By Kelly Berdine of Raw, Beautiful Life
I have a boyfriend, and he is so hot. He is my kids’ swim teacher. His skin is deeply tanned from triathlon training under the hot, tropical sun, and he has Chinese lettering tattooed on his lower back symbolizing his love for me; I lightly graze my fingers over them in the morning when I press myself against him from behind as he prepares my coffee.
He’s in his late 20s (we don’t speak of our ages; it’s part of the stimulating mystery between us); had I been an even more misguided teen than I already was, I am technically old enough to be his mother. We have an unspoken understanding of this, and from a deep respect for my experience, he submits to my guidance, gently shaping his ways as a kind, interested and supportive partner.
His youth is also a bonus as he grows into a step-father figure for my children: his energy is boundless, his childlike nature drawing him in to their Nerf shoot-outs while I look on lovingly over a glass of wine. Yet he is old enough that he can impart wisdom and life skills–like swimming.
His eyes are like the Afghan girl from Time magazine. Sometimes, when he talks to me, I have no idea what he is saying–I become transfixed in his gaze, and the world falls away. I had to tell him to stop making excuses to talk to me at the pool, because as my mind wanders when we lock eyes, so does consciousness of my body in relation to reality, like the time I stepped on a child running for her mother after class. And the time I tripped on my own flip flop. And the time I almost pushed my kid back in the pool because I passed her the towel a little too hard–at her face instead of her hands. Not only am I going to hurt myself or someone else, but our warm exchanges will soon give us away and no one can know about us! It would turn the world of swim mom politics on its nose.
He tosses his head back and laughs, saying sometimes he just can’t wait until we get home to the cute surf bungalow we share to hear my voice. Then he pulls me close, his gleaming, muscular shoulders enveloping and protecting my soul; he kisses me gently, whispering with a smile, “But OK, mi amor.”
After swim class, we drive home separately. We prepare grilled fish with the kids and laugh and eat together on our bohemian, lantern-lit terrace. After a game of Junior Scrabble, played with my feet in his lap, we snuggle with the kids and take turns reading bedtime stories. When they fall asleep, we enjoy one more glass of wine together and make sweet, passionate love under the stars. In the morning, I am stirred awake by a massage; he then prepares my coffee and bounds out the door to run and swim and be muscular and gleamy in the hot, tropical sun as I retire to our bohemian terrace to write my novel.
I am so lucky. We really do have it all. The only stumbling block in our relationship is that he does not yet know we have one.
That, and he doesn’t know my name.
This is OK. I will write it on a scrap of paper along with my phone number and ball it up in his towel that I will accidentally mistake as mine for a moment and then return to him with a charming “Oops!” from behind my gently tousled hair, held just off my face by a little pinned braid I fashioned to exude youth and irreverence.
Now, let me peel this soaking wet swim cap off the side of my face that my son just threw at me to signal that class is over.
This is my secret cougar love affair. Every Tuesday and Thursday from 4:00-5:00.
This post was originally published on Raw, Beautiful Life.
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About Kelly Berdine
Kelly Berdine is raising two kids as a single mom on a rogue South American island, where there are toilet paper shortages and people paint stripes on donkeys to make them look like zebras. She’s had cancer, is discovering love for herself, and how to surf once again. Though she kung fus with self-doubt, you can find her laughing at stuff, making all the art she’s had backed up in her mind since age five, and hustling her “I Can” on her blog Raw Beautiful Life, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.