Chapter One – Denim, Sweat and Linseed Oil
That’s what how I want my men to remember me. There’s a certain liberation in knowing that the men from your past don’t give a damn about what you think. Not that many men, but enough.
Recovering from Love is not about finding someone else, it’s about finding yourself. It’s a dance, you see. Part Apache and part minuet. Everyone should have a bruise or two, but no one should be injured.
We were the generation that studied the Kama Sutra. We were the generation that memorized Kinsey and The Joy of Sex with those flabby, hairy and eager Hippie drawings that clumsily recreated the poses drawn much more elegantly in the Indian texts, but possessing a happy American spirit buoyed by commitment and rebellion. You wanted to have an Old Man and you wanted to be his Old Lady. Orgies were rare and legendary.
Let me just look at you for one more minute and then I’ll leave. I won’t say a word, I’ll just stand here and breathe in your scent. Some women might say that you smell unwashed but it doesn’t strike my nose that way. Because it’s yours. I will remember that forever, the way it touches the back of my nose and fills my mouth with the taste of dried flowers; a blend of denim, sweat and linseed oil.
I remember you as velvet stone. Warm stone, carved by Michaelangelo. A strong back, wide at the shoulders, wet from the shower, head thrown back and water running down the curves of your back and over your strong bottom, dripping down your long, muscled legs.