The Mom Having Sex in Her Younger Date’s Carriage House

This week, a woman goes out on two dates and jokes with her daughters about their hot, gross teacher: 52, single, Cobble Hill

6:03 a.m. I regularly wake up at 6:03 a.m. It’s like a tic.

7:20 a.m. Prepare for resistance as I gently wake my girls, who share a room. They’re in high school and generally wonderful, but definitely not morning people.

I’m newly, happily divorced — it’s been six months since the papers were signed. But I miss having another pair of hands on deck for mornings.

9:30 a.m. Laundry, dishes. Order groceries from Whole Foods: soups; rotisserie chicken; Brie; a vat of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream; a big, expensive milk chocolate bar. The total is close to $300. Wild. The divorce left me with enough money that I don’t have to stress about it.

We’re not astronomically rich, but my ex works in finance. I haven’t worked in 15 years. Before having kids, I was an interior designer with a degree in architecture. My marriage was my full-time job after that. My ex was a very difficult man — moody, erratic, cold, unappreciative, oh, and did I mention impotent? So glad he’s not my problem anymore.

1 p.m. Make a rice bowl with chickpeas and that Japanese barbecue sauce everybody buys in bulk at Costco. Swipe on the apps on my couch. I’ve only gone on two dates since being divorced — maybe five, if you count the two years it took to settle everything. I had sex with two of those five. Each time was so-so. Not rockstar sex. I want rockstar sex!

4 p.m. Judging by my app notifications, I’m not lacking for options. I’m astounded by how many men are interested despite my being in my early 50s and not a supermodel. I think they’re attracted to my having my shit together. My profile says something about wanting to find love again, but that I’m happy just to experience pleasure until then.

5 p.m. Texting with Thomas, an UES British divorcé who’s snobbish and maybe an asshole. I’m intrigued anyway, since he’s classically handsome and I love a Brit. Also texting with Evan, a “creative director” who seems to have a lot of hobbies and free time and no actual clear job. Who am I to judge?
Thomas asks me out. He’s very straightforward — literally, “Would you like to have a date with me tomorrow night?” Yes, I would.

6 p.m. Take out a lipstick-shaped vibrator I bought at Target. Lie on my couch, stare out the window, and masturbate. My couch is a clunky, taupe bouclé treasure, and absolutely fucking heavenly.

9 p.m. After over a decade fighting with my family about bedtime, I can now drift into my bedroom whenever I want without any drama. Swipe through a million Reels of people’s “Beez in the Trap” duets — endlessly delightful — and go to bed.

DAY TWO

9 a.m. Take out my calendar and work on scheduling for 2026. Vacations. Sleepaway camp.

I don’t like my ex-husband, but he’s always been generous and low-maintenance when it comes to finances, e.g., me spending his money. It’s the one thing he’s not difficult about, honestly. I don’t take that for granted. Despite his being a miserable, unemotional robot, he truly understands that he couldn’t have had the career he does if I weren’t home managing our entire life. He knows it’s my money, too. We’ve never fought about it.

11 a.m. My ex hearts my texts about the vacations I’m planning for the girls and me. See? Easy.

He has a new girlfriend. We’ve met a few times. She seems fine. A cold, bloodless, sexless robot like him, in my guesstimation.

11:30 a.m. Thomas the Brit asks if I’d like to go to an Italian restaurant tonight showcasing “a bespoke wine program from Italy” ?? Okayyy. Makes him sound like an old man, or a total prick. But I like wine, so I tell him the plan works for me.

4 p.m. Getting blow-dried. I have very long, thick hair, and it takes two people to blow me out. I tip enormously.

7 p.m. The restaurant is beautifully designed. I’m reminded that New York can be so glamorous. Glad I dressed well — a black tailored suit over a strapless corset.

9 p.m. Evaluating Thomas while he geeks out about the wine with the sommelier. Tall, elegant, big hands, Hugh Grant vibes. Do I want to have sex with him? That’s for the wine to decide.

10:30 p.m. We’re tipsy. The conversation is nice! He’s divorced with a child and seems like a very good dad. He shows me pictures of his kid and I get a good feeling about it all. But I’m preoccupied by the fact that his teeth are purple. Mine must be, too … I almost ask, but it feels tacky.

11 p.m. Waiting for Ubers. Thomas kisses me. I really like it. The taste of his mouth is warm grapes and cold winter combined. His hands find my ass over my wool coat. Now I’m throbbing for him, but my car is here. I have no doubt we’ll see each other again, and I say so.

DAY THREE

7:35 a.m. Make coffee while my girls scramble to get their backpacks together. They want details about my date. I offer up the Hugh Grant comparison and they make throw-up sounds. I thought everybody wanted Hugh Grant? I ask who they’d rather the celebrity lookalike be. Tom Holland.

11 a.m. It hasn’t hit me until now that I’m very hungover, which I realize because I’m already ordering Sichuan food. The restaurant doesn’t open for another hour, but I place the online order in advance.

1 p.m. Chowing on five different cartons of salty food. I decide to message Evan back about plans. Yes, he’s annoyingly eager, but there’s something alluring about him. It’s rare to meet a man who has a good personality! Thomas was lovely and refined. Evan, based on his various streams of texts about movies, books, and politics, is confident and free-spirited.

5 p.m. Evan obviously did the “wait four hours to respond” move, because after exactly four hours, he texts back. I suggest a Red Hook dive with amazing drinks. Funnily, Evan says that he occasionally bartends there and co-signs. An opinionated creative director who bartends: He’s going to be fascinating or irritating.

8:40 p.m. My girls are with my ex. Melt into my beloved couch and watch two episodes of I Love LA. Better than I expected! The girls remind me of my daughters.

DAY FOUR

9 a.m. Fell asleep early and missed a text from Thomas asking me out again. Now I’m the one who waits hours to respond.

10:30 a.m. Schoolwide meeting. I’m one of the only divorced moms, which makes me a little uncomfortable. It’s not that everyone else is married — they just seem so happy. There are a lot of perfect couples in this auditorium.

2 p.m. I’ve been feeling a little sad around the house all afternoon. It’s hard to go to events like today’s and not feel a little sorry for myself as I walk out, alone; to make tea at home, alone; and swipe the apps, alone, looking for a restart at 52.

6:45 p.m. My girls sit around the kitchen table to talk about life. One has a teacher who farts loudly in class all the time. As my daughter tells us about “today’s fart,” I’m on the ground laughing. How is a parent supposed to handle this situation? I can’t email the principal to report it!

The funniest part is that my daughter tells me he’s divorced and very handsome. I Google him, and he’s hot! My daughter says she can set us up covertly because he’s looking for a parent chaperone for a school outing. But … the farting?! How does an attractive grown man with a professional job not deal with his gastrointestinal issues? We’re in tears cracking up.

DAY FIVE

10:30 a.m. Spend the morning with my brother and his husband, who are renovating a brownstone. They’re both architects but want my opinion. Even though they’re my family, it feels good to be in work mode.

12:30 p.m. Shopping for paint and wallpaper. They’re into daring colors. When the salesperson asks if I’m their designer, I say “yes.” It gives me chills — I can see myself doing this for real clients in the near future.

2 p.m. We get margaritas and a big plate of loaded nachos. My brother asks if he can swipe for me, since he has an instinct for hot men who might not first present as hot. He matches me with a few guys whom I’ll flirt with later.

5 p.m. The girls have sleepovers, so I’m alone and following up with the matches my brother found. One asks if my body was “ruined” by having kids. Gross. Another misspells every other word. It’s so bad that I wonder if he’s doing a bit.

8 p.m. At my kitchen table with a glass of wine and a tobacco-and-fig candle burning, I attempt to draft a plan to restart my interior-design business, or potentially a small design brand of my own. I play with names: I want something with “Mulberry,” because I grew up in New England with a big mulberry tree in my front yard, and I’ve always just had a mulberry thing.

Every good Mulberry name is taken.

10 p.m. Get into bed with my vibrator. Think about Thomas. What would it be like to fuck Hugh Grant? My brain drifts to the farting teacher, and I’m giggling too much to keep going.

DAY SIX

10 a.m. Tomorrow is one of my daughters’ birthdays. Baking a cake. (You don’t become a SAHM and not learn to bake.) Put on music to get me in a sexy mood for my date with Evan. I don’t know any cool music … I put on Cardi B. Baking carrot cake to Cardi isn’t the best combination. Switch to the National.

12:45 p.m. A girlfriend needs help dealing with perimenopause. We go on a walk and talk about HRT and the testosterone pellet that everyone swears by. I have no experience to offer. The thing about years with a cold-hearted husband with a broken dick is you don’t get to test your libido levels.

It never mattered if I was horny. We stopped having sex three years ago, because it was always me instigating, him trying and going limp, then it turning into a fight. He never addressed the issue — as far as I know, he never even saw a doctor about it.

3 p.m. Take my birthday daughter shopping. She only wants Lululemon sweatshirts.

6:40 p.m. Getting ready. Put on jeans, a black tank top, and a brown bomber jacket.

7:15 p.m. Evan is talking to the bartender when I walk in. He’s hot. He reminds me of both Richie and Carmie from The Bear. We hug hello. It’s a tight and loving hug. It feels nice. He might be too much, but let’s see.

9 p.m.  Evan is an amazing conversationalist, hilarious, and a great listener. It’s one of those nights where you feel lucky to be lifted up by the world.

10 p.m. Call us an Uber to his place. My girls are at my apartment, and while they’re quite evolved, I am not bringing this boy home tonight. I say “boy” because even though Evan is 45, he’s so boyish. It’s adorable. I’m deliberate about getting the car because he paid for drinks, and for some reason, I have it in my head that he has absolutely no money to his name.

10:30 p.m. I figured wrong. He lives in this cool little carriage house. Must be a trust-fund baby. We’re making out all over the place. It’s very good.

He throws me on his long farm table and starts to eat me out. I don’t want to come in his mouth, because I want to save the orgasm for sex. With my jeans hanging off my legs, I pull him to his bedroom. He puts on a condom and we start to fuck, and it feels amazing. His dick is average, but he knows how to use it. I come so quickly because I needed it, and because of the foreplay. Then I blow him and he comes in my mouth. I never swallow for anyone, so I find his bathroom, spit in the toilet, and flush.

11:30 p.m. He’s holding me in bed. Decide to go before things get awkward. Get dressed and we give each other another long, tight, and loving hug. Then I leave.

DAY SEVEN

6:03 a.m. Right on the dot, I wake up at my time. Big smile on my face. That was really good sex.

9 a.m. My girls are still asleep, so I quietly clean up the kitchen and get ready for my daughter’s little party I’m hosting tonight. My ex and his new girlfriend are coming. I dislike him so much that I’m indifferent to his company. I invited him because I knew my daughters would have more fun with all of us together.

1 p.m. The girls want the scoop on my night. He’s already texted me to say “Thanks.” I can’t figure out why he has money? His last name is common, so a Google search is useless. He gave me a few clues … his dad was an artist … his mom founded some school … but I don’t have time to hunt down his family history.

3:30 p.m. Thomas texts me a Resy link for tomorrow night. The restaurant is super-formal. Strange to go from a shitty dive bar to this pretentious French place within a few days, but I’m smiling that this is my life now.

8 p.m. The party was really nice. My ex and his girlfriend brought me the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers. It’s surreal that we all might be okay.

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