Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile the monk, who had only pretended to go to the wood, had hidden himself in the corridor, and when he saw the Abbot entering the cell by himself, he felt quite reassured, being convinced that everything was proceeding according to plan. And when he perceived that the Abbot had locked himself in, he was left in no doubt whatsoever. Emerging from his hiding-place, he quietly crept up to a chink in the wall, through which he saw and heard all that the Abbot was doing and saying. The Abbot, deciding he had spent enough time with the girl, locked her in the cell and returned to his room. And after a while, hearing the monk and supposing he had just returned from the wood, he determined to give him a jolly good scolding and have him locked up, so that he alone would possess the prize they had captured. So he sent for the monk, put on a stern face, reprimanded him most severely, and ordered him to be locked in the punishment-cell. Without hesitating for a moment, the monk replied: ‘Sir, I have not yet been long enough in the Order of Saint Benedict to have had a chance of acquainting myself with all its special features, and you had failed until just now to show me that monks have women to support, as well as fasts and vigils. But now that you have pointed this out, I promise that if you will forgive me just this once, I will never again commit the same error. On the contrary, I shall always follow your good example.’ The Abbot, who was no fool, quickly realized that the monk had outwitted him and, moreover, seen what he had done. Being tarred with the same brush, he was loath to inflict upon the monk a punishment of which he himself was no less deserving. So he pardoned the monk and swore him to secrecy concerning what he had seen, then they slipped the girl out unobtrusively, and we can only assume that they afterwards brought her back at regular intervals. FIFTH STORYThe Marchioness of Montferrat, with the aid of a chicken banquet and a few well-chosen words, restrains the extravagant passion of the King of France. As they listened to Dioneo’s story, the ladies at first felt some embarrassment, which showed itself in the modest blushes that appeared on all their faces. Then, glancing at one another and barely managing to restrain their laughter, they giggled as they listened. When it came to an end, however, they gently rebuked him with a few well-chosen words, in order to show that stories of that kind should not be told when ladies were present. Then the queen turned to Fiammetta, who was sitting on the grass next to him, and indicated that it was her turn to continue. Whereupon, with a cheerful smile towards the queen, she gracefully began:

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Thus it is no small surprise to me the next morning, when I recount the details of my date with #8 to my friend Ana during our weekly coffee date after Pilates class, to hear her reaction. She loves to hear about my sexcapades and I describe the awkward scene, how he was watching a movie while we ate lunch and then how physical the sex was, how hard it was to keep up with him, then how when I came it was so strong, I actually felt like I had lost control of my bladder but that I had checked the sheets and I had not, in fact, peed. I tell her that even the idea that I had peed in this strange man’s bed was so embarrassing, that I am now re- thinking ever having sex with a stranger again. “Could it have been that he hit your G-spot?” she asks, seriously pondering the situation I described. “What? No, it wasn’t like that at all,” I say. “Hmmm, because that once happened to me and it was so surprising, but it’s never happened again,” she says. “What makes you think it was your G-spot?” I ask. “I really don’t know how I knew, I just did. I guess because it was so different from anything that had ever happened during sex before,” she says. I ask if she had been actively aiming for her G-spot, if she did something specific to get to it. “No, it just happened, and I have never been able to make it happen again,” she says. “Like magic,” I say, and she agrees. “Who were you with? Was it someone very well endowed?” I ask. “It was with my husband!” she says. “It’s more about the positioning than size, I think. It felt exactly as you described, like my muscles had tightened so much that when they released, they overcorrected and everything just flooded open. I remember feeling like I had peed.” “I’m genuinely confused. I thought the G-spot was something totally different,” I say. “I thought it was on the outside, like some mythical spot on the clitoris.” She smirks at me, suggesting that she’s more of a sexpert than I am and I can’t deny it. I pull out my phone and google “G-spot”, study the images and then pout. “I’m so upset. I squandered it! I stopped it in mid-air. Now it may never happen again and I’ll never really experience the glory of it. I was scared of it, there was no joy or satisfaction, no earth-shattering thrill. I wasted my shot at the G-spot.” She suggests that the solution is to sleep with #8 again, but I admit that I don’t want to.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  4 And after sitting there together for a while, she turned to Pyrrhus, to whom she had sent word beforehand of what he was to do, and said: ‘Pyrrhus, I long to have one or two of those pears. Climb the tree and throw some of them down.’ Pyrrhus, having swiftly clambered up, began to throw down some of the pears, and as he was doing so, he called out to Nicostratos saying: ‘For shame, sir, what are you doing? And you, my lady, how can you be so brazen as to allow it in my presence? Do you think I am blind? Until a moment ago you were very ill; how can you have recovered so rapidly? If you wanted to indulge in that sort of thing, you have plenty of fine bedrooms in the house – why don’t you go and do it in one of those? It would surely be more seemly than doing it here in my presence.’ The lady turned to her husband, and said: ‘What’s Pyrrhus talking about? Is he quite mad?’ Whereupon Pyrrhus said: ‘I’m not mad, my lady. Do you think I can’t see you?’

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Like the easily achieved orgasms I take for granted, I’m certain that my G-spot has gotten plenty of action, but I would be hard-pressed to describe it beyond the description I would give the intense pleasure of an orgasm. Thus it is no small surprise to me the next morning, when I recount the details of my date with #8 to my friend Ana during our weekly coffee date after Pilates class, to hear her reaction. She loves to hear about my sexcapades and I describe the awkward scene, how he was watching a movie while we ate lunch and then how physical the sex was, how hard it was to keep up with him, then how when I came it was so strong, I actually felt like I had lost control of my bladder but that I had checked the sheets and I had not, in fact, peed. I tell her that even the idea that I had peed in this strange man’s bed was so embarrassing, that I am now re-thinking ever having sex with a stranger again. “Could it have been that he hit your G-spot?” she asks, seriously pondering the situation I described. “What? No, it wasn’t like that at all,” I say. “Hmmm, because that once happened to me and it was so surprising, but it’s never happened again,” she says. “What makes you think it was your G-spot?” I ask. “I really don’t know how I knew, I just did. I guess because it was so different from anything that had ever happened during sex before,” she says. I ask if she had been actively aiming for her G-spot, if she did something specific to get to it. “No, it just happened, and I have never been able to make it happen again,” she says. “Like magic,” I say, and she agrees. “Who were you with? Was it someone very well endowed?” I ask. “It was with my husband!” she says. “It’s more about the positioning than size, I think. It felt exactly as you described, like my muscles had tightened so much that when they released, they overcorrected and everything just flooded open. I remember feeling like I had peed.” “I’m genuinely confused. I thought the G-spot was something totally different,” I say. “I thought it was on the outside, like some mythical spot on the clitoris.” She smirks at me, suggesting that she’s more of a sexpert than I am and I can’t deny it. I pull out my phone and google “G-spot”, study the images and then pout. “I’m so upset. I squandered it! I stopped it in mid-air. Now it may never happen again and I’ll never really experience the glory of it. I was scared of it, there was no joy or satisfaction, no earth-shattering thrill. I wasted my shot at the G-spot.” She suggests that the solution is to sleep with #8 again, but I admit that I don’t want to. Instead, I will put #6 to work.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I catch my breath, hoping my shockingly loud crash followed by the fall of the shower rod will bring #7 running to help me, but the apartment remains eerily silent. I slowly wiggle myself forward an inch at a time until I am out of the narrow sliver of space and can sit up, disentangling the shower curtain from my arms. I wince in pain as I try to rise to my feet. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I whisper to myself over and over again. A moment later there is a light tap on the door, which I assume is the daughter who has been waiting patiently to use the one bathroom in the apartment. I freeze. “Sorry,” I say finally, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice I can muster. “I’ll be out in a minute.” She doesn’t say anything and I don’t hear footsteps, so I am unsure if she’s waiting at the door for me to exit. I push the rod, which had been secured by suction to the walls before I disturbed it, back into place, recoiling in pain as I lift my arms and cause another flash of pain to sear across my ribcage and down my legs. I right the trash can and pick up the used Q-tips, dental floss and dirty tissues that spilled out when I landed on top of it and are both on the floor and pressed into my lower back. Finally, satisfied with my cleaning job, I survey the room, desperately seeking something to use as a cover when I bolt back to the bedroom – but the only towel I see is the small hand towel I used a moment ago. I give it 50:50 odds that #7’s daughter is standing mere inches away from me on the other side of the door, curious to see me emerge. I step back to the shower, deciding the only solution is to take the flimsy shower curtain off the hooks and wrap myself in it, and almost cry with relief at seeing a bath-size towel that must have fallen into the tub during my ordeal. I pluck it out of the tub, wrap it around myself, open the door and attempt to walk out in a ladylike fashion, all but ready to curtsy to the daughter waiting for me. Thankfully, she’s not there, so I dash to #7’s room and slam the door shut behind me so she will know the bathroom is now available and I can get #7’s attention. No such luck. He is lying naked on his back on the bed, exactly where I had left him minutes earlier, and he is snoring. Loudly. “Mark,” I say sharply.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIFTH STORY The Marchioness of Montferrat, with the aid of a chicken banquet and a few well-chosen words, restrains the extravagant passion of the King of France. As they listened to Dioneo’s story, the ladies at first felt some embarrassment, which showed itself in the modest blushes that appeared on all their faces. Then, glancing at one another and barely managing to restrain their laughter, they giggled as they listened. When it came to an end, however, they gently rebuked him with a few well-chosen words, in order to show that stories of that kind should not be told when ladies were present. Then the queen turned to Fiammetta, who was sitting on the grass next to him, and indicated that it was her turn to continue. Whereupon, with a cheerful smile towards the queen, she gracefully began: Whereas men, if they are very wise, will always seek to love ladies of higher station than their own, women, if they are very discerning, will know how to guard against accepting the advances of a man who is of more exalted rank. For which reason, and also because of the pleasure I feel at our having, through our stories, begun to demonstrate the power of good repartee, I have been prompted to show you, fair ladies, in the story that I have to tell, how through her words and actions a gentlewoman avoided this pitfall and guided her suitor clear of its dangers. The Marquis of Montferrat 1 was a man of outstanding worth, who had sailed as Gonfalonier of the Church with a Christian host on a Crusade to the Holy Land. 2 And one day, during a conversation about his merits at the court of King Philippe Le Borgne, 3 who was also preparing to leave France to join the Crusade, a courtier observed that there was not a wedded couple under the sun to compare with the Marquis and his lady; for just as the Marquis was a paragon of all the knightly virtues, so the lady was more beautiful and worthy of esteem than any other woman in the world. These words left such a deep impression on the French king’s mind, that without having ever seen the lady, he at once became fervently enamoured of her, and decided that under no circumstances would he embark for the Crusade at any other port but Genoa, so that, by travelling overland, he would have a plausible pretext for paying the Marchioness a visit. In this way he thought he would succeed, since the Marquis would be absent, in bringing his desires to fruition. He lost no time in putting his deep-laid scheme into effect. Having sent all his men on ahead, he set out with a small retinue of nobles, and as they approached the territory of the Marquis, he sent word to the lady, a day in advance, that she was to expect him for breakfast on the following morning.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  The playing field gets way too small.” I ask if lowering his age has worked as he had hoped and he concedes that it indeed has and gestures to me as proof. We’ve successfully broken the ice and can now get to the basics. He’s never been married and he tells me a story about a woman he was engaged to who turned out to be pretty wacky, so I get the sense that he’s not serious relationship material, which is just fine with me. When I see Johanna walk by our table on her way to the restroom with a hand shielding the side of her face so she can make it clear she isn’t looking at us, I laugh. As the waiter clears our mugs, #8 tells me that he’s had a great time talking to me and asks if we can see each other again. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Just one thing I have to be upfront about. I’m dating a lot right now, I like to be open about that from the beginning so there are no misunderstandings later,” I say, blushing again. He laughs, so I ask earnestly, “Is that too much to share? I’m not suggesting you’re looking for anything exclusive, I just have to say it or I’ll worry I’ve been misleading.” “No, don’t worry, I appreciate your being so open. And I’m dating lots of women too, so we’re even. But while we’re confessing, I may as well tell you something too,” he says. “What, you’re not really 53, you’re actually 83 and preternaturally youthful-looking?” “Ha, no! I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober for five years. Some women find that unappealing, they want to be able to go out and let loose and drinking is a big part of that. I mean, I don’t mind if you drink, I just want you to know why I won’t.” I thank him for sharing with me, but let him know it’s not an issue. We head back outside into the cold. Walking next to him, I feel tiny. I don’t think I come up past his shoulders. I have long since recognized that I like being smaller than men I’m dating, but I don’t particularly like feeling like a child. We head down into the subway station together and he walks me to the downtown platform to say goodbye. We feel a rush of wind as the train zooms into the station and suddenly he is bending toward me, his lips pressing against mine. The doors of the train are already open and I smile at him as I hastily jump on before the doors close. There is something decidedly unromantic about being kissed in the middle of the day on a dirty subway platform under dingy fluorescent lights, but I guess the kiss goodbye is as mandatory as the hug hello?

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I hesitate for a second, remembering that moment weeks ago of indecisively lingering over the “purchase tickets” button that set my newly active single life in motion and then say “Sure” and hop off my stool to switch with her. This makes me feel almost like I’ve accepted an invitation to a date, but it wasn’t his invitation so I hope I’m not misreading his cues. And now here comes another woman, much younger than me, with a sweet smile and straight, compliant hair pulled back in a ponytail. She leans in with a kiss on the cheek for my new friend and I want to die for getting this whole thing wrong. He attempts to introduce me but we don’t know each other’s names, so we clumsily exchange them and now we are stuck here together, an awkward threesome. When the band welcomes the small crowd and starts playing, I am beyond relieved that I can stop trying to participate in their conversation. Bonus: soon the woman says she’s going to find her sister and wanders away, and she doesn’t say she is coming back so I am hopeful she won’t: we are fighting for limited supplies here and I am a scrappy but determined contender. The band is fun, upbeat and quirky. We are both smiling watching them and it feels like music that it would be impossible not to feel happy listening to. The hour that they play passes quickly and soon enough, they call it a night. “Do you want another drink?” he asks as the room quiets down. “I do, but then I’ll have to stay here a while until I can drive home,” I say. “I will take responsibility for keeping you company until you’re ready to go,” he says solemnly. I am incredulous. It does not seem possible that for the second time I have found and ensnared the one single man in the room, but I gratefully accept this gift from the universe. It will occur to me later that on both these nights, there were few other single women present, so it will seem less remarkable, possibly even comic that I gave myself and the universe so much credit. It’s quiet now, so we can talk without shouting. He lives nearby and this is his regular weekend haunt. He is a freelance writer whose passion for books, podcasts and music matches my own.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  He’s usually game for whatever I suggest as long as we are outside. We walk to a monument on the island and he explains the history of it as we sit on a stone ledge in the sun, Manhattan on one side and Long Island City on the other. He lies down and rests his head in my lap, and I am pleasantly surprised by this rare display of affection from him. When the sun starts to dim, we agree that we are starving and realize we are only a few stops away from a Thai restaurant in Queens that we’ve wanted to try. While we wait for a table, he heads to the restroom. The hostess approaches me to say that she has a table ready, but can’t seat us unless we’re both here. “No, it’s OK, we’re both here. My, um, my ... he just went to the restroom, he’ll be right back,” I stammer. I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment, realizing I could have just called him my friend, that she wasn’t seeking an explanation of who we are to each other. Who are we to each other anyway? On the outside we look like a middle- aged couple who’ve been married beyond the point of anyone caring, but the novelty of being out and about with a man who is not my husband is still very real to me. When he returns a minute later, I tell the hostess, “OK, he’s back, we can sit now,” as if we have some secret understanding of who “he” is. Later that night, talking in his bed before I have to head home, I sigh and tell him, “I need to up my blow job game. I want you to know that I know, lest you think I’m unaware.” He lets out a long, soft chuckle, asking why I just said that out of the blue. “I was just thinking about it. I’m not good at giving blow jobs, I need to improve. I’m a single woman and men love blow jobs. I’m on the case,” I say earnestly. “And don’t respond. If you tell me I’m good, I’ll know you’re lying and if you tell me I’m not I’ll be insulted. So whatever you’re about to say, bite your tongue.” “Well, I was just going to say you could use your teeth a little less,” he says. “What did I just say? I don’t want feedback, I just want you to know I’m actively engaged in improving my skills.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Rising from the bed to use the bathroom, which is down the hall, I ask when his daughter will be home and he says not until very late. I suggest that he check in with her before we go to sleep, but he insists that she’s fine so I decide that I have time for a quick naked run to and from the bathroom, not having any clothes here that are easy to throw on. I grab my toiletry bag and head down the dark hall. In the narrow bathroom, I take out my contact lenses and wash the makeup from my eyes, wiping dry on the small, well-worn hand towel next to the sink. I hear #7 pass by the bathroom on his way to the kitchen and I quietly open the bathroom door to step into the shadows of the hallway, standing naked as I brush my teeth, silhouetted by the light from the bathroom behind me. I see him in the kitchen leaning into the open fridge, appearing to pick at leftovers from dinner and eat with his fingers straight from the plastic containers. I’m about to comment about his late-night snack, but when I squint my eyes to get a better look and he slowly turns his head toward me, I realize with horror that it’s not him, it’s his daughter – the daughter who was not supposed to be home for hours. I take a flying leap backwards into the bathroom, grabbing the door to pull it shut behind me. Not thinking about how narrow the bathroom is and panicked in my mad dash to get out of the daughter’s sight, the heel of my foot slams into the bathtub and I land with a smashing thud on top of the flimsy wicker wastebasket – no doubt from the Dollar Store downstairs – wedged between the tub and the toilet. I had grabbed the shower curtain in a futile attempt to steady myself on the way down and succeeded only in bringing the entire rod and curtain down on top of myself. I lay now, jammed between the porcelain tub and the toilet with the garbage can pressing painfully into my back, a damp plastic shower curtain draped over me and toothpaste dripping down my chin onto my chest. I’m stuck, lodged between two large objects that have no give, and realize after taking a few deep breaths that the pain is not coming from the location of the trash can, it’s coming from my ribs, which I’m immediately certain I’ve broken.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Andreuccio replied that he would rather do without his companions that evening, and that he would place himself entirely at her disposal, if this was what she really wanted. She accordingly went through the motions of sending word to the inn that they should not expect him for supper. Then after a lot of further talk, they sat down to a splendid supper, consisting of several courses, which she cunningly prolonged until darkness had completely fallen. When they got up from table, Andreuccio said he would have to go, but she refused to hear of it under any circumstances, telling him that Naples was no place to wander about in at night, especially if one was a stranger, and that when she had sent word to the inn not to expect him for supper, she had told them he would not be sleeping there either. He swallowed all this, and since, being taken in by appearances, he was enjoying her company, he stayed where he was. After supper, she engaged him, not without her reasons, in a protracted conversation about this and that, and when the night was well advanced she left Andreuccio to sleep in her room, with a page-boy to show him where to find anything he needed, whilst she herself retired into another room with her maidservants. The heat was stifling, and so, on finding himself alone, Andreuccio stripped to his doublet and removed his hose and breeches, and laid them under his bolster. Nature demanded that he should relieve his belly, which was inordinately full, so he asked the page where he could do it, and the boy showed him a door in one of the corners of the room, saying: ‘Go through there.’ Andreuccio passed jauntily through, and chanced to step on to a plank, which came away at its other end from the beam on which it was resting, so that it flew up in the air and fell into the lower regions, taking Andreuccio with it. Although he had fallen from a goodly height, he mercifully suffered no injury; but he got himself daubed from head to foot in the filthy mess with which the place was literally swimming. Now in order to give you a clearer picture of what has preceded and what follows, I shall describe the sort of place it was. In a narrow alleyway, such as we often see between two houses, some boards, and a place to sit, had been rigged up on two beams, running across from one house to the next; and it was one of these boards that had collapsed under Andreuccio’s weight.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘It’s monstrous, sir, that you should refuse me a hearing, and try to withdraw without giving your verdict. Surely you don’t need written evidence to decide a trifling matter of this sort.’ And whilst they were saying all this, they held on to his clothes sufficiently long for everyone in court to perceive that he had lost his breeches. Then finally, Matteuzzo, having clung to them for some little time, released his hold and made good his escape from the courtroom without being seen, whilst Ribi, deciding he had done quite enough, exclaimed: ‘I swear to God I’ll appeal to the Senate.’ At the same time, Maso let go the judge’s robe on his side, saying: ‘I shan’t go to any Senate. I’ll keep coming back here, sir, until I find you in less of a muddle than you seem to be in this morning.’ Then they both made off in opposite directions as fast as their legs would carry them. It was only at this point that Master Judge, having pulled up his breeches before all those present, as though he were just getting up out of bed, became aware of the deception and demanded to know what had become of the two men who were arguing about the thigh-boots and the saddlebag. But when they couldn’t be found, he began to swear by the bowels of God that somebody should tell him whether it was the custom in Florence for a judge to have his breeches removed whilst sitting on the bench of justice. When the podestà, for his part, was told what had happened, he practically threw a fit. But when it was pointed out by his friends that this had only been done in order to show him that the Florentines knew he had brought fools with him instead of judges so as to save money, he thought it best to hold his tongue, and nothing more was said about the matter. SIXTH STORYBruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino. Pretending to help him find it again, they persuade him to submit to a test using ginger sweets and Vernaccia wine. They give him two sweets, one after the other, consisting of dog ginger seasoned with aloes, so that it appears that he has stolen the pig himself. And finally they extract money from him, by threatening to tell his wife about it. Filostrato had no sooner completed his story, which aroused a great deal of laughter, than the queen called on Filomena to follow, whereupon she began, saying: Gracious ladies, just as Filostrato was prompted to tell you the previous tale by hearing the name of Maso, in precisely the same way I too have been prompted by hearing the names of Calandrino and his companions to tell you another, which I believe you will find to your liking.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I know that I have embarrassed him but I don’t know if I will ever be able to receive even the most basic affection from him again, and I’m most certainly not ready now. When he walks away to find Georgia, I look up at the mom I had been talking to and shrug my shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” I say, wincing. “The very definition of awkward.” “Been there, done that,” she kindly replies. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.” I am aware once again that I am part of a new club, one that I wish I could refuse admittance into even though I do appreciate the camaraderie in it. I want to set the record straight, demand that people understand Michael and I were different – we’re not together now, sure, but we meant to stay together forever, we were a family, I am not supposed to be here. I don’t know how to pretend I’m one of the divorced moms’ crew while also maintaining the steadfast belief that I am not, that if one of them would just give me a map back to the road I had been on, I would gladly stay on the recommended route forever. A memory comes back to me in a painful flash. Months earlier, in the spring, when I was at Georgia’s school selling tickets to the talent show I was organizing, a mother approached with her daughter. When I realized that she was the mother of the one child from whom I did not yet have music, I asked her to please get it to me right away. She dramatically rolled her eyes and shook her head at me, saying, “That’s her father’s job.” “OK,” I said, “well then can you tell him I need it today?” “We’re divorced,” she said. “I feel your pain, I’m going through it myself right now. I just need the music though,” I said. She became animated then, leaning across the table toward me conspiratorially as she asked, “Who’s your judge?” “What do you mean?” I asked, confused. “There are only two judges at the court who handle divorce.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s not clear to me how that could possibly happen by looking at two-dimensional photos. Thus far, I’ve managed to meet men by going to bars, or agreeing to a blind date, all of which has served me well by giving me the illusion, albeit an admittedly false one, that I just happened upon these men – not that I was actively looking for them. Taking my quest online seems akin to posting a ‘Help Wanted’ sign. So when Karen brings her daughter over to play with Georgia one afternoon and I complain that I am soon to be kid-free for a couple of days but dateless and she suggests I take my search online, I am indignant, insisting that those apps are just hook-up sites. “And your problem with that is ...?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Fair enough. But I can’t make myself public like that. What if Michael is on one of these apps and sees my profile? Or a dad from school? Or a teacher from one of the kids’ schools? I can’t,” I say. “It would be embarrassing. It seems pathetic, like I can’t find a date on my own.” “You’ve got bigger fish to fry than worrying about being embarrassed. You’ve already proven that you can find a date on your own, but you have limited time and this is how people date now. No offense, Laura, but you haven’t dated since the last century. Do you want to be chaste or do you want to be back out there?” she asks. “Back out there?” I say as more of a question than a statement. “Right. So come on, let’s make you a profile on Tinder. It’ll be fun,” she says. “Fine, let’s make the profile and when I’m ready I’ll make it live or whatever you do with it,” I say. “But I’m not promising when that’ll be.” As the girls run in and out of the kitchen to get snacks, Karen and I uncork a bottle of rosé and get to work. She scrolls through photos on my phone, choosing one in which I’m dressed up at a bar mitzvah and looking playful, with a lot of bare skin showing, my face half in and half out of the frame. In the next one she picks, I am dressed in a fitted tank top with my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and my hand atop a Nutribullet, which I had been demonstrating for Jessica. She likes that I look natural in it.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I assume he will come right back, but I hear water running in the bathroom and a few minutes later he sits next to me on the side of the bed where I am lying. He is fully dressed. “Hey,” he says softly, and I gaze at him with sleepy morning eyes. “I’m going to the farmers’ market and then to yoga. Stay as long as you want, the door will lock behind you when you leave,” he says. My eyes widen and I grimace. “In other words, don’t let the door hit me on the way out,” I say. ‘”No, not at all. I like to get an early start on Saturdays but that doesn’t mean you have to. We’ll talk later, OK?” he says. “Sure, OK, bye,” I say, closing my eyes. A moment later I hear the front door close behind him. I am flabbergasted, not understanding what I did wrong to make him run out like this. I feel silly for having expected something more – a luxurious morning in bed, a cup of coffee, a shower together – and instead I am naked and alone while he shops for kale and organic eggs. I rise from the bed, smoothing the crisp white sheets and pillows so it looks like a hotel room after housekeeping has come. That’s how cheap I feel; I want him to look at the made-up bed and see my humiliation and loneliness in the perfectly fluffed pillows. My phone rings as I walk into my apartment, juggling keys and a cup of coffee I picked up on the walk home. “Yes?” I say brusquely, after letting it ring a few times. “Where are you?” #6 asks. I tell him that I’m home and he sounds surprised, saying he thought I would sleep in. “I felt weird staying there once you were gone and you weren’t going to be back for hours anyway,” I say. “But I came back,” he says, and I can hear his voice echo in the empty, still under-furnished apartment. “I’m so sad. I came home and expected to find you in bed but all your stuff is gone and the bed is made, like you were never here.” “That seemed how you wanted it to be. It’s not every day you have your first sleepover with a man and he leaves you alone to go to the farmers’ market and a yoga class. That seemed like a good cue for me to leave,” I say. “Please come back,” he says. “I canceled my yoga class, I messed up.” I hesitate, having already settled on my couch with my coffee and the newspaper, and still feeling stung by his rejection a mere half hour ago. He continues, “Please. I’m sorry. Just come. I made a mistake.” I walk the ten blocks back to his apartment. When I get there we climb into the freshly made bed.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  For we are unlikely to make proper provision for the future unless some thought is devoted beforehand to the matter. And therefore, with due reverence to the One who gives life to all things, and with an eye to our common good, I decree that on this coming day the queen who will govern our realm shall be Filomena, a young lady of excellent judgement.’ Having spoken these words, she rose to her feet and removed her laurel garland, which she reverently placed upon Filomena; after which, first she herself, then all the other maidens, and the young men too, hailed Filomena as their queen and pledged themselves with good grace to her sovereignty. Filomena blushed a little for modesty on finding that she had been crowned as their queen. But recalling the words so recently uttered by Pampinea, and not wishing to appear obtuse, she plucked up courage, and first of all she confirmed the appointments made by Pampinea, and gave instructions as to what should be done for the following morning, as well as for supper that evening, due account being taken of the place in which they were staying. Then she began to address the company as follows: ‘Dearest companions, albeit Pampinea, more out of kindness of heart than for any merit of my own, has made me your queen, I do not intend, in shaping the manner in which we should comport ourselves, merely to follow my personal judgement, but rather to blend my judgement with yours. In order that you may know what I have in mind, and thus be at liberty to suggest additions or curtailments to my programme, I propose to expound it to you briefly. Unless I am mistaken, I would say that the formalities observed today by Pampinea were both laudable and pleasing. And so, until such time as we should

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As many of you will know, either through direct personal acquaintance or through hearsay, a little while ago there lived in our city a lady of silver tongue and gentle breeding, whose excellence was such that she deserves to be mentioned by name. She was called Madonna Oretta, and she was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. One day, finding herself in the countryside like ourselves, and proceeding from place to place, by way of recreation, with a party of knights and ladies whom she had entertained to a meal in her house earlier in the day, one of the knights turned to her, and, perhaps because they were having to travel a long way, on foot, to the place they all desired to reach, he said: ‘Madonna Oretta, if you like I shall take you riding along a goodly stretch of our journey by telling you one of the finest tales in the world.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the lady, ‘I beseech you most earnestly to do so, and I shall look upon it as a great favour.’ Whereupon this worthy knight, whose swordplay was doubtless on a par with his storytelling, began to recite his tale, which in itself was indeed excellent. But by constantly repeating the same phrases, and recapitulating sections of the plot, and every so often declaring that he had ‘made a mess of that bit’, and regularly confusing the names of the characters, he ruined it completely.2 Moreover, his mode of delivery was totally out of keeping with the characters and the incidents he was describing, so that it was painful for Madonna Oretta to listen to him. She began to perspire freely, and her heart missed several beats, as though she had fallen ill and was about to give up the ghost. And in the end, when she could endure it no longer, having perceived that the knight had tied himself inextricably in knots, she said to him, in affable tones: ‘Sir, you have taken me riding on a horse that trots very jerkily. Pray be good enough to set me down.’ The knight, who was apparently far more capable of taking a hint than of telling a tale, saw the joke and took it in the cheerfullest of spirits. Leaving aside the story he had begun and so ineptly handled, he turned his attention to telling her tales of quite another sort. SECOND STORYBy means of a single phrase, Cisti the Baker shows Messer Geri Spina that he is being unreasonable. Madonna Oretta’s timely remark was warmly commended by all the men and ladies present, and then the queen ordered Pampinea to continue in the same vein. Pampinea therefore began, as follows:

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  I feel silly and am forcing a whole lot of chipper-ness, but I have nothing to lose and I am enchanted by the anonymity the site provides (though it turns out that I will someday randomly run into people I’ve exchanged messages with on Tinder, and after figuring out the connection, I will feel wholly exposed and most decidedly un-anonymous). I learn quickly about myself that I am a sucker for doctors, which is no surprise – I’ve always loved their authority and in truth, I’ve had crushes on many of them throughout my life, even convincing myself that some have been in love with me too (the most devastating being the doctor who joked that my allergic reaction to my wedding band was perhaps an allergic reaction to my husband, which I took as a veiled suggestion that I should consider him instead, until Jessica broke it to me that this doctor was gay and often spotted around the Village with a parrot on his shoulder). Ditto for firemen – if you’re part of the FDNY, I’ve probably clicked on your profile first out of respect and second because you’re probably young and hot. I also confirm that I am, true to being my mother’s daughter, an educational snob: if you have an Ivy League School attached to your bio, I am definitely pretending those close-mouthed smiles are you being coy and not having some strange tooth situation. And finally, I have to face that I am more shallow than I thought: a defined six-pack lets me forgive any man who posts a bathing suit shot of himself – unless he is visibly erect, in which case even the six-pack can’t save him. Conversational flirtations begin in earnest. There is a middle-school English teacher with a degree from Penn who seems funny and wry, with a close- cropped beard and friendly eyes. He asks me what kind of freelance work I do (thanks a lot, Karen) and when I reply that I am really a stay-home PTA mom, he writes back, “PTA! That’s hot.” This should give me pause but does not until later, when during an otherwise pleasant conversation, he asks me what I’m wearing and if I could dress up for him as a PTA mom. I ask with befuddlement why I would dress up as something that I in fact already am and when he replies, “Because I’ve been a very bad boy,” I promptly learn how to unmatch with someone. The kind and considerate businessman who raced home from work to coach his daughter’s soccer team?

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  When I give him the dates, he nods but doesn’t note it in his own calendar. “OK, we’ll figure it out,” he says. On the walk back to his car after dinner, I text #3 to tell him I am running late and will head over soon. #4 drives me back to his house, opens the front door and we head inside. I assume I am back inside for a quickie before I head out and I gather my long sundress in my hands and start climbing the staircase. “Oh sweetie, no,” he says, stopping me dead in my tracks. “I’m sorry, but it’s late and I have to be up early.” Luckily I am still facing forward and he is behind me, so he cannot see me wince in embarrassment at my overly forward misstep. His addressing me as “sweetie” is the worst part – condescending, like I’m a child trying to stay up past her bedtime. “Oh, OK, no problem, sorry, I just assumed,” I say, hastily thanking him for dinner before making my exit. Something between us just turned but I cannot figure out what exactly or why, and I’m distracted anyway by trying to assuage myself of the guilt I feel as I set my GPS to guide me the half-hour drive to #3’s house. Am I going to now sleep with #3 too? Is that obligatory? Two men inside me within hours of each other? I don’t feel dirty exactly – I mean, I did shower, after all, using copious amounts of #4’s daughter’s coconut body wash – but I do feel deceitful. I’m “all honesty all the time”, but I certainly can’t tell this kind, gentle man who I’ve been texting all day long for the past few weeks how bottomless I really am, how deep my need is right now that it can’t be met by just one man. What is too much? I wonder. Is this empowering or an indication that I’m unfillable, that the hole inside of me is so vast that I could throw more men into the mix and it would be like tossing Band-Aids at a life-threatening injury? I let myself in through the screen door and find #3 in his kitchen, cleaning up after a late dinner. I sit at the counter and we talk while his cats jump on the counter only to get gently nudged off, over and over again.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Our goodbye is quick and clumsy, with my thanking him for dinner while he gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek and quickly closes the door once I’m in the taxi. I wish I could crawl under the seat as I give the driver my address, a mere ten blocks away, as I am so embarrassed. A less than subtle suggestion that I head home and then not even a kiss goodbye? I can’t figure out at which point the date took a wrong turn. My experience so far has been that everyone wants at least a kiss goodnight. CHAPTER 27 Instincts In the taxi, I check my phone and see several missed calls from #5 and a series of texts from him starting with “How’s your night?” and ending with “Not cool that you’re not answering me.” I call him and he answers on the first ring. He sounds drunk, is talking loudly and angrily, accusing me of lying to him and demanding to know where I’ve been. I did indeed lie to him, which makes me feel bad, but I also question what I’m doing spending time with someone about whom I don’t care enough to be honest. Being spoken to like this is not worth the great sex – I mean, a little bit it is, but rationally, I know that it’s not really enough. I tell him that I won’t talk to him until he calms down and I hang up. Upstairs in my apartment, I text Lauren to let her know I’m home safe and sound, and she asks for details. “I don’t have any, I’m sorry to disappoint. We had such a nice time but then he stuck me in a taxi and barely kissed me on the cheek.” “Oh, Outlook, come on!” she writes. “That’s not how my girl works.” “I know. It’s a bummer. And he ruined my streak. Meanwhile I’m supposed to see #5 tomorrow but I have to cancel, he’s too much.” “OK then, don’t go and move on. You know my feelings. You don’t owe anything to any of these men. Bye-bye #5.” I toss and turn all night and at dawn text #5 to let him know I’m not coming as planned, and furthermore, I don’t think we should see each other anymore. I am hopeful that with that off my chest, I can get some sleep but he texts me back within seconds, apologizing for speaking so harshly to me the night before and insisting that I come as planned, that he’s been looking forward to it all week. I decline again, reminding him that I had told him I would give exclusivity a try, but that it’s not working for me, I have too much going on with Michael and my kids to also manage his expectations. The phone rings but I don’t pick up, so he texts again, “Please come. I want to see you.