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Toeing the line

T h e..i n v i s i b l e..w o m a n..
As age creeps into my body, my hands keep creeping
into younger men's pants. -


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By Virginia Vitzthum

June 29, 1999 | I'm 37, but I don't look a day over 36. Gray hair has begun to cluster up front: I could be headed toward a Susan Sontag stripe. My face is as lined as any 20-year smoker's; I gave up cigarettes a year ago, at which point my stomach quit being flat. When I get dolled up, men look at me and people in their 20s are surprised I'm "that old." But invisibility is creeping up.

If I lived in the other Washington, I'd use my fading charms to land a congressman or a GS15 in his 50s, then get my gray touched up at the spa with the other power wives. But my Washington is more like normal cities, where artists, musicians and writers form their tribes, collaborate, gossip and dye their hair primary colors. The hipsters in their 20s may still move to New York; those in their 30s and 40s probably won't.

Power in this sphere is more evanescent than on Capitol Hill. The youngest scenesters, the boys in the bands, wield their beauty and unlimited potential. Middle-aged power is harder to quantify, but everyone at my 20th high school reunion alluded to it. We've taken the world's measure, and we fit in it more comfortably than we did 10 years ago. We own some history and some wisdom. We knew not to buy bell bottoms this time. The distaff half of us also gets to try a new kink: being the older woman.




Virginia Vitzthum

Virginia Vitzthum's column appears every other Tuesday in the Urge edition of Health & Body

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A few years ago, my jeweler friend, Linda, procured me my first man born in the 1970s. Happily married, cheerfully abrasive, Linda always meets the best-looking man, straight or gay, in any room. One Friday night we went to see our friend's multimedia show and sat surrounded by screens full of video linked to throbbing electronic music. Linda got bored and went to the lobby, but I was entranced. Toward the end of the set, the group laid out a microphone for the audience. I headed toward the stage as devoid of musical talent as ever and yelped into the mike like Yoko Ono. I'd never done anything like that.

After the show, Linda herded me and the cutest guy from the lobby to a new dance club. I congratulated her on her acquisition and she squelched me: "I'm pretty sure he's gay. Hey, Jason, are you gay?" Jason sidestepped the question and started checking me out.

I was wearing my art bra with the doll hands sewed on and was still buzzing from the show. Linda left to bark some orders at the DJ, and Jason and I leaned against the wall of the club. I hunched a little so he'd be taller than me. He was lovely, with pink cheeks and excited eyes, the softest-spoken confident person I'd ever met. I sent "touch me" telepathy and cheered inside when he reached out and ran his hand down my bare side. We both looked down at his hand for a moment, then stared at each other, eyes widening as we figured out we were going to kiss.

. Next page | Acquiring a taste for young flesh



 

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