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About May

Four months after meeting May for the first time, I’m still thinking of her.

It was a warm summer night; I was lying on the grass, naked under the golden moon. A few days before, I had discovered my boyfriend wore panties, and I had cheated on him with the French teacher — we had made love in the dunes. I needed redemption, hoping to find it in the prosecco cocktail box I had laboriously dragged from home.

May appeared out of nowhere. “Alcoholism is a lonely place to be,” she said.

“I know, but my life is a living nightmare right now. And it’s my life, not yours.”

I thought I was hallucinating. I’m rational enough to know there’s no way a prosecco drinking witch could suddenly materialize in the middle of my garden. And yet, I was willing to discuss the days of my life with her. Was she my sixth sense talking to me? Who cared? I needed the time off.

May was nonplussed. “These are normal secrets, you know? When I was your age (when Wham and me wore shorts), I was a dirty groupie girl, and I became spell bound. But I got out of it. You know how I did it?”

I didn’t, obviously, but was willing to ask.

“I set myself some goals. Small ones at first. Because challenges help you fly. Day by day, I created a space for someone like me.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll use it. Maybe tomorrow even.”

She didn’t buy it.

“Stop that. Respect must be earned, not demanded.”

And with these words, she left me in the garden, naked under the golden moon.

Four months after meeting with May for the first time, I’m still thinking of her.

I realize I was seduced by an older woman, and I like it. No need to give me back my moments, May; I love them.

All the links above point to an article by May. As you can see from the titles, she’s a versatile author. For the sake of recommendations, here are three stories I particularly liked.