A Round-Heeled Woman Read Online Free PDF

have some dark moments about it. Seeing ads like
yours
(
there aren’t many
)
remind one that it’s not over yet. Best of luck—
I’m sure you’ll find what you want, with that courage!”
I wrote back my thank-you, ending with
“Placing the ad didn’t take much courage. It’s
the next step.”
I had no idea what the next step would be.
    The second letter I answered came from England. It was from Paul, age fifty. I flicked the letter toward the
no
pile—fifty was just too young, England too far—and then a sentence caught my eye:
“My partner died of cancer earlier this year. We had been together
many years, and we had a wonderful, loving relationship. She was 15 years
older than I and died at the age of 64. Many people did not approve of the
age di ference, but we had a full and energetic sex/love life which showed no
signs of diminishing until she was too ill to enjoy such pleasures.”
Paul had included two photographs of himself, one leaning against a very full bookcase gazing thoughtfully (and very attractively) into the camera. I felt his sadness and answered,
“I am sorry for your loss.
From what you describe of your relationship, you were fortunate to have
found each other. Those who disapproved were of course simply envious.
May your life be rich again.”
And in the way that I began to develop and refine as I wrote to one man after another, I threw in a tease.
“I plan to be in England next fall. . . . If you are still a free man,
perhaps we can meet.”
    What fun this all was. And so, except for those letters in the
yes
pile, I decided not to include my mailing address or my e-mail address or my phone number. I ended each letter with only my name. Seemed the sensible, the wise, thing to do. I would grow bolder in the weeks to come.
    This triage was fun. I was having a party and, finally, every man present was paying attention to me! I picked up a long blue envelope with a famous name in the upper-left corner. This would be a definite
yes.
Whoops, a photograph. The fully erect penis belonging to the very famous name stared up at me. A self-portrait. Well, there it was again: a naked man or part of one. I still couldn’t look very long. I read his note:
“Your message-in-a-bottle caught my eye in a pleasing way. . . . Much of what goes on in the
world amuses me, and I tend toward the sardonic view while remaining appreciative of life’s ironies and serendipities.”
Well, he could write, no doubt about that. But I tossed Famous into the
no
pile, another decision I would come to regret. I had no idea that not many weeks hence I would recall the photo, not with disgust but with longing.
    Now, in the first flush of triumph, I sat on my futon taller than ever before and considered the standards I had conceived during this first-round draft. They were rules gathered from my own experience and intelligence—I was feeling especially smart—that would guide me and those fortunate enough to become my lovers. Hubris, hubris, oh Jane, watch out. How come nobody who has hubris knows it? If you have hubris, are you automatically a hero? Are you automatically blind so that even in the end, somebody else has to tell you, like the chorus? If we did know, would we rid ourselves of it? Of course, if we did, there would be no stories, no plays, novels, poems; well, there would be poems—there are always poets and always will be— hubris is not big with poets. I was just at the beginning of my hubris, with more to come, so my rules came easily:
    Political Affiliation
    Never sleep with a Republican even if he looks like John McCain. It would be sleeping with the enemy.
    Personal Affiliation
    No married men. I was grown up now, not like in the early years of my marriage, when I thought this one little affair would enliven my stuporous married life. I was wrong; all I got was a stuporous affair. I was through lying in bed listening to guilty