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Authors: Marilyn Baron
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fascinated with the subject of significant others. After all, my mother seemed about to get involved with one—Max—a man I had yet to meet.
“Do any of the significant others end up getting married?” I asked.
“I’ve had friends who did get married,” Aunt Helene answered. “From the outside it looks great. I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. Some significant others maintain their apartments. A lot of women who have gotten remarried gave up their apartments and were very sorry because the relationship didn’t work out and they got divorced within a few months. Then there’s the problem of who gets the apartment—who leaves and who stays. Harold and I were content the way it was. I didn’t need marriage. I keep very busy with my girlfriends. But I also like the idea of having a date all the time, and I liked the affection. When Harold and I cruised together, we shared a room. It never bothered me. Of course he was eighty-seven years old. When we cuddled, that was terrific. The cuddling, the head on each other’s shoulders, was sufficient. I didn’t want to go any deeper. There comes a time in your life when sex is not the most important thing. Does that shock you, Honey?”
“No,” I said, grinning. In light of what was happening in my own marriage, concepts about sex and acceptable behavior were already beginning to shift.
“When you get to be as old as I am, nothing shocks you anymore,” Aunt Helene laughed.
“You’re not old. You’re younger than my mother.”
“Age has a way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. Your mind is as active as always, and you want to go all the time. But I have arthritis. My hip hurts a little bit. Oh, well, you just go on, try to exercise, eat well, keep your weight down, and the rest is in God’s hands. Women may not think anything about living with a man or having sex with a man, if the man can, that is. But it’s not the safest thing. There are men here with AIDS.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, my mouth opening in surprise.
“Yes. It’s a low percentage, but men go out of the Gardens looking for women. Just the other day there were people here from the health department giving an educational lecture, and they were distributing condoms in different colors—blue and pink ones—in the clubhouse. They were warning women, ‘You don’t know who this man has slept with before. You meet a gentleman for the first time, he takes you out to dinner, and he expects to be paid for dinner. He’ll say, ‘Let’s go to my house and have sex.’ Harold wasn’t like that. I wasn’t in love with Harold like I was with your uncle,” Aunt Helene admitted, “but being with him still gave me a good feeling.”
“Do you think you’ll ever find someone else?” I asked. “Stop me if I’m being too nosy.”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t think I want a long-term relationship anymore,” Aunt Helene answered, throwing back her head and laughing. “Even the term long-term is relative around here. I have fond memories of both my men. But I’m getting on in years, and I like the idea of total independence. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who goes out looking for a man, like some of the women here. If a man asked me to go to dinner or a movie, and I think he has a brain in his head, I would go. I do believe in destiny, finding your soul mate or perfect match. If it’s going to happen it’s going to happen. I guess you’re never too old for love or sex.”
I blushed.
“You know there’s no shame in a woman going out with a man, going to his house, living with him. In a community like this, surrounded with older residents, it’s accepted behavior. Well, not by everyone. There’s this group, Seniors Against Sin, that’s distributing these awful red flyers all around the complex. It’s disturbing. I haven’t gotten any. I guess because I’m not currently in a relationship. But some of my friends have been singled out. Everyone
“Do any of the significant others end up getting married?” I asked.
“I’ve had friends who did get married,” Aunt Helene answered. “From the outside it looks great. I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. Some significant others maintain their apartments. A lot of women who have gotten remarried gave up their apartments and were very sorry because the relationship didn’t work out and they got divorced within a few months. Then there’s the problem of who gets the apartment—who leaves and who stays. Harold and I were content the way it was. I didn’t need marriage. I keep very busy with my girlfriends. But I also like the idea of having a date all the time, and I liked the affection. When Harold and I cruised together, we shared a room. It never bothered me. Of course he was eighty-seven years old. When we cuddled, that was terrific. The cuddling, the head on each other’s shoulders, was sufficient. I didn’t want to go any deeper. There comes a time in your life when sex is not the most important thing. Does that shock you, Honey?”
“No,” I said, grinning. In light of what was happening in my own marriage, concepts about sex and acceptable behavior were already beginning to shift.
“When you get to be as old as I am, nothing shocks you anymore,” Aunt Helene laughed.
“You’re not old. You’re younger than my mother.”
“Age has a way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. Your mind is as active as always, and you want to go all the time. But I have arthritis. My hip hurts a little bit. Oh, well, you just go on, try to exercise, eat well, keep your weight down, and the rest is in God’s hands. Women may not think anything about living with a man or having sex with a man, if the man can, that is. But it’s not the safest thing. There are men here with AIDS.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, my mouth opening in surprise.
“Yes. It’s a low percentage, but men go out of the Gardens looking for women. Just the other day there were people here from the health department giving an educational lecture, and they were distributing condoms in different colors—blue and pink ones—in the clubhouse. They were warning women, ‘You don’t know who this man has slept with before. You meet a gentleman for the first time, he takes you out to dinner, and he expects to be paid for dinner. He’ll say, ‘Let’s go to my house and have sex.’ Harold wasn’t like that. I wasn’t in love with Harold like I was with your uncle,” Aunt Helene admitted, “but being with him still gave me a good feeling.”
“Do you think you’ll ever find someone else?” I asked. “Stop me if I’m being too nosy.”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t think I want a long-term relationship anymore,” Aunt Helene answered, throwing back her head and laughing. “Even the term long-term is relative around here. I have fond memories of both my men. But I’m getting on in years, and I like the idea of total independence. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who goes out looking for a man, like some of the women here. If a man asked me to go to dinner or a movie, and I think he has a brain in his head, I would go. I do believe in destiny, finding your soul mate or perfect match. If it’s going to happen it’s going to happen. I guess you’re never too old for love or sex.”
I blushed.
“You know there’s no shame in a woman going out with a man, going to his house, living with him. In a community like this, surrounded with older residents, it’s accepted behavior. Well, not by everyone. There’s this group, Seniors Against Sin, that’s distributing these awful red flyers all around the complex. It’s disturbing. I haven’t gotten any. I guess because I’m not currently in a relationship. But some of my friends have been singled out. Everyone
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