Sunday and Sam

by Simone Westfall — April 25, 2007

What is it about roast chicken that is both sexy and soothing? (Besides which, it's about the only foolproof dish I know how to make.) I like to mix garlic and herbs with butter and stuff it under the skin of the drumsticks and thighs. Then I put half a lemon and half an onion in the cavity. Truss that baby and pop it in the oven and you've got a splendid dish that fills the house with seductively homey scents.

Sam arrives at six on Sunday, looking pretty seductive himself in a long-sleeve polo shirt and jeans (nice ass, for a guy in his 50s). He brings a couple of bottles of wine and an overnight bag. I put the bird in the oven and pour us some wine. We're a few sips into that first glass, seated on my couch, when he makes a classic and expert lunge and we're back in the lust zone, kissing, and on our way into my bedroom in no time flat.

Now, if you're over the age of 12, you pretty much know how this works. What's interesting to me, always, are the quirky particulars, one of which, in Sam's case, happens to be that he is spectacularly endowed. The other is the way he regards my middle-aged body with a certain awe and reverence that extends even unto his fingertips. In the flickering candlelight, his face reminds me of certain noble Roman portrait busts--he looks far less boyish on the horizontal. The intensity of his expression is a huge turn-on, and the chemistry is, as they say, awesome.

The chicken comes out overdone, but with a salad and wild rice and a bottle of Pinot Noir, this is certainly a fine post-coital meal, and we polish it off in our bathrobes. Sam tells me stories about his family, his domineering father and sweet-natured mother. There was not much sex education in his school or household, he adds, and he was terrified to so much as touch himself until he went off to college. "I was brought up to believe that sex is something you 'do' to a woman."

"You're doing just fine," I say, grinning.

I tell him my favorite sex-ed story, which was related to me years ago by the aforementioned friend Harriet, mother of three. When her eldest child, Melissa, was about 10 or so, she went running to her father, "Daddy, daddy, I just heard that to get a baby a man sticks his penis in the lady's vagina. Is that so?" she demanded urgently. "Er," said Alex, "go ask your mother." And so Mel went running to Harriet and tearfully asked the same question "Yes, I'm afraid that's the way it works, dear," she said. "And you did that three times?" her daughter demanded. "Well, no," responded Harriet, not missing a beat. "Actually we did it four times. We had to practice."

Dessert is a lot more fun than what I'd planned, berry sorbet and macaroons, and for the rest of the night, I can well believe this guy hasn't been getting much for the past two years. In the early-morning hours, my dachshund, Howard, lets out a series of low mournful howls (he's not used to being shut out of the bedroom), but Sam sleeps right through the keening. He's up and ready to go at six, dressed sweats for his early-morning aerobics class, while I am deeply craving more sleep. Sam refuses my offer of coffee, and even volunteers to walk Howie. But I pull on jeans and a sweater, snap the leash on the dog, and lead him outside to the curb, where Howie pees happily and Sam and I part with a chaste, almost connubial kiss.

And then I head back to bed for the next two hours. What bliss to sleep in the warmth left by Sam's big body.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in The Dating Life, click here.