Six
Irene had been easy enough to find, thanks to marketing herself as an Asian healer practicing the ancient arts.
This time. Frances had discovered more than one questionable occupation Irene had held herself out to be, including a tai chi instructor, a clairvoyant, a jeweler, a financier, and a big-game hunter. Once a con woman, always a con woman.
What she knew of the real Irene was that she was born in Pennsylvania, the fourth kid to a naturalized Korean couple.
She spoke Korean fluently but had never been to Korea.
She was short and compact, strong as an ox, incredibly smart, as quick-witted as a child prodigy—but had barely passed high school. And she was as blunt as a hammer.
And now Frances was standing on the grounds, looking up at the massive high rises that encompassed Shady Acres—ironically named seeing as how she was burning to a crisp in the midday sun—when two old men in golf carts went whizzing by, almost knocking her over.
“Get off the cart path!” one of them shouted at her.
Frances shuddered. She could never live here.
The three high rises surrounded a central amenities ground that included a very large lap pool, pickleball courts, an open-air pavilion where some residents were currently playing bingo, and a neon-lit digital bulletin board listing all the things to do.
She went to the board where a blinking red light invited her to type in an activity. She started with yoga. Several classes popped up, including one called Yoga for Tantric Sex Over 60.
Bingo.
She checked the location (Hall C in tower C). The class was starting any minute. Thank God she’d had the foresight to wear leggings. She walked briskly in the direction of Hall C.
Her nerves were beginning to sizzle. What if Irene kicked her out of class?
She would have no qualms about making a scene, whereas Edie and Joan would never.
Frances honestly had no idea what she would do if Irene rejected her—she hadn’t had time to think that far and was only now realizing it was a strong possibility.
Even if they’d all remained the best of friends, her idea was crazy.
They were old women now! She could only hope that her fellow adrenaline junkies still liked to risk all for the thrill.
In Hall C, people were taking yoga mats from a big box and going into a classroom.
Frances picked up one from the entrance and slipped inside, unnoticed by the lady checking in residents, some of whom had questions and therefore blocked the woman’s view of her.
She made her way to a back corner, unfurled her mat and sat, then watched presumably sex-crazed geriatrics ease themselves down onto the floor.
Music started to play, a very Zen sound with chimes and wind instruments.
At the far end of the room was a platform, and as Frances watched, a woman emerged from behind a curtain.
She was wearing what could only be described as Merlin the Magician wear—a caftan covered in suns, half-moons, and stars.
The woman held her arms out and said, “Welcome,” in a voice so familiar that even if her face had been burned off, Frances would know she was Irene.
Irene looked older, but through a squint—which was the best Frances could do without her glasses—she also looked the same. Her hair was still jet black, her skin as smooth as crème. Women who aged like that weren’t fair to the rest of the female population. She could have been fifty or eighty.
“Do you enjoy sex?” Irene asked, her voice booming through a mic. The crowd cheered.
“But now that you’re older, it’s twice the work, am I right?”
The crowd cheered again.
“This class is designed to unlock your potential. I have developed it using the ancient wisdom of the Hindu combined with the Kama Sutra and Tantric teachings. Remember, the key to good Tantric sex is as mental as it is physical. The technique is to let yourself live fully in the moment.”
Frances snorted. That wasn’t a technique, that was propaganda.
“Flat on your backs, please,” Irene said.
As everyone made their way to their backs, Irene came off the platform.
“Take a deep breath, engage your core, hold for three, then slowly release it.” She proceeded to stroll around the very full class, barking out instructions, having the geriatric patrons bend their legs one way then another, helping the stiffer and thicker ones move.
She had them sit up and press the soles of their feet together and even forced a few of the less limber limbs into place when it proved to be beyond the skills of a patron.
She even called out some graybeard named Winston, admonishing him for trying to get out of the work by using his hip replacement as an excuse.
And then she had everyone choose a partner.
They faced each other on their mats, the soles of their feet touching the soles of their partner’s feet, their hands clasped to their partner’s hands.
They were to gaze into each other’s eyes and breathe in for five counts, release for seven.
“It’s about connection,” Irene said, enunciating each syllable.
Frances’s partner was a woman who looked to be about her age, who instead of looking Frances in the eye, closed hers. That was fine with Frances. Her head was hurting something awful, and she didn’t think she could have any sort of connection with her partner that didn’t involve grimacing.
When the partner work was done, they were treated to Savasana, a final relaxation pose. Irene floated through the sea of mats and people, talking very softly about how pleasure was as much a spiritual exercise as it was physical.
Closing her eyes so that the pain in her head could settle felt spiritual to Frances.
“Remember,” Irene said, her voice nearby, “sex is a vital part of aging. Don’t allow anyone to tell you it’s not. The more orgasms you have, the healthier your heart, and that’s just the start of the benefits. Orgasms have been proven to improve hearing and eyesight, too.”
Bullshit, Frances thought.
She was startled by a soft kick to her hip. “Ouch,” she hissed, and opened her eyes.
Irene was leaning over her. “What are you doing, sneaking in here?” she whispered hotly.
“How did you even know I was here?” Frances whispered back.
“Are you kidding? I’d know those man feet anywhere.” Irene straightened up and continued her glide through the room, returning to the platform, and sitting cross-legged on a bolster. “Please roll carefully to your side. Carefully. I don’t want a repeat of the ambulance situation we had last week.”
Everyone dutifully rolled onto their sides and helped themselves into a comfortable seated position.
Irene sent them on their way with the news that next week, they would begin work on pelvic openers.
“Help yourself to the bowl of condoms on your way out,” she said. “STDs are deadly serious at your age.”
Good Lord. All this time, Frances had thought cancer or heart disease was the scourge of old age. She rolled up her mat, then stood up, catching onto the wall, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
“You wouldn’t have that problem if you did cardio.”
She opened her eyes to see Irene standing before her, arms crossed, looking pissed.
“I do cardio, thank you.”
“Hmm,” Irene said, her eyes narrowing as she took in the full length of Frances. “You look good, Fran. A little pale, but good.”
“So do you, Irene,” Frances said. “Really good. Unfairly good.”
“So, what do you want?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Frances may have imagined it, but she thought she saw something spark in Irene’s dark brown eyes. “What is it?”
“Do you want to know right here?”
Irene hesitated. “No,” she admitted, and suddenly turned and started walking.
Did that mean no, she didn’t want to hear about it here? Or no, she didn’t want to hear about it at all? But before she could call after Irene and ask her to clarify, Irene stopped and turned around. “Are you coming, or what?”
They ended up at an outdoor juice bar on the Shady Acres property.
Irene had removed her Merlin the Magician caftan and was wearing white capris and a pink silk top.
She looked like a tourist. She insisted on choosing Frances’s smoothie because Frances was pale, and she knew just the thing to put a little life in her.
They sat at a table with an umbrella turned jauntily toward the sun, but that did little to dispel the heat.
Before anything else, they went over the basics of their lives since the big blowup.
Frances told Irene about her life with Nick and Aaron.
And then Nick’s ALS diagnosis and his long slide into death.
Irene listened impassively, nodding occasionally, and when Frances had finished, she said simply, “That sucks.” She’d never been overly sentimental.
“Yeah, it did,” Frances said. “Does,” she amended. She wondered briefly if Nick had ever had the thoughts she was having—like how there wasn’t much to fight for, and if she was going to go because of some stupid disease, she’d hope for sooner rather than later.
She shook the thought off. “What about you? Ever marry?”
“God, no,” Irene said. “I’m too busy to cook and clean for some asshole.”
That was a reductive definition of marriage, but Frances understood. “So, what have you been doing?”
“Well, right now, I’m running this Tantric scam,” she said with a shrug.
“It’s a scam?” Frances asked, surprised.
“Of course it is. You think I would take the time to learn how to teach Tantric sex? You just google it and throw together a couple of certificates, and everyone takes your word for it.” She sipped her smoothie and added, “I’ve been doing a little hacking on the side, too.”
For a moment, Frances didn’t understand. She imagined Irene chopping wood for exercise. “What, like wood?”
“No, Frances, not like wood,” Irene said, annoyed. “Hacking computer systems.”
Frances almost spit out her disgusting green smoothie. “What?”