Love Quest SlutFest
I don’t even know where to begin with this one.
I woke up in the middle of the night spewing lines. I finally found words for the story I had been avoiding, but when I went to write them down, my mind went blank.
A part of me is ready to share, but a part is hesitant to step into this level of vulnerability on a topic most people shame.
Society has taught us that promiscuous women are “ruined” and “used”.
I’m tired of that story, so here’s mine…
I had a meaningful sensual connection with a man who happened to be the age of my father. Or grandfather? I never asked, and he never mentioned it.
I must admit, I was curious.
I tried to calculate his age from his retold memories, but he never said anything to give away his age. Always referring to events as emotions and locations instead of dates and times. The best clue I got was a run-in with a Rocky Horror Show member at some point in his late teens or 20s.
But he had gray hair and wrinkles so definitely old.
I guess I’ll start with the beginning: meeting on a mountain top in Tucson, Arizona.
I referenced him before as Mountain Man #2 (MM2), but I left out the juiciest parts.
Everything really.
All I gave was an introduction, but it was so much more.
More as in spending hours on the phone catching each other up on the parts of our lives the other missed. More as in I redirected my road trip and drove across state lines to visit this man.
He’s the first one who encouraged me to write a book – my travel memoir.
I remember where I was when he asked me something like,
“Are you collecting stories from your travels and writing a book?”
A fitting question after I’d had the idea earlier that day as I switched campsites from Sedona to Payson.
“I am” I replied as I wondered how he could’ve possibly known what I’d been thinking.
That was the first of many instances when this man knew exactly what I was thinking. It was the first time I’d experienced a telepathic connection with someone.
MM2, a man old enough to be my father/grandfather, set a new standard for any future partner.
Side note: I’ve self-analyzed this old man kink. I’m fully aware of it and wrote about it.
We talked for hours that first phone call. Me in the woods in Arizona and him riding his motorcycle home to Los Angeles.
The phone calls continued as the days went by and I moved south to Apache Junction. I was sitting in my hammock trying to catch a midday breeze when he sprouted the idea to visit him in California.
Why not? It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.
I was intentionally wandering to wherever felt right in the moment. After hours of talking to a stranger on the phone, it deserved the opportunity for a second encounter. Face to face.
I wasn’t expecting much, and he wasn’t either. That was the beautiful thing about it.
We recognized the connection but understood the reality.
I was the same age as his son (if I had to guess), and I had a one-way ticket to Europe in a month. At best, this was an artist exploring his muse and a woman ready to get laid by someone worthy of her time.
Did I mention he was an artist? A guitarist and singer who used to be in a band. Plus, blue-eyed with blonde poking thru his greys. A hottie.
I agreed to go to California
when he asked, but I didn’t know it was the right decision until later that day.
I was hiking on a dusty trail near camp, smoking the weed he gifted me the week before. As I was regretting my midday hike in the desert, I had the realization,
F*ck it. If Amber Rose can host a SlutWalk*, I’m gonna have a SlutFest.
A Love Quest SlutFest.** Respectfully of course.
Just so we’re on the same page, according to Oxford Languages:
Slut has been misused for too long and deserves a connotation shift. Especially when there are old men pursuing women the age of their children or younger. No one, woman nor man, deserves to feel shame for a high sex drive.
Here we’re slapping it in front of the word fest.
Because a fest is always a good time. And people deserve to have sex with someone they’re attracted to, regardless of (legal) age or what others think.
So I went along with the idea of why not and planned to head west later in the week after a full moon festival in Phoenix with a pitstop in San Diego.
When I arrived in San Diego,
I wasn’t impressed.
First, it’s hilly. Not ideal for someone sleeping in their car on the street.
Second, my first interaction was avoiding a stalker in a Walmart parking lot. That was followed by a college student trauma dumping about her cheating boyfriend.
Plus, I had to show my driver’s license every time I wanted to shower at Planet Fitness.
Not off to a good start, but I can make the most of anything.
I visited the famous sea lions and tried to ignore the smell. I walked around and admired the ocean view and architecture.
The next day I went to Coronado Island beach for a mini-shrooms trip. (Mini because I was alone in public in a strange place and because it’s all I had left.***)
Every trip feels like a therapy session.
This one had lots of journaling and free-flowing ideas while playing in the sand.
After a few hours, I could feel myself coming down, and I went to eat and shop. I found a postcard to send to my mother (coincidentally exactly where I’d end up in Los Angeles) and a reusable bag that I’m still carrying almost 2 years later.
I remember having the urge to buy MM2 a guitar pick, but I quickly ignored the thought. That’s too specific to search for in these tourist-catered shops.
I drove back to the city,
ate some more and found an art gallery to peruse. As I was debating how to spend the rest of my evening, I got a call from MM2.
He wants to see me. Tonight.
What else do I have to do? San Diego was only a pitstop anyways.
We coordinated timing, and he booked me a hotel room for the next three nights. A blessing since I promised myself I wouldn’t spend any more money on a place to sleep after I crossed the Texan border.
I found a Planet Fitness en route, showered, and made my way north for the two-hour drive to see a man I met for 10 minutes on a mountain.
The drive was quick and easy.
It wasn’t until I pulled up to the hotel that I had my WTF am I doing moment.
I didn’t think past getting to the hotel. It was like my brain was on auto pilot: shower, plug in address, drive.
It doesn’t help that it was almost midnight. The sketchiest sh*t always goes down at night.
Looking back, I can’t even remember if I told anyone what I was doing (because of the possible judgment) but knowing friends had my location must have gave me some peace of mind.
By the time I was parked, it was too late to question my decision. He was in the room expecting me.
I texted him that I had arrived, and he told me how to find the room. I walked upstairs to him waiting outside the door in his boxers and a white T-shirt with a huge grin on his face.
F*ck. He looked older than I remembered.
We got to chatting, and it was as smooth as it was over the phone.
I mentioned my idea to buy him a guitar pick, and his face lit up. He brought his guitar to play for me, but he lost his pick. Next time I’ll listen to my intuition and get the gift.
There’s more chatter, but eventually it comes time to do what we both came here to do…
This is the oldest man I have ever slept with, and I’ll admit, I was hesitant.
The hotel room in a random city only added to the porn star feel of it all.
I’ll spare you the details for now, but it was fun. Was it the best? Definitely not, but I had a good time.
He left soon after to go back to his home in the city and get ready for work the next day. The next two days was him coordinating times to come back to the room and f*ck me silly between his work obligations.
This must’ve been what Julia Roberts felt like in Pretty Woman.
I was dumbstruck at my luck of getting such a nice place to stay. For free.
Oh, how I missed a bed and a tv. The first day I watched The Office for hours. I spent the rest of my time on the beach and reading Living in the Light by Shakti Gawain (10/10 recommend) in bed.
It was in this bed that I got a text from my mother asking where I was.
She was worried because wildfires were sweeping across Arizona. I let her know I was safe in California, and she responded with something like,
“Oh good. I was praying for your safety.”
I wondered what she’d say if she knew the bed I was prayed into but decided it best not to mention it.
By day three
We could both sense the end to this fling. We said our goodbyes over brunch and didn’t bother to promise to keep in touch.
Some things are better this way. Ending the memories on a high note.
I spent the next few days further up the coast at the home of a woman I met when I started my road trip. I even got to visit a friend in town from NYC (another coincidence).
After almost a week in Los Angeles, I drove back to Arizona. Sped really.
Los Angeles gas prices are insane. I don’t know how people justify living there.
It’s easy to write about it now since so much time has passed, but it took a while to process. It took me days before I could even journal my feelings about my time in that hotel room with a man I’d never see again.
A man with charisma and a slew of jaw-dropping stories who saw me for who I am: Strong.
Reflecting, I hope he’s doing well. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to know.
When we parted, he told me he was hiding a terminal illness from his friends and family. He didn’t expect to live much longer. Like I said, some memories are best left on a high note.
If you stuck around until the end, I hope you enjoyed reading.
Don’t be shy,
Everything I’ve written is from my memory, texts, pictures, or notes journaled with some details left out for privacy.
You probably also noticed several links to other stories I’ve written. If you subscribe, you’ll get an email every time I post a new story so you can stay in the loop.
*Fitting that this movement started because of a man’s comment in Toronto, where I’m writing this.
**Welcome to my thoughts when I’m high 😊
***Psychedelics and all mind-altering substances need to be used with caution. They are not a 1:1 substitute for therapy with a professional.