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Imagine Your Second Life

March 27, 2017 2 comments

A second life does not mean an afterlife or reincarnation. I want to imagine being me, with the opportunity to live an additional life. I think I’d like to begin at eighteen, knowing everything I know now. I’m eighty years old, and I’ve always lived an interesting life with many challenges and many changes. Changes are naturally traumatic to most people, but I seemed to flourish amid many changes.

I crank myself back about sixty-two years, and I am immediately stuck between a rock and a hard place. As I have grown old, I have learned of lifestyles and career potentials that never entered my mind. In the 1950s, television didn’t present such wonderful insights into the Earth and the Universe.

In recent years, I find myself sitting in front of a television screen and watching wildebeest plunge into rivers amid crocodiles. Cheetahs chasing elegant antelope were also stunning videos. Somebody was there, witnessing and preserving splendid events. I could have been that person, had I chosen to educate myself for that.

But a naturalist cinematographer was not the only thing I’d like to have been. I met people, ‘starving artist’ types, and realize I could be that way, living day to day, being creative among eccentric friends. I could have lived in Paris, and been one of the characters on the streets. But that’s not all.

I would have loved to be a sailor. I would have enjoyed being a steward on a private sailing yacht, or a crewman on an international freighter. I would have loved being an architect, designing buildings. I would have loved being a Park Ranger, living alone on a fire tower in the forest. I would have enjoyed living alone as a lighthouse keeper.

Now I realize that it would be difficult to live another life. It’s been tough enough living this one. However, after stumbling through a couple of decades of ignorance I was led to the creative field by a wonderful YMCA Guidance Test. Thereafter, I became a happy, satisfied writer and artist. All the same, filming on the Savannah…

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Unscheduled Meetings (conclusion)

June 17, 2015 Leave a comment

Riding down the Champs Elysees in a cream-coloured, classic Mercedes cabriolet was a rare experience. Add to that the fact that behind the wheel was an elegant, beautiful older woman and I was enjoying an experience very few men would ever have.

“Do you want to go to your hotel,” the lady asked, “or somewhere else?”

“The hotel will be fine, if it doesn’t take you out of your way, thank you,” I said.

“Nothing is out of my way,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“David Goldstone, what’s yours?”

“Rita Schwartz,” she said. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you.”

“Not really,” I said. “My parents were Jewish, so my heritage is Jewish, but I was in my teens when I became certain that there’s no god and religion is a very lethal thing.”

“So you’re an atheist,” said she. She manoeuvred the large Mercedes off the busy main streets that were crammed with traffic. Suddenly we were cruising along beside the river, the wind tousling our hair. I didn’t know where I was when suddenly she made a left turn and I saw the magnificent golden statue of Joan of Arc in the square in front of my hotel. She’s the reason the hotel is named the Regina.

“Thank you for this,” I said. “I’d have been in a fix out there alone. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You can thank me enough. Don’t forget, you’ve already given me a stack of euros when I was destitute.”

“Anyone would have done it,” I said. She looked at me sharply. “In Paris? Are you crazy?”

Rita Schwartz guided the open cabriolet gently up to the curb in front of the Regina. The doorman strode up quickly and opened the door for me.

“Il est agréable de vous revoir, madame Luxembourg,” the doorman said to the woman.

“Merci, Gaetan,”she said and switched to English. “Take care of my young friend, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Luxembourg,” He said.

“You said your name was Schwartz,” I said.

“I lied,” she said. Laughing heartily with a sound like musical bells, she drove off in the direction of Boulevard Honore.

I was tired. It had been a long day. I put the rich lady out of my mind and realized that I hadn’t eaten properly since sunrise. I hadn’t even taken much from the craft service table. I called down and asked for supper to be sent up to my room. Grilled trout, baby potatoes, green beans and coffee were on their way.

My room was fabulous. All the other guys on the shoot stayed on the fifth floor because the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. But there’s a sixth floor and that’s where I wanted to be. My deck was like a section cut out of the roof so I could pass through the French doors and look down into the courtyard. The walls were thick with ivy and tiny yellow birds flitted in and out among the greenery. Far down at the bottom of the courtyard a few people were enjoying drinks at small tables in the open air. I could almost smell the Pernod.

My supper arrived. I barely looked at the server in the white jacket while the meal was laid out on a table on the balcony. I was looking across roofs and saw the backs of some buildings where people were on their small balconies, relaxing after a day’s work. I looked down at the table setting. It startled me to see that it was laid out for two and I was dining alone. There was a bottle of Crystal Champagne that I had not ordered cooling in an ice bucket. I looked up to question the server. It was the woman from the Mercedes.

“What’s going on here?” I said.

“I thought it would be fun to share supper,” she said.

“Mrs. Luxembourg…”

“Please,” she interrupted, “call me Cecillie.”

We shared what turned out to be a terrific meal with a view over the rooftops of Paris. I had this exciting woman across from me, and I just decided to enjoy it. I don’t usually drink, but I put aside my usual rule and shared the really fine wine with her. Of course she became even more attractive as the bottle emptied, and simultaneously my inhibitions diminished. It didn’t matter that she was twenty years older than me. She was exciting, funny, and damn good looking for any age.

Cecillia was also relaxed by the excellent Champagne. When supper was done, she rolled the cart out of the room. I wondered how she’d got it up the stairs from the floor below where the elevator ended but didn’t say anything.

My room was “L” shaped, and around the corner from where I was on the balcony I couldn’t see her. A moment later she came into view wearing my terrycloth bathrobe.

“I’m going to shower,” she said. “Care to join me?”

It was a huge shower, all small white tiles everywhere but the ceiling. There was room for five people in there, but it was just the two of us. She shrugged off the robe and handed it to me. She walked off to the bathroom proudly naked. She looked marvellous, to be honest. Her age was visible, but not unattractive.

I stripped down right there in the living room and entered the bathroom naked. The shower hissed and steam swirled in the open area. I stepped under the spray face to face with her. She took my face in her hands and drew me to her kiss. I took the soap and lathered her whole body. Slowly, with the hot water dowsing us, I explored every inch of her body, spreading lather over her satin smooth skin.

She rinsed herself off and took the soap to lather me up as I had her. Her hands were strong and gentle, and she knew very well how and where to touch. When she had rinsed me off, she knelt in front of me. The water beat down on her. Her hand cupped my scrotum while she delivered oral caresses.

We turned the shower off and towelled each other dry. The lights from the city gave slight illumination when we slipped into the bed. I kissed my way down from her lips to her toes, with special pleasures around her nipples and rather flat tummy. I circled around to take her toes into my mouth for a moment. It made her giggle. I slowly kissed my way up her legs until I got close to the thick, curly hair.

The fragrance of her nectar was irresistible. I did not resist. We made love deeply.

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