A Morning At The Museum

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Marian looked with disappointment across her backyard. The handsome young neighbor, to whom she had been rubbing one out nearly every Sunday morning, had “stood her up” for the second week in a row.  “You need to get a life, woman,” she said aloud to herself. As tempting as it was to fire up some gay porn on her iPad and take up her frustration with a Hitachi on full power, she decided maybe getting out in the world would be a healthier choice. She showered and took stock of herself in the full-length mirror as she oiled and dried her long, silver hair. I’d fuck me, she thought to herself. As fifty-five-year-olds go, I’m pretty fucking hot. The tits and ass are doing their best to continue to defy gravity. My very expensive dermatologist is keeping this face together. I still get as wet as I did when I was twenty, and I fuck way better.  And indeed, fucking and getting fucked, were not Marian’s problem. Any guy over fifty wanted to bang the proverbial shit out of her.  It’s just that they couldn’t. Not the way she wanted. She’d developed this hunger for young men. Hard asses. Hard stomachs. Harder cocks. But her obsession was becoming stifling. She was resenting more than she was living. Time to get over it. Read a fucking book. Plan a trip somewhere. Go to the fucking museum. There’s more to life than pining for a young Brad Pitt. Mmmmm. A young Brad Pitt. Remember that guy in Paris? Remember those guys in Paris?  Wait, what about all the other things you did in Paris? Inspired, Marian laid out güvenilir bahis clothes for the day. She would turn her day in Boston into a day like she used to spend in Paris in her twenties. Nice lingerie, even though no one will see it. Check. Sexy polka dot button-front dress. Check.  Italian sling-backs. Check. Another button undone on that dress. Check.  Another one on the bottom, too. Check. Looking good and feeling good. Check and check.She walked up Newbury Street. The air on this bright, clear spring morning was a bit chilly, but invigorating. She stopped at the French bakery. A cup of French roast in a real cup and saucer. Half a ham and cheese croissant. She poked at her book — The Paris Wife — while she mostly peered out the window and occupied herself with memories of her twenties. At some point she felt the eyes of a man on her. Men think we don’t know. We always know. She glanced up and the handsome man in his forties looked away, then looked back again, then turned away once more, dismissively.  Marian had experienced this a thousand times. Out of the corner of the eye, she gave all the signals men were looking for. Was it the stylish dress? A little cleavage on a Sunday morning? The ass-length hair? The toned leg protruding from the opening in the dress?  But on the second glance these men would realize she was older, and her invisibility would return. Women could be the same. A couple of thirty-year-old females, on their way home from yoga given their attire, gave her the once-over. It güvenilir bahis siteleri wasn’t sexual. Not that Marian would have a problem with that. She’d consider youthful vigor in any form. No, it was judgement. “This woman should stop trying and give up,” was their indirect message. “We don’t need the competition.” Whatever.  Fuck them. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need him. She had herself and a world of beauty at her disposal, if she opened herself back up to it. She entered the park and walked along Fenway. The fine gravel under her leather soles felt a little like the Tuileries under her feet.  The sweet smell of the river reeds and the Victory Gardens reminded her a bit of the Jardin du Luxemburg. What would it be, the Gardner Museum or the Museum of Fine Arts? It had been ages since she was in either. The MFA seemed a tad more Parisian, and so she crossed over to the other side of the park. My god, how long has it been? Marian scolded herself. She used to go to the museum once a month. Now it had been over a year.  She still knew her way around. The moderns, the expressionists, the impressionists, and the portraits … that would be enough for this morning. Just her favorites.As she took in the one good Pollack she noticed the security guard watching her. Does he think I’m going to take it? She thought to herself. She moved on to the Kandinsky. The guard’s eyes followed her. He was young. Early twenties. He looked uncomfortable in his uniform. The blue blazer was iddaa siteleri untailored and a size too large. The gray slacks were probably polyester.  She strolled into the next room. The Monet dominated one wall. Some lesser Van Goghs were on the other. To Marian’s surprise the security guard followed. Maybe they have a route, or something, she surmised. Finally she got to her very favorite, the Portraits. And it was packed. The Sargent collection, already very good, had been turned into a special exhibit. They’d brought in other Sargent portraits from around the country, including the famous Madame X. She’d seen it in New York decades ago. She saw it differently now. The risque dress, the imperfect nose, the expression on the model’s face, struck her differently now. When she’d last seen it, she thought of the woman as older. Now, she thought of the woman as younger.  And she understood her better.  A nearly beautiful woman trying to make it in a man’s world. Walking that fine line of using male desire for her power, but risking downfall when the beauty faded.Marian took in the painting for at least ten minutes. She moved close to see the brush strokes, then backed fifteen feet away. Then back again. At some point she noticed the security guard again. Odd. There were two guards in the room already. She’d seen enough. The crowd bothered her. It was time to leave. She took the shortcut through the quiet and unbusy 18th-century French antiquities section. Louis XIV chairs and mirror frames and china. Boring. Which is why it was always empty. She enjoyed the sound her heels made on the tile floor, and then realized hers were not the only ones lightly echoing off the glass display cases. She turned and there was the young security guard. 

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