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O n a hot and humid night last June, I steered my car over twisting country roads toward a small lakeside town for a romantic rendezvous. I had spent the day at a funeral, reflecting on the fact that at fifty, I had more miles behind me than ahead. Oddly, my paramour had also spent the day at a funeral, and as the summer sun disappeared we made plans to meet halfway between our towns for a drink. It was nearly eleven when I turned my car onto Main Street, and James was growing impatient. We were speaking on the phone when I caught a glimpse of him. Strikingly handsome, he looked at least a decade younger than his 61 years. Running and doing chores on his rural property kept his body lean and muscular, and his face betrayed few traces of the anguish I knew lay in his heart. James met me at my car, and as we walked toward the restaurant he put his arm around me. I felt a shudder of excitement run down my spine and I pushed in closer to feel his body. When we sat at the bar he swiveled his chair, pushed his knees against mine, and leaned in close to talk.
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Both Peggy Orenstein and Cara Natterson have children who — deliberately, I assume — are mentioned only occasionally in their excellent books about raising better boys. Instead, Orenstein relies on the revealing and sometimes painfully intimate interviews she conducted over the course of two years with boys aged 16 to 22, and Natterson draws from years of practical experience as a pediatrician, and her ability to boil down complicated scientific studies to their tablespoon of curative parental medicine.
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Mothers are the practical educators of the home. In our home conversations about sex, boundaries, and bodies happen early. When we start potty-training right around age 2, we talk about the correct names of their body parts and we start emphasizing privacy. You know who has most of those conversations? Moms do. My husband is equally capable of addressing these issues, but is often less available than I am. When my kids have questions about something inappropriate they heard in school, they come to me. When a friend says or does something that makes them feel uncomfortable, they come to me. If they have a question about personal hygiene or a health concern, they come to me. Boys need to understand the impact of porn on women.

O n a hot and humid night last June, I steered my car over twisting country roads toward a small lakeside town for a romantic rendezvous. I had spent the day at a funeral, reflecting on the fact that at fifty, I had more miles behind me than ahead.

Oddly, my paramour had also spent the day at a funeral, and as the summer sun disappeared we made plans to meet halfway between our towns for a drink. It was nearly eleven when I turned my car onto Main Street, and James was growing impatient. We were speaking on the phone when I caught a glimpse of him.

Strikingly handsome, he looked at least a decade younger than his 61 years. Running and doing chores on his rural property kept his body lean and muscular, and his face betrayed few traces of the anguish I knew lay in his heart. James met me at my car, and as we walked toward the restaurant he put his arm around me. I felt a shudder of excitement run down my spine and I pushed in closer to feel his body.

When we sat at the bar he swiveled his chair, pushed his knees against mine, and leaned in close to talk. Our faces were pressed within whispering distance and I inhaled his scent. The drinks we ordered were superfluous; this was all a graceful dance of foreplay.

The bar was teeming with a coarse-looking crowd of men and women who had deeply lined faces and leather jackets. The fact that we were completely out of place only heightened our excitement. We huddled and made witty comments about the antics of other patrons, parting only to fling our heads back in hysterics.

We sat at the bar laughing and kissing, and before long James ran his hand up my leg and under my skirt. On previous dates he had teased me about being a Puritan in public, but X-rated in private, but that night I made no attempt to be discreet. It felt mischievous to be strangers in a raucous tavern far from home in the middle of the night. We reveled in escaping the constricting bonds of our everyday lives — him a lawyer, me a divorced single mother. Our behavior was an unspoken act of defiance against the taunt of age, and the gloom of funerals that had become a common part of our lives.

Outside the restaurant James kissed me deeply and with a new fervency. We were passionately entangled while patrons passed by, and I whispered that we needed to go somewhere private. James began walking me to my car, and I assumed I would follow him to the adjacent hotel, or to his house an hour away.

When we got to my car he told me to get in the back seat. I refused, saying that my kids had left a mess in my car. James took my hand and led me across the lot to his immaculately clean Mercedes. James was right behind, and before I heard the click of the door closing he was kissing me. It was futile to fight the longing we had been feeling for the past hours. Soon, all thoughts of motherhood and what was proper disappeared. We had been together many times before, but that night we devoured each other.

In the days and weeks that followed we frequently reminisced about our romp in the car, and how it brought us back to our adolescence; a time of freedom and endless promise, a time before responsibilities and painful regrets. Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter. Send us a story tip. Follow us. His last wish: someone to carry on his legacy. U nder the scorching Texas sun, surrounded by hundreds of onlookers, on the first day of the 80th year of his life, Fred Renk stares down the horns of an angry bull one last time.

In his right hand, he holds a red bullfighting cape. In his left, he cradles a smoldering Marlboro cigarette between two fingers. In front of him, a bull begins its angry charge. At his age, any wrong move could send Renk to his grave. Though time has eroded many memories, there are those that stand strong. Like the images of his son David as a young boy pretending to be a matador while wielding a dinner napkin like a cape.

Or the indelible muscle memory that kicks in when a toro bravo charges his cape. Or the old adages he heard when he was first learning how to wield the cape. R enk watched his first bullfight when he was 17, as an exchange student in Mexico. At the time, he was in seminary school training to become a priest.

Born in Iowa, he moved a lot during his childhood — more so after his father left the family when he was young. Eventually, Renk wound up in the seminary. When that sort of idea gets in your head early, you live your life for other people too. One day, he and another young seminarian heard about a bullfight in town. It was the kind of event to make two priests-in-training forget about their vows.

They took their seats in the stands, and soon the doors of the arena burst open. Draped over his shoulder was an ornate, embroidered cape. After bowing to the crowd, the matador took his place behind a wooden barrier near the stands. The doors opened again, and a Mexican fighting bull the size of a sedan cannonballed into the arena.

The matador emerged from behind the barrier, his face set and focused like a sphinx. It was all Renk could do not to tear his eyes away. Right before the bull could drive a horn into the man, the matador lifted the corner of his cape and swung it over his shoulder. Later, as Renk and his friends made their way back to the seminary, his head glowed with the images of the matador and the bull. Renk left the seminary that year. After a stint in the Marine Corps, Renk found himself working as a salesman, traveling up and down the border of Texas and Mexico selling sewing machines for Singer.

All the while, he could feel the worm wriggle in his stomach, letting him know where he really wanted to be: in an arena, with a cape in his hands, a bull charging toward him. Over the next two years, Renk traveled to different bullrings along the border the way pilgrims visit holy sites. He began to train in bullfighting at each location, honing and perfecting his skills.

He nearly missed it after sleeping too late, but he arrived as the parade into the arena began. All around him, trumpets blasted, accompanied by the steady beat of drums.

The smell of cooked meats filled the air, just as they had when he saw his first bullfight as a seminarian. As he walked, Renk struggled to put the cape onto his trajes de luces. The bullring was filled with thousands of cheering people. It seemed as though everyone in Mexico had come to see him.

Soon, a trumpet blasted, the doors of the arena flew open, and a massive bull came out like a battering ram. As the bull ran around the ring — charging at the stands and fruitlessly trying to burn off the adrenaline coursing through its body — Renk stepped out from behind the barrier and into the arena.

The hot sand beneath his bullfighting slippers warmed his feet. All around him, the air carried a potent mix of fear, anticipation — and tacos. The toro zeroed in on him, and the crowd silenced, waiting to see how this American would do.

The bull pushed off of the sand and began its charge as Renk walked toward it. Then he stopped and held the cape out to his side. He kept his eyes on the beast as it ran toward him. As it came within goring distance, Renk moved his cape out just a hair, and the bull followed. Lowering its head, it moved with the cape before passing Renk by just a few inches. The crowd erupted with cheers. Renk had survived his first successful pass with a bull. R enk kept at it, traveling from town to town to fight in local bullrings and arenas.

He established himself as a bullfighter, meeting matadors, bull ranchers and organizers. Her name was Barbara, and it turned out she also lived in El Paso. Within a month, the pair was married. And as much as Renk had fallen in love with Barbara, it seemed he fell even harder for her 2-year-old son, David. Renk took David to bullfights, ranches and even bars, where they met world-famous matadors and bullfighting aficionados.

At each fight, the young boy focused on the action with the intensity of a chess master studying the board. Though David wanted desperately to become a matador, he had been born with a genetic disorder known as Marfan syndrome. One symptom was a clubfoot that caused him to struggle to walk for the first six years of his life. Renk perhaps took to David because he saw himself in the boy. Or perhaps it was because David, like Renk, had grit and determination to make something of himself in spite of the odds.

When David was 8, a doctor who noticed him at a bullfight offered to perform corrective surgery on his foot for free. After the surgery, David laid in bed or used a wheelchair for six months.

After that, he began to train as a bullfighter in earnest. Over the next few years, Renk watched David transform from a young boy playing with a napkin on a barroom floor to a bullfighter in training.

But both parents ultimately supported his passion, purchasing his outfits, capes and even bullfighting swords.



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