It’s no contest: Her secret is better than his
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BY the time I hit my late 20s, I learned to dread the question of my age. I was in graduate school and I’d met a pretty undergraduate. We saw each other often on campus and she seemed to have taken an interest, but I always avoided any mention of how old I was. Then one day I told her it was my birthday.
“How old are you?” Veronica asked cautiously.
I took a deep gulp of air. “Twenty-nine,” I admitted.
“What?!” she recoiled in horror. “I’m only 19! That’s 10 years!”
“Yes, I know,” I replied in shame. Any interest she’d had in me was gone.
I’ve always looked young for my age, both a blessing and a curse. As I’ve grown older and my peers have married, I’ve inevitably dated younger women. Some of my male friends advise that I simply lie for as long as I can, but that’s not my style. The guilt eats away at me. More often I just keep quiet on the subject for a while, looking for an opportune moment to fess up.
But as I learned lately, there are secrets and there are secrets.
When I dated Christy from London it was an all-time high for me in age discrepancy. She was 23 and I was 36. I managed to stay mum for weeks on end. She was only in town for a month, so the relationship was short-lived anyway. Should I tell her at all? Did it matter?
On Christy’s last night we drove across the city for a final dinner out. “I wish I could stay longer,” she said absent-mindedly.
“Too bad you don’t have that magic money machine,” I replied, reminding her of an earlier comment she’d made.
Christy sat quietly for a moment. “I used to sort of have one,” she finally admitted. “I’m sitting on it right now.”
“What?” I thought. My eyes opened wide. I looked at Christy beside me, then back to the road ahead. Was she telling me what I thought she was telling me? Suddenly I felt lightheaded. Everything was blurry. This girl I had come to know so well. . . was a hooker?
When we got to the restaurant I was in a state of shock. We had a quiet dinner and then headed across the street to a coffeehouse.
I couldn’t put off the questions any longer. Where exactly did she work? Was she afraid? About disease? What got her started? Christy told me everything. For two years she’d worked at a “full-service” massage parlor. She was indeed a hooker.
“What if some big, fat, ugly guy came in that you just couldn’t stand the sight of?” I asked.
“I would say, this is a massage parlor and I don’t do that. But I remember one guy gave me $100 just for a hug.”
So when my own shock subsided, I came clean on my own dark secret. I told her my age.
“Really?” she replied, awe-struck. “You’re the oldest guy I’ve been with! Besides professionally, I mean.”
After all of the anguish I’d felt about my age I realized now that everyone harbored secrets, some much darker than others. In the end my age just didn’t matter. Now if my age comes up I admit it. I don’t broadcast it, but I don’t hide it either. There’s no sense worrying one way or the other.
The next morning I drove Christy to the airport. At the departure terminal she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly. This, I thought, must be the $100 hug, I thought as I squeezed her back.
