(I read without understanding that impotence was the nasty catch in the love story.) On lonely afternoons, I'd pay what I liked (25 cents) and pass the time wandering the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
In a near-constant state of emotional upheaval (the rush of hormones?
Every time we write about our romances, we're recounting the private coming-together of two individuals, drawing on conversations no neutral party was present to overhear.
I appreciated our close talks about theater and the stark distance he had from the sloppy boys—including my sad-sack Romeo.
In college, I dated almost exclusively grad students, including an aspiring theater director my mother laughingly called my "Svengali." As I reached my late twenties, however, a shift occurred: My fetish suddenly seemed to fit the cultural moment—one defined by thirtysomething man-boys and a generational deferral of activities such as marriage and procreation.
In the case of a prominent book critic, this was precisely the sort of performance that won my attention.
A writerly mind in cowboy boots, always eager to play up his remove from the Establishment, he courted me long-distance with two-hour phone calls, eventually flying me to his ranch out west.