My Boyfriend Was Old Enough To Be My Dad.
I don’t remember when or how I discovered Larry’s age. I only know that I tried very hard to ignore the number after I heard it.
Larry was 36 – and more than 16 years older than me.
When we were alone, it was fine. In spite of the wrinkles around his eyes (“so cute!”) and the male-pattern baldness he attributed to his helmet, I lusted wildly after this craggy, guitar-playing, motorcycle-riding outlaw.
But outside the walls of our apartment, it was hard.
And the most sickening, gut-twisting realization was that my own parents were only four years older than Larry.
Larry’s sister was my mom’s age. Larry’s mother was born before the Great Depression.
And Larry’s “baby” …? Larry’s daughter was 17 years old, only three years younger than me.
My boyfriend was old enough to be my dad.
I know: age is just a number. But as a college student, living with a balding man who was never carded by bartenders felt just … wrong. I believed 30-somethings ate jello and walked with canes; Larry may as well have been my grandfather.
So internally I cringed every time my youthful world collided with … him.
I lived with someone old enough to be my father, who grew up listening to my parents’ music, who went to school during segregation. Larry believed that men were in charge and women were arm candy.
To make matters more interesting, Larry came from a culture I’d never known existed. He worked with his hands. He read magazines instead of books. He didn’t own a tie.
And Larry was a biker. I’m not saying he owned a motorcycle; lots of people own motorcycles. I’m saying the motorcycle was the solid base for his entire world. A whole biker culture emerged in front of my eyes as I rode around on the back of that bike.
Everyone Larry knew owned a motorcycle. They hung out in groups and they all grew bushy gray-speckled beards and spat on floors of garages and always had oil under their fingernails.
Yet the cry of the biker – “Live to Ride, Ride to Live” – was a real world motto. This culture believed riding was the essence of life. Getting on a motorcycle and roaring into the sunset – or home from the bar, or off to the local 7-11 – was literally the only thing that mattered.
And the only real motorcycle was a Harley Davidson. The occasional Indian – a rare treasure – and/or a BMW or Triumph were tolerated, but there was no tolerance for anything made in Asia.
Larry and his friends believed in freedom above all else. They trotted around proclaiming rights for all Americans as they raged against anyone who had the audacity to purchase a Suzuki or Honda motorcycle, aka “Jap shit.” Larry considered anyone who didn’t speak English as a first language to be sub-human and simultaneously in line for his machinist job.
So here I was, an incoming college senior, learning that my middle-class existence wasn’t the only way to live. And I had been desperately yearning for a new way to live since before I picked up my first drink at age 15.
When Larry was 31.
It is important to note – in case it wasn’t obvious – that I’d inadvertently adopted a pseudo-parent. I would likely not have survived my alcoholism without Larry. He worked hard and he tried very hard to meet my basic needs.
Unfortunately, my “basic needs” were impossible to meet. I was insatiable.