Hunting Pixies

Hunting Pixies

NOTE: This is the first part of what will likely be a multi-part initial (and possibly continuing) story. There is no overt sex described in this initial portion, and the overall story will be a slow build, but should reach a satisfying conclusion. The story could also reasonably be categorized as Loving Husbands or Romance. I've chosen Mature given the character ages. It started as an exercise to organize my thoughts around recent developments in my marriage, and seemed to gain legs. While the background of the narrator is loosely autobiographical, the scenario presented is entirely fictional. This is my first work of fiction since high school English classes 40+ years ago. So my style conventions are likely a bit off or dated. While I've read a fair amount about it, my first hand applied experience with ethical non-monogamy is zero to this point. Apologies if I offend experienced practitioners through my naivety. I welcome any and all feedback and constructive criticism.

The Monday evening before Thanksgiving finds me alone in a sea of undulating silver and blue hairs, swinging and swaying to a live band producing competent covers of mostly hit country songs from ten to twenty years prior. Wagon wheels, hay bales, and cow skulls provide the finishing touches in the perfectly Disneyesque reproduction of a Florida cowboy town that never existed. It feels as though a Hollywood set from the golden era of Western film has been plucked from the past and brought to sparkling life to be set down in a former orange grove, equal parts real and fake, combining to create a surreal experience. The crowd is appropriately costumed in cowboy hats and boots, or seemingly just as appropriately, in tropical shirts and flip-flops. If it's always "five o'clock somewhere," this is that somewhere. I'm either in the Twilight Zone or "Florida's Friendliest Hometown," the Villages. Spoiler, it's the Villages, which is every bit as strange as fiction. Specifically, I'm in Brownwood Paddock Square, one of five perfectly curated backdrops that serve as the focal point for 165,000 (and growing) seniors living their best lives as they approach the end.

But why would I be here, and alone? While the voice narrating my internal monologue has been constant since my teen years, I have not been a teen in many years, and I guess I should accept that I'm actually old enough now to qualify to live here, and have been for a few years now. My birthday at the beginning of the month was my 59th. But I'm just visiting. I grew up in nearby Ocala, and remember "the Villages" when it was just a small, age-restricted mobile home park, surrounded by dying orange groves and scrubby cattle ranches as far as the eye could see. Until someone with a vision began optioning thousands of rural acres to turn them into the largest retirement community in the world, and its residents turned it into a party that never ends. Well, technically it ends around 9 p.m. every evening, but it resumes the next day with equal intensity, regardless of which day of the week that may be. There's little room for anything but good times here.

I'm here, at least ostensibly, to visit my mom and bring her back to our house north of Orlando for the holiday. She isn't a resident of the Villages; she could never abide by the crowds and lifestyle. But she lives 30 minutes away, and this is a convenient place to spend a night or two with air conditioning that I can control, and possibly find sleep that always eludes me at her place. She'll be 88 in a couple of weeks, and while still perfectly capable of making the drive to my place, we've been easing her away from that responsibility. I've also brought one of my bikes with plans to ride a lot of miles on some of the trail sections in the nearby Marjorie Harris Carr Cross Florida Greenway, an absolute gem for single track and other riding centered around the Santos trails.

After making sure everything at home was holiday-ready, I drove up and rode a few hours this afternoon before checking into the Brownwood Hotel, the Villages' finest. I'll see Mom tomorrow for a few hours to visit and work on some things at her house, then go back on Wednesday to pick her up for the drive to our house. With the distances involved, I could have easily just come up early Wednesday and done everything in one shot with no nights away from home required. But my wife, Beth, somewhat insisted I take a little time away. She specifically suggested that maybe the Villages would be an ideal place for me to explore a new activity for the first time, something we've come to think of as "hunting pixies." I agreed, my enthusiasm tempered a bit by my realistic expectations.

Our previous anniversary was our 25th. Beth and I have built a strong partnership over those years, welcoming and raising three beautiful children along the way. Our union has enjoyed all of the ups and suffered all of the downs of long-term committed relationships. It has survived, if not always thrived. We share a comfortable life and what I've come to see as a mature love for one another. However, we do not, and have never, shared a fully satisfying sex life, and that has been a long recurring source of frustration for both of us.

There seem to have been various issues in the bedroom throughout all the different stages of our relationship, ebbing and flowing along the way, but consistently present. My advancing age and her menopause, to this point, have not really diminished them. Even so, over the years, we have settled into an agreeable routine around sex, with the frequency of late exceeding my reasonable expectations, but the act and variety often little more than perfunctory. She's always happy to provide it when I initiate, but almost never seeks it for her own enjoyment. Which makes me feel bad for asking, and worse that it often leaves me physically released but emotionally unfulfilled.

It isn't a dead bedroom, but the armchair experts populating online advice venues in places like r/deadbedrooms would likely see it as worse: unhealthy, toxic, or maybe even coercive. Their free advice would be divorce her or stop having sex with her and cheat. We consulted professionals a time or two, and their paid advice really isn't much better. But no one is in danger, no one is paying a price too high emotionally, and we've somehow made this work for almost 30 years as a couple. Maybe through sheer stubborn determination. I don't think we're extreme outliers among those couples who make it past 10 years without throwing in the towel. Long-term relationships require compromises and sacrifices. The "Storybook" romance of fiction media is most often just that.

With all that in mind, I viewed our 25th anniversary milestone as an opportunity to discuss our future. Check in and reset our priorities as needed. Our nest will be empty in a few more years, and I'll be retiring around then. We've been dangerously close to divorce a couple of times in the past, so it isn't an unthinkable option for us. Grey divorce is almost epidemic, even though it's often financially devastating. So it wouldn't hurt to confirm that neither of us has been planning an exit strategy.

Beth was agreeable to the dialogue, and we had a much more open and honest heart-to-heart than we'd had in a decade. She expressed sincere regret (really for the first time) for the emotional affair that almost ended our marriage halfway in. And she revealed continuing guilt over having "deprived" me of a more fulfilling sex life for so many years, intentionally or not. By the end of a week of thoughtful conversations, we concluded that we are still better off together than apart, and neither of us would be looking for the exit anytime soon. Our marriage doesn't rate a clean bill of health, but isn't in jeopardy at this point in time. While we agreed to continue to look for a prescription to solve our bedroom issues within our marriage, we also came to a new, mutual understanding: Beth offered me a one-sided "open marriage" if I should choose to look elsewhere to supplement our sex life.

I sincerely appreciate her gesture, and know that it was freely given with nothing but the best intentions. I have to trust that it was not coerced. But as an upper middle-aged man who doesn't drink, doesn't hang out in bars or settings with large numbers of available women, and has absolutely zero experience in "playing the field," I couldn't help but think of the gesture as just a bit empty, no matter how well-intended. If there are attractive women that are interested in a primarily sex-driven relationship with men my age, they must hide very well among us. I haven't seen any real-life evidence of them; they are, seemingly, "unicorns."

They exist online, of course, but everything exists where reality and fantasy are now blurred with the deceptive precision of AI. While it would be convenient to label these women as "unicorns," a little online research reveals that "unicorn" is already a very specific label in this realm, and it wouldn't fit our situation, as it's apparently reserved for women being sought by both partners in a committed relationship, and evidently not viewed very positively in the emerging and (allegedly) "sex-positive" culture of ethical non-monogamy. Go figure.

The lexicon of this lifestyle doesn't appear to have kept up with the multitude of potential relationship dynamics and combinations, so a specific label doesn't seem to exist for the type of "partner" I would seek. "Hotwife" lifestyle draws a LOT of attention online with a range of labels for each of the participants: hotwife, cuckold, bull, stag, vixen...applied with seeming nuance, but with the lifestyle clearly centered around the woman seeking extracurricular male attention. The logical counterpart, "Hot husband," has the label, but gets almost no bandwidth, and doesn't offer its own term for the "other woman" in the scenario. Other than possibly "cowgirl," which is applied to one seeking to rope the man away from the committed relationship. The wife is often labeled as a "cuckqueen" in this dynamic, which is apparently often relegated to the "kink" end of the spectrum, and largely dismissed. So much for "sex positivity," I guess.

The only labels that seem to fit the role of the "other woman" in my dynamic of interest are older: mistress and paramour, for instance. And these still carry the stigma of an implied illicitness to the liaison. So in the sex-positive community, this dynamic seems largely overlooked. I guess maybe because it's just more common to cheat than ask permission. In any event, lacking an appropriate term, I've come to think of the elusive woman I would seek as a "pixie," just as mythical as a unicorn.

So I view my new "freedom" as license to hunt pixies. A license I gratefully accepted, because the offer was lovingly extended. And it's some comfort to know that I would be free to pursue an opportunity with someone else should it ever come up, even if it never comes up. I've never wanted to hurt Beth or damage our relationship through dishonesty, and now would seemingly be less likely to be faced with that prospect, should I ever "stray."

While I've effectively been given the license, from a practical standpoint, would I ever really be able to bring myself to actively go on "the hunt?" I've done a little preliminary research, and prospects of success seem...daunting, if not frightening. Internet searches of "lifestyle" groups seem like an open solicitation for an onslaught of dick picks. Every shape, size, color, and deformity one can imagine, even a few that seem unimaginable, there are dudes out there who are not shy whatsoever about waving their equipment at the world through their phone camera. While I've got nothing to be shy about, suffice it to say I'm not a dick pic sharing dude. Couple all of that with an 80% or higher male-to-female "looking for" posting ratio on these sites, and it seems like all these dudes are really doing is waving their dicks at each other in a worldwide circle jerk. Excuse me while I nope right out of that. Online may be a no-effort space for exploring, but it probably isn't a productive place for finding much of anything in my situation unless I lower my not-really-that-high standards much further.

But I'm not discouraged. The summer following our anniversary talks, I found myself at yoga almost daily and back in the gym almost as frequently, and amping up our daily shared walks. I began toning the softness I had acquired again over the last few years. While my love language is, unsurprisingly, physical touch; Beth's is much more food-adjacent, and specifically involves providing baked goods and treats to her loved ones, which she smartly declines herself, but I have always accepted wholeheartedly. The summer found me declining more often, both the treats and the pounds and inches that come with them. I have had a clean bill of health from my doctor since I resumed seeing one a few years ago, but decided to address a lingering shoulder issue that had been holding me back, with good results.

I also got a full and clean STD test panel should I ever need to share it, "just in case." And then, maybe as a further test of our mutual decision and resolve, I got a vasectomy. Beth had her tubes tied after the birth of our third, so birth control hadn't been an issue for 16 years, and presumably wouldn't even need to come up again. Beth did not bat an eye over the vasectomy when I scheduled it; she even drove me home from the appointment. I took that as confirmation of her prior decision.

In fact, Beth was nothing but fully supportive, if not outright appreciative, of my ongoing transformation. We even began doing some new activities together. She was thrilled by my unsolicited offer to take a few couples dancing lessons, something we hadn't done since we'd been newly dating. And she's been appreciative, if not impressed by my skill, the few times we've put the lessons in action since. Our overall relationship has been closer than ever, although little has changed in the bedroom.

So now, in November, I'm in better shape than I have been for many years. Not quite on par with my late 40s/early 50s when I was in my best shape, but visibly leaner and noticeably fit, at least "for my age" as the disclaimer always notes. I hesitate to self-describe as a silver fox, but I feel closer to the label than ever before. I'm also feeling more confident than I probably have in my lifetime, and I don't think that's just from the every-two-week boost of testosterone I've had injected for the last year. Although it probably hasn't hurt. That change started long before our anniversary talk, and is the only one that caused Beth to be a little skeptical. She assumed it would lead to an increase in my already disproportionate sex drive. It didn't, although it probably did contribute to my desire to have those proactive anniversary talks, leading to these current results.

Given that "glow-up," I suppose I'm now as ready to hunt pixies as I'll likely ever be. But I know I'll need to expand well past the small circles of our local area, or the dark and seedy recesses of the internet, to find them. So enter the Villages. With a favorable female-to-male ratio, a reputation for a carefree lifestyle, and a population where I would be on the young end of age-appropriate, it seems like fertile ground. Add to that the rumors of a significant population of singles and not-so-singles actively pursuing sexual liaisons and open to alternative lifestyles, and it seems like a place at least worth checking out. So that, kids, is how I planned to meet a supplement for your mother. Or something along those lines.

So this is how I came to find myself in the Villages on a Monday night in November. But it doesn't explain my "costume." My costume is pure self-styled vanity, bespoke for the occasion. I know the theme of "Brownwood Paddock" is faux cowboy inspired, and the band of the evening will play country standards. So I've donned my reasonably well-worn (or at least not brand-shiny new) Tecovas roper boots, a new (I had to downsize) pair of Wranglers, and my favorite "live music event" shirt: a Howler Brothers pearl snap shirt with skull and begonia embroidered trim. With my pepper and mostly salt hair, I fit right in with the swinging and swaying silver and blue hairs surrounding me. Reluctantly or not, I have thrown myself into "the hunt."

Within the first two hours of the evening, I realized that I would not be the hunter on these grounds; I would be the hunted. After I had checked in to the Brownwood, showered from my ride, and donned my costume, I went down to the lobby for dinner. My normal schedule sees me up for the day by 5 a.m., so 5 p.m. is a typical time for dinner in our household. But it seems it may have been a little late for the Villages on a Monday night. The Wolfgang Puck eatery at the hotel is a bit sedate. I'm sure the crowd will pick up later in the week as families come in to visit for the holiday. The "Paddock Square" is a few blocks away, and I know the entertainment starts every evening at 5, so I walk that way, anticipating a livelier crowd at the dozen or so restaurants and bars surrounding it.

I'm clearly not a local as I'm the only person walking on the shared path, being passed by dozens of golf carts on their way to the fun. By the third offer, I think what the hell, and accept a ride from Roy Rogers and Dale Evans septuagenarian look-a-likes from Michigan. They recommend the City Fire American Oven & Bar for dinner and Roy drops Dale and me there as he continues to the football field-sized golf cart-only parking lot. I keep Dale company until Roy returns to take her dancing. I thank them and wish them a pleasant evening.

I'm pleased to see an ice cream parlor adjacent to the bar, and note the 9 p.m. closing time. A backup plan is always good to have, and ice cream to close out the day would be a win if I bail early or crash and burn this evening. With the free entertainment in full swing on the nearby square, the restaurant bar has begun to thin out, but is still lively. While I don't drink anymore, I find an open seat at the bar between two couples, place a drink order, and take a menu. The bar is open to the outside festivities, and provides a decent vantage point for people watching, a favorite shared activity when Beth and I are out.

With her now crossing my mind, I shoot a quick text to check in: "How are things? Had a good ride this afternoon and got settled at the hotel, it's really nice. Just sitting down for some dinner at the square, this place is really hopping."

Her reply comes in before my tonic water arrives. "Things are good, glad you had a good ride..." the ellipses continue to roll as she's adding something else. It takes a while to come through, like it will be a long message or she was thinking about the wording, "how do the 'prospects' look?" Okay, we're really going there.

"Bleak? Too early to tell, I'm bringing the median age down a good bit just being here. But I haven't really walked around much yet. Will head over to listen to the band after dinner. So, you're really good with me doing this?"

"Yes. We've talked about this...I want this for you...I think it will be good for us...don't worry about me...don't overthink it...If you find someone interesting, and have some fun, I will be very happy for you."

"Thank you. I'll touch base with you tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you too...and I trust you...I hope you have a good night."

My tonic water comes, and I put in my food order. I sip it slowly, quietly lost in thought as I'm surrounded in a sea of boisterous senior activity. Feeling a little ungrounded, I decide to look at the notes on my phone to review the "rules" that Beth and I developed over the months since we first agreed to this new possibility. More like guidelines than rules, I suppose, but what we had come up with together was: