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Excerpts
RHODA'S MEMOIR, RHODA: HER FIRST NINETY YEARS IS NOW AVAILABLE AT:  www.Amazon.com
         Why not?. . . A Love Affair At Seventy-Two
           We met in April, 1990. I was seventy-two and Peter was eighty-five. He was the best lover I ever had, gentle, caring and sensitive. His orgasms were so intense that he would cry out, and he told me that sometimes he almost passed out. This made me feel powerful and enhanced my own pleasure. But I'm getting ahead of my story.
           Our meeting came about through Peter's son. Raoul had greeted me at breakfast on the final Saturday of a teacher's conference in San Francisco with the words, "You look wonderful, Rhoda. What's happening in your life?"

           "Not much," I had answered. "I've just celebrated my seventy-second birthday, and I'm tired of traveling alone. I'm thinking of advertising for a companion."

           "You ought to meet my father," said Raoul. "My mother died eight years ago; my father likes to travel and he likes women."

           "That's good," I replied. "I like men. Is he committed to anyone?" I had had it up to my eyebrows with married and unmarried men looking for a quick fling.
Rhoda and Peter
Rhoda and Peter



















        RHODA AND PETER
           Raoul said that his father had a girl friend in Paris who lived on a houseboat on the Seine, and that they fought all the time.

           I decided Paris was far enough away and gave Raoul my card, saying, "Ask him to call me."

           When I returned to Berkeley, I found Peter's message on my answering machine, and called him. We arranged to meet at the Frank Lloyd Wright County Office Building in Marin. "How will I know you?" I asked.

           "I have gray hair and I wear my glasses around my neck."

           "Okay," I said. "I have gray hair and I wear my glasses on my face. I'll be wearing a brightly embroidered jacket from Thailand. See you tomorrow."

           As I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted a handsome, medium-sized man in a gray cashmere pullover, an expectant look on his face. He had sharp blue eyes and his mouth turned up at the corners.

           After a simple lunch, Peter told me of his arrival in the United States in 1908 from the French Alps with his three older brothers and his mother and father. He talked about living in Plainville, Kansas, moving to Vancouver, Canada after Plainville burned down, and eventually ending up in Seattle, where he became a member of a prestigious artists' group.

           When he finished his story, he told me he had a two-bedroom condominium in Santa Rosa and invited me to dinner. I was teaching that night, I said, but we agreed that I would come to Santa Rosa the following weekend, which included a celebration of Earth Day.

Rhoda and Peter
The Rocking Chair



















       THE ROCKING CHAIR 		           At an arts and crafts exhibit in Bodega Bay I fell in love with a hand-built walnut rocker, shaped like a welcoming human figure, its curves fitting my back in a subtly caressing way. I couldn't get that rocker out of my mind and talked about it the next morning.

           "You should buy it!" said Peter. But I explained that the price was the same as a trip to Russia for teachers, and that I'd already put a down payment on the trip.

           "You can always go to Russia," he said, "And I'll go with you. Call him up. Make him an offer."

           I did call, and after hanging up the phone, I leaped up and flung my arms around Peter, giving him a big hug. "He said yes! He said yes!"
           Peter clutched me closer and gave me a big, open-mouth kiss, his tongue exploring me. Pulling back, he looked at me and said, "Let's go to bed."

           "Why not?" I said. It was only eleven a.m. And THAT was the beginning.



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