Jeremy Edwards - My Fantasy, Her Story
There's no reason I need to know whether the fortyish woman I found sexy as hell in 1985 thought I was a cute twentysomething. It wouldn't have mattered then (we were both happily attached and monogamous), and it matters less now.
Don't get me wrong: I liked to *fantasize* that she thought I was a hot young pup. Hey, it still makes a great fantasy, even though I'm now older than she was then. As we know, the past can exist quite vividly in fantasyland.
But discovering the truth of her internal reaction to me--whether my presence made her want to lick her lips or roll her eyes--was not necessary to enjoying the fantasy. It might even have interfered with it.
And then, a quarter century down the road, I had the opportunity to write for Jolie du Pre's Cougar Book.
The story I tell in this anthology, "Boston. Breasts. Bohemian," is not my real-life story of the mid-'80s. But it draws on some elements of my memories. And through the puppet show of my characters--who only resemble me and "her" a smidgen--I indulge the fantasy.
And yet, as I tell it now, it is not a young man's fantasy. It is my conception of *her* story, my attempt to envision her needs, her passion, her perspective, and her complexity.
Here's a taste of the tale, narrated by my protagonist Claudia:
I was never taken with the ambitious ones. Even if they were nice ...even if I judged that their interest in bedding me had nothing to do with their career aspirations ... I simply didn't respond to their suits, their calculating punctuality, and their disconcertingly smooth adaptation to the yuppie milieu of 1980s Back Bay Boston. Damn it, a twenty-two-year-old--male or female--should not look totally natural with a briefcase, I thought.
No, I liked the guys with the ratty knapsacks. The guys who weren't sure when or when not to drink at lunchtime; who didn't see that as cool as their thrift-store vintage jackets looked on the hanger, they didn't fit right; who still believed, thank goodness, that it was their art or writing or music that mattered, and not getting to the"day job" five minutes early--and who would say so out loud in their cubicles, being too naive to realize I listened from my open-dooroffice around the corner. They figured I disapproved of their chronic tardiness and forgave them; but in reality I loved them for it. It made me want to fuck them. It aroused what had never died in me, no matter how many meetings I had to take with marketing people and accountants and lawyers: my passion for beauty. And my passion for young men who really, really cared about something--who weren't, for instance, too occupied or tired or lazy to go see some incredibly important underground band I'd never heard of on a Wednesday night,even if it meant they had to walk home afterward and get short changed on sleep. I had no intention of listening to the latest "amazing"album, but I wanted to know my bohemians bought it the day it came out.
WIN - Six different authors will stop by this week with excerpts from their stories to give you a taste of the different genres covered in this one hot anthology! One reader who leaves a comment on each of this week's posts (March 8th - March 14), will win an autographed copy of THE COUGAR BOOK!!! Be sure to leave your email address so we can contact you if you're the winner!!!