Indulge me.
A little experiment in imagination, in how we picture characters that arouse our… interest. In how we enter their psyches, how we recognize ourselves in them, how we empathize – or feel little affinity whatsoever.
Word painting to put forth a point, word painting to prove something, word painting that may prove nothing at all.
Indulge me in the experiment, nonetheless.
Story One
Waking in the night, beads of sweat above her lip and on her brow, she sat up and caught her breath. She glanced to her left at the pillow where she could still smell the scent of his shampoo. The dream was so real, she could have sworn they were making love just as they had the night before he left.
How long had it been? Two months? Two years? In these moods she was uncertain.
How much longer?
She threw the covers off the bed and padded into the bathroom where she studied her reflection. Circles under the eyes from too little sleep. She sighed. She turned to face the full length mirror. To face herself, slipping out of the Lakers t-shirt she slept in when he was away.
Her eyes surveyed the neck, then the collar bones, always a favorite feature. Next, her breasts, full, which had nursed three children one after the other.
Not bad, she thought.
There was “more of her to love” than when she was twenty of course, but the proportion from breasts to waist to hips was feminine enough, and she’d had no complaints from the man who still seemed to take pleasure in their nights together.
Her legs, muscular from running with the kids, were always the object of his admiration. Oh, how he would praise her calves and her thighs, and the way he sighed as she wrapped her legs around his waist, used their strength and suppleness to her advantage – and to his.
She went to the lingerie drawer and plucked the thin white box from under his letters. The stockings he’d ordered that she wore on special nights were there, waiting. She returned to bed and settled in, allowing her naked skin to remember though it had been four weeks and one more to go. She allowed her fingers to explore the contours of her body, as he would, leaving her to imagine…
That last night. Oh, that last night. He had proclaimed her “magnificent.” That he could still say as much after 14 years of marriage delighted her. At 36, she still had a little kick left!
* * *
Waking in the night, beads of sweat above her lip and on her brow, she sat up and caught her breath. She glanced to her left at the pillow where she could still smell the scent of his shampoo. The dream was so real, she could have sworn they were making love just as they had the night before he left.
How long had it been? Two months? Two years? In these moods she was uncertain.
How much longer?
She threw the covers off the bed and padded into the bathroom where she studied herself in the mirror. Circles under the eyes from too little sleep. She sighed. She turned to face the full length mirror. To face herself, slipping out of the Lakers t-shirt she slept in when he was away.
Her eyes surveyed the neck, then the collar bones, always a favorite feature. Next, her breasts, full, which had nursed three children one after the other.
Not bad, she thought.
There was “more of her to love” than when she was twenty of course, but the proportion from breasts to waist to hips was feminine enough, and she’d had no complaints from the man who still seemed to take pleasure in their nights together.
Her legs, muscular from running with the kids, were always the object of his admiration. Oh, how he would praise her calves and her thighs, and the way he sighed as she wrapped her legs around his waist, used their strength and suppleness to her advantage – and to his.
She went to the lingerie drawer and plucked the thin white box from under his letters. The stockings he’d ordered that she wore on special nights were there, waiting. She returned to bed and settled in, allowing her naked skin to remember though it had been four weeks and one more to go. She allowed her fingers to explore the contours of her body, as he would, leaving her to imagine…
That last night. Oh, that last night. He had proclaimed her “magnificent.” That he could still say as much after 14 years of marriage delighted her. At 56, she still had a little kick left!
Story Two
Waking in the night, beads of sweat above her lip and on her brow, she sat up and caught her breath. Perhaps the alcohol was disturbing her sleep, though a little bubbly rarely affected her like this. It was quite the celebration really, though why 36 candles on the cake would warrant it, she didn’t know.
The dream was so real. How long was it now?
She threw the covers off the bed and padded into the bathroom where she studied herself in the mirror. Circles under the eyes from too little sleep. Her body, so long untouched, somehow distant and foreign.
She sighed.
* * *
Waking in the night, beads of sweat above her lip and on her brow, she sat up and caught her breath. Perhaps the alcohol was disturbing her sleep, though a little bubbly rarely affected her like this. It was quite the celebration really, though why 56 candles on the cake would warrant it, she didn’t know.
The dream was so real. How long was it now?
She threw the covers off the bed and padded into the bathroom where she studied herself in the mirror. Circles under the eyes from too little sleep. Her body, so long untouched, somehow distant and foreign.
She sighed.
Ageism? Assumptions About Women?
As to my experiment, note the sexy scenario with placement of the woman’s age at the end of the snippet of storyline, versus making her age clear early on.
- In the first “story,” how do you picture the woman as you read? When you learn that she is 36 years old, does that alter your mental image and impressions, or reinforce them?
- When you read the second version – precisely the same except she is twenty years older – are you surprised? Do you revisit your interpretation of the scenario? The image of the woman?
- In the second much abbreviated story, starting out in a similar fashion but establishing the woman’s age up front, how do you respond differently to the two openings? How do you envision the character, and her reason for the waking?
How I interpret your text is dependent on what you write, of course. But it is also dependent on what you don’t write. That is, I fill in the blanks with my own ideas, my own preferences, etc. Yes, leaving the age until the end of the story may throw some readers off if they were expecting something else but personally, I find the older age to be quite delightful. That means to say that at my age 56 is a young “babe.” Like wine, women get more intoxicating with age.
By the way, while I appreciate the picture which accompanies this posting, I was under the impression the author had decided to come out of the closet and not be so hidden to the world. I will now do my best Humphrey Bogart impression and say, “She’s got da gams for it.”
I was surprised at the end of the first story to find out the woman was so young. I imagined her 50 or older so the second version of the “age at the end” story seemed right. I guess my own age is showing.
In the first story with you telling the story like soft porn i thought she was in her early twenties so i was miles out. And in the second story i imagined her quite a bit older but the two stories are very deceiving.