change the gender identification and/or sexual orientation to whatever works for you, and let me know if the same advice holds true. Thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
My kids will always top the list of people I’m grateful to for supporting me as a mom and a woman.
Thank you to Alice Fried Martell, dear friend, literary agent, truth teller, and cheerleader extraordinaire. Thank you Christine Pride, Priscilla Painton, and Lashanda Anakwah, for believing in this book and championing it, and to everyone at Simon & Schuster who understood that a book about sex could also explore an emotional journey. The team at Gail Davis Speakers in Dallas, including Gail Davis, Julie O’Keefe, Brooke Farmer, Dana Swan, Kelley Copeland, Abi Ferrin, Amanda Lindhout, Kathryn McCoy, Drusilla Blakey, Adrienne Metzig, and Megan Withers—you show that women rule the world. Bruce Vinokour and Sonya Rosenfeld at Creative Artists Agency, thank you for bringing my stories alive visually.
Despite the . . . umm . . . unique role of men in my life, friendships with women are my true and enduring romance. Special thanks to the maids of dishonor Elin Cohen, Brooke Evans, Lila Leff, Jeri Curry, Leslie McGuirk, Carolina Martinez Pitarch, Jennifer Brown, Michele Dreyfuss, Jodi Dehli, and Jackie Walker. To the best honorary girlfriends I could ask for: Bradford Richardson, Jeremy Norton, Randolph Adams, Ian Horneman, and Harry Lerner. Thank you to Heath Kern Gibson and Camilla Peterson for being insightful and invaluable early readers.
Shoutouts to my crew of family and friends, old and new: Perri Morgan, Dick and Patty Simon, Susan Cheever, Sarah Tompkins, Chris Appleby, Scotty and Patty Ivey, Jack Davies and Kay Kendall, Sonya Bernhardt, Ruth Marcus, Carol Hansen, Sally and Bob Caiola, Scott Weiss, Sam Pelham, Visko Hatfield, Pam Sherman, Pat Walsh, Regan Ralph, Linda Lourie, Sonya Lawrence Green, Christine Courtois, Bobby Grossman, Nanci Bramson, Kevin Burns, Alex Calingaert, Paul and Elizabeth Centenari, John Lesko, Niki Allen, Rolf Grimsted, Kennett Marshall, Alice Fuisz, Nassim Assefi, Jennifer Weis, Susanna Porter, Gerry and Rhonda Wile, Sarah Woolworth, Soraya Chemaly, Annie Clark, Andrea Pino-Silva, Charlie Esposito, Debbie Brenneman, Page Evans, Carrington Tarr, Dorie Fain, Laurie and Ray Goins, Brett and An Groom, Xiomara Pineda, Shelly Hall, Michel Martin, Jolene Ivey, Dani Tucker, Susan, Alex and Chessy Prout, Linda Konner, Scott Owens, Sarah Nixon, Laura Putnam, Jan Sidebotham, Deborah Wagner, Paul Caiola, Katherine Kendall, Bobby and Mary Haft, David and Katherine Bradley, Ginny Grenham, Phil Klein, Kelly Griffith, Elena Burch, Dave and Val McGloin, JP and Kara Dowd, Mark and Beth Odom, Tom Bryant, Aaron and Dana Martin, Susan Mathes, Gay Cioffi, Jill Sorenson, Sharon Langoff Robinson, Kim Anspach Rutkowski, Brooke Boardman, Skippy Redmon Banker, Kyra Tirana, Katie Hood, Seanna Bruno Crosby, Nancy and Larry Goldstone, Angie Firestone, Maria Bowling, Elsa Walsh, Tim Morgan, Randy Eder, Ann Hunter Lepkowski, Marcia Thayne, Mary Lee Brighton, Hermine Dreyfuss, Paul Zevnick, Jan and Walt Connor, Bob Wickham and Carmel Sauvageau, Nancy and Mickey Lincoln, Julie Gunderson, Grant and Ruth Harmon, Linda Baquet, Willie Joyner, Trista and William Farrell, Helen Harmon, Sara Glenn, Kit Gruelle, Leonard and Betty King, Laura Oradei Bayz, George Harmon, Loulie Harmon, Chris and Jody Parrish, Bill Parrish, Susan Swayze, Jim and Amy Lohr, John and Leslie Fuchs, Julie Harmon and Hugo Machuca, Bunkie Harmon, Miriam Harmon, Louise and Jake Warner, Anderson and Michelle Kressy, Sue and Roger Smith, Anne Oman and Marcus Williams, Matt and Kara Kressy, Edie Kressy, and everyone at The One Love Foundation, Knock Out Abuse, Windhorse Korrals, Longacre Farm, Gilly’s, and the Washington Post.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
© JOY ASICO
Leslie Morgan is the New York Times bestselling author of Crazy Love, Mommy Wars, The Baby Chase, and more than four hundred columns for the Washington Post’s parenting blog. Her first essay appeared in Seventeen when she was a senior at Harvard College, and she financed an MBA from The Wharton School by writing for Glamour, Money, and other magazines. She is a frequent media guest and speaker on women’s leadership and overcoming adversity. Her TED Talks have been viewed by more than four million people in forty countries. She lives in the District of Columbia, New York, and New Hampshire.
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ALSO BY LESLIE MORGAN
Crazy Love
The Baby Chase: How Surrogacy Is Transforming the American Family
Mommy Wars: Stay-at-Home and Career Moms Face Off on Their Choices, Their Lives, Their Families
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Copyright © 2019 by Leslie Morgan
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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition May 2019
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Interior design by Lewelin Polanco
Jacket design and Illustration by Zoe Norvell
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Morgan, Leslie, 1965- author.
Title: The naked truth : a memoir / by Leslie Morgan.
Description: First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019000817| ISBN 9781501174100 | ISBN 9781501174117 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Morgan, Leslie, 1965—Sexual behavior. | Divorced women—United States—Biography. | Divorced women—Sexual behavior—United States. | Man-woman relationships—United States.
Classification: LCC HQ811.5 .M67 2019 | DDC 306.70973—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019000817
ISBN 978-1-5011-7410-0
ISBN 978-1-5011-7411-7 (ebook)
Naked Truth
The Naked Truth Page 26