Cruising By
Getting hit on for the first time in a long, long time when you’re a woman nearing 70 is a unique experience. Though I consider myself a card-carrying feminist, paid my dues in the consciousness-raising 70’s, proudly breast-fed my babies in the 80’s while getting a masters degree and even had a third kid at 45, dating post-divorce left me a bit cynical. When my libido finally quieted down, I really stopped caring, which was a welcome relief.
I still take pride in my appearance; even heading out for a walk I’ll touch up the eye-liner and before the Coronavirus put us all in masks, I’d refresh my lipstick too. Now a little gloss will have to do, at least until I get home and can sit outside awhile mask-less (wearing sunscreen of course) which helps me feel a bit less alone.
Maybe it was the black shorts. The gray tank top which is pretty much a boy’s undershirt. Slip-on sandals cast aside. Visor hiding my eyes, which probably added to my difficulty seeing who was passing by. My mother used to wave at everyone who waved at her, on this very same corner where she used to have her antique shop, even though she often couldn’t see who it was. No matter, so many people knew her and she knew so many, what’s an extra hello to someone who might be a stranger? They could just as easily become a friend.
I heard the music before I saw the boxy car with all its windows rolled down. And then the man driving, masked, waving to me and saying something I couldn’t make out. For a second I thought it might be one of the street vendors who used to set up outside Eastern Market; someone I haven’t seen in a long time. But I really didn’t know. I waved anyway. And then the car pulled to a stop around the corner, the man strode toward me — but not too close, proffering a string of commentary: nice ring, are you married? this must be your castle…
Tall, honey-colored black man in a white t-shirt, green sweats, baseball cap, white athletic shoes, arms out-stretched as he spoke and as I answered, trying to be both friendly and cautious, appreciating his flirtation while wanting him to keep a distance. A jumble of words: I thought you were someone else, yes, you have a great weekend…He got the hint and sauntered off, saying he could make me feel like 21 again, make me feel young again, like I just didn’t know. Actually, I do know. Actually, he was familiar to me. He was Bruce, another honey-hued man I’ve been carrying on a flirtation with since we were in high school. Kevin, a dark-skinned man I couldn’t let go of for most of 10 years. A man with the kind of confidence that leads him to park his car and approach a woman he doesn’t know, knowing he’s got the goods.
I wanted to thank him. But that would’ve opened up a conversation I might not be able to control. I wanted to reassure him that my rejection was just inhibition, not rejection of who he is. And of course fearing that he’d assume my rejection had to do with race. Little did he know, the reverse would be more true for me than not. That his attractiveness as a black man spoke volumes to me, as it always has. My friend Lois and I have been corresponding about this, about our histories as white women who often dated black or Latino men, the probable racially-biased undertones of that attraction.
But in that moment, as he walked away, somewhat chastened but still self-confident, I just wanted to thank him, to thank him for reminding me I’m still attractive, still a desirable woman in the eyes of a man. Sorry-not-sorry, goddesses of feminism, a honey-hued man still makes my head turn.
