This is a leap backward, not progress. He also happens to be twenty years my senior. Ours is a love between kindred spirits: harmonious, nurturing, and hard-to-find. In my twenties, I had landed myself in similar situations, albeit unconsciouslyβpandering to the affections of older men who, without question, would pick up the check, the flight, and sometimes, the rent.
A decade ago, sugary men of means swept down with such breathless regularity that I had to wonder if the next mid-forties bachelor or divorcee bestowing his affections had been merely biding his time across the room of the party, waiting to pounce.
Probably not too much of a shock: these men who were so ready and willing to pay my way turned out to be not sugar daddies but sugar scoundrels, with only their own interest in mind. Steve was a real estate developer in his early forties who had also started his own private airline probably illegal, definitely short-lived.
I was flattered, and had never flown in a private plane before. What was the problem? We touched down only to discoverβsurprise! I tried my best to smooth things over, pretending the trick was all good fun, and Steve flying us to Mexico instead of the Bahamas without our knowledge or consent was no big deal. The festivities commenced that evening with an awkwardly romantic group dinner on the beach.
Servers descended with Dom Perignon and steak; the pilot and his wife now acquiescent, they politely smiled and played along. Steve tore along the shore, jet-ski slamming the waves while Robin and I parasailed above. Far below, the coast gleamed, the turquoise water brilliant. Our adrenaline rushed on the wind. A margarita-infused lunch followed, everything paid for by Steve.
