Gigolo — A Love Story
“Will your son be living with you?” she asked, tucking some grey hair behind her ear.
It was 1994. Stephan and I, after years of renting, were searching for an apartment to buy in Manhattan. Although charmed by the garden apartment of this curious owner, I offered my smuggest smile while Stephan clarified, “I’m her husband. Let’s go.”
Stephan is sixteen years younger than I am. That year I was 51. He was 35. By then, we had been together for twelve years. We no longer thought daily about how odd we looked together as a couple. Our friends had long since accepted our age difference — or so we thought. It was the reaction of strangers that regularly reminded us of our peculiar combination. Those reactions sometimes ignited our righteous anger. We knew that if a man of 51 and a woman of 35 had been looking at this apartment, the owner would have assumed they were a couple. No questions.
In the era of #MeToo I feel compelled to write about our audacious relationship that, despite certain celebrity partnerings, is perhaps one of the last sexual love taboos and which challenges exactly the kind of abuse of power that so many men have been accused of in the rolling stone of this patriarchy-defying movement
“Will you be taking separate rooms?” we have been asked at hotel reception desks even when we had a reservation for only one room…
