His name was Gene. He lived in Tamarac, Florida. His ethnicity was Jewish and he was following an Indian guru, Maharaji.
He was short, just a few inches taller than me. He was five years older than me. He worked for the post office and owned his own apartment. He liked to stay active and fit. Wow. I thought I had found everything on my shopping list. He paid for my trip out to Florida for a few days to meet him. The meeting went well and we decided to engage in a semi permanent trial.
I still had two children at home, the youngest was 17. They were both working, and my son (the youngest) was ready to take the CHSPE (California High School Proficiency Exam). He passed!
Feeling liberated from my parenting duties, I closed my apartment and moved to Florida, while my children found other places to live, one with roommates from Craigslist and the other with my first offspring.
Nine months later I left one of the best jobs of my career to return when it didn’t work out with Gene. He was a good person, but I was unhappy being so far from my kids. That wasn’t it, I’m still far from them and I’m happy now. I liked his guru. I enjoyed his talks. Gene was taking antidepressants and we tried to get him off, but we couldn’t. He was really hooked.
The main problem was sex. He didn’t like for me to come. I don’t come very often anyway, just once every couple weeks or so, so it took me awhile to realize it was happening.
Then one morning, I was sitting on my meditation mat feeling sad, asking myself, “What just happened?” And I realized it wasn’t the first time, it had happened several times before, and that it had been a really long time since I had had an orgasm.
“Why,” I asked him, “Whenever I am about to have an orgasm, do you get uncomfortable and want to stop?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “Maybe we should see a counselor.”
The counselor, a woman, seemed angry at him when I told her what was going on. “What is the point of sex if not coming?” She demanded of Him. “You like to come! So does she!”
Later he told me he didn’t know what “orgasm” meant. He didn’t know women had them. When I got excited he thought I was acting like a man. At 62, he claimed to have been a virgin when we met.
I gave it another couple of months to see if things would improve. Finally, the last straw was being scolded, again, for not lathering up with soap when I showered, a conversation we had had over and over, with me explaining that overuse of soap was against the principles of natural hygiene, a science I thought we were both into.
I realize that some think exploring sexual compatibility issues prior to finalizing a marital contract is being unchaste. I am thankful that no one was judgmental toward me during my explorations, which culminated in my marrying a man with whom I am compatible in a multitude of areas. I was discreet. I didn’t tell anyone the sexual details until now, and I’m not using my real name on this blog.