Ruth (continued)
The soccer mom from Brooklyn who traveled half-way around the world to cheat on her husband.
Part 1: (https://medium.com/digital-global-traveler/ruth-a5b2d08a0f26)
I often find myself in deep conversations while traveling and encountering new people from different backgrounds. Usually these conversations take place with an underlying and shared sense of, ‘We won’t see each other again, so why the fuck not?’
It’s among the purest situations one can encounter in life.
That said, I had never heard a 50-something-year-old, American soccer mom speak so rawly to me before.
Even my own parents kept most of their skeletons hidden in a closet, with a lock I never found the key to. That specific age-group, 50s-60s, stayed at a distance from me, having never totally been able to connect their life experiences — and I mean intense ones of lust, love, regret, and so on — to my own.
So when Ruth began telling me about Amir, the Egyptian man she’d met while traveling in Morocco, back in the 1990s, while she was still in her early 20s — I listened curiously.
“He was the first guy to ever make me cum,” Ruth explained, with a clear longing to experience that thrill once more.
“It was like an explosion for me, for my body and mind. I didn’t know guys could be like that. And we did it over and over again.”
Sitting behind the hostel reception desk, I stared at this woman whose age and style would have cast her much more perfectly behind the wheel of a mini-van in a suburban elementary school pick-up line, than in a youth hostel stuffed with broke, stoned, and drunk mid-20-year-olds — all of whom were asleep at this late night hour (or, I guess, early morning).
The wrinkles on her face melted for me. She was no longer some older lady, instead a regular human with crazy emotions and stories, the ones we all have.
“Looking back on it, it sounds like some cheesy fucking movie,” she said. “This highly-social but kind of nerdy girl, from small-town America, goes abroad and explores her sexuality.”
“But I swear, I never forgot about him. The way he looked at me. The way he’d touch me. I don’t know, he just always stuck.”
I nodded in understanding, and urged her to continue.
“He cried in front of me when I left. And I cried when I was on the plane home.”
After her little jaunt through Southern Europe and Morocco in the mid 1990s, she returned to the US, but not really “home” because Ruth had sworn she’d never go back to live in Arizona. Inspired by the world, love, and opportunity, of course she chose to move to New York City — where she’d crash at a friend’s apartment for the first few months.
“I was embarrassed, well ashamed is probably the better word, ashamed at how shallow it was. I wouldn’t say it out loud to anyone then, but I’ll tell you now. I moved to New York with the goal of meeting some rich and successful guy to start a family with.”
“And with my newfound sexual confidence, and the same charm I’ve always had,” Ruth looked at me with a sly, sarcastic smirk, “I accomplished that stupid goal within the first few months. I met my husband Dave, this tall and handsome Wall Street guy.”
“Wait, what’s your name?!” she stopped herself to ask me, surprised this information was still missing.
“I don’t think it matters, Ruth,” I replied playfully.
The anonymity of our late night talk, almost therapy session, made her feel more comfortable anyway, so I couldn’t have cared less if she knew what my story was.
She continued, “You see, Dave is hot. He’s rich. He does everything and anything for me. But the sex with him has never been like what it was with Amir.”
“We have two kids, and I love them. I love our little family, our little life in Brooklyn. But I always kept in touch with Amir. We’ve exchanged letters, secretly, mostly sexual, ever since I left him in Morocco.”
“Does your husband know about Amir?” I asked.
“Well he does now,” she stared into my eyes, which I found to be a bit weird. “Enough was enough, I need me some Amir again.”
“I told Dave a week ago. About everything. I had just booked my flight here to Seville, where I’m staying for a few nights before heading to Morocco.”
I matched Ruth’s gaze, “And what did your husband say?”
“Well, at first, he looked off with a blank and somewhat angry expression. We were in the kitchen, and I mean, it probably hit him like a ton of bricks. I’ve been faithful our entire relationship, minus these letters with Amir. But I explained to Dave that we just had a different sexual connection, and I needed to go explore it again.”
“And?” I pressed.
“He went to the bathroom for 15 minutes. I don’t know what he did in there, maybe look in the mirror, cry? But he came back out and told me to go. And that he would wait for me in Brooklyn with the kids.”
“So here I am.”
I looked at my phone, and the time was 5 AM.
“Ruth,” I said, “It has been a pleasure. Good luck with everything, but I’m gonna close shop here and get some sleep.”
“Wait, what?” She responded, “At least tell me your name. Or like let’s exchange phone numbers in case you’re ever in Brooklyn.”
“I think it’s better we don’t,” I insisted as I gave her a hug, “Good night.”
