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I ask him whether he is worried about catching an STD. “Well, as you can see,” he says flatly, “I’ve stopped having sex altogether.”

  A guy named Rico walks up to Mr. Midnight looking mildly dejected. “She gave me the engagement ring back,” he says.

  “Hey, how long were you engaged—two months?” Mr. Midnight asks. “That’s not bad for The Villages. Have another beer.”

  An unusually buxom young blond waves hello from across the bar. She’s wearing tights and a tight neon-colored getup that extends from just below her bust to her thighs. I’ve never seen anything quite like it and I can’t help staring. It looks something like the low-cut unitards that Olympic weight lifters wear, and it accentuates her ample breasts. When she runs over to embrace Mr. Midnight, I feel as if I am in a 3-D movie and they’re hurtling toward me.

  “Hey, Jenny, you found love yet?” Mr. Midnight asks. Jenny shakes her head. “Getting any closer?” She shakes her head again, and her look of resignation is tinged with genuine sadness. Jenny, who is in her late thirties, divorced two years ago and now lives in The Villages. She rents a room from Martha, a woman in her eighties—the same woman who belted out karaoke on my first night at Gringos. “She loves to party,” Jenny says, when I ask about her roommate. “She goes out more than I do.”

  “But why live in a retirement community?” I ask.

  “I love it here,” she says. “Everybody’s just so friendly. They’re all so welcoming. I have a great circle of friends. The Villages is just so peaceful. I could live here forever. As it is, I hardly ever leave.”

  An attractive southern belle catches Mr. Midnight’s eye. She may be in her late sixties, but even I can see her obvious appeal. She’s wearing a soft yellow blouse, a knee-length skirt, and diamond studs. She has a starlet quality about her that seems entirely out of place in the Villages. Mr. Midnight scopes her out, and then gives me the lowdown. “I had a friend who did her one night on one of those park benches around the corner. She visits from Palm Beach every so often.”

  “Was his name Tommy?” I ask.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  The band plays the funk favorite “Brick House,” and Mr. Midnight jumps onto the dance floor. He sways to the music in his shorts and flip-flops, a mug of low-carb beer in one hand, a pretty woman holding the other. The clock on the wall approaches ten PM, The Villages’ witching hour, and the bartender shouts last call. I kid Mr. Midnight that “Mr. Nine-Thirty” might be a more accurate nom de guerre in The Villages.

  A woman in a red leather jacket and a short black skirt who is carrying a designer handbag brushes past me. Like the aging starlet, she’s dressed to the nines. Her high heels emphasize her unusually shapely calves. I try to fit in by scoping out chicks as well. “Nice legs,” I say.

  “That’s Wendy Marie,” Mr. Midnight says. “He’s a she-he. And a lesbian.” I reach for my plastic mug of beer and hastily empty it. “Good eye,” he says, with a wink.

  “I feel sorry for her,” Mr. Midnight continues. “She could use a community where there are more people like her. And some butt pads. It’s a little flat back there, like a skinny old man.”

  As usual, the party moves on to Crazy Gringos—the karaoke bar inside the Alamo Bowl. To my embarrassment, I’m starting to recognize many of the late-night revelers from my previous sprees after Katie Belle’s. Mr. Midnight and I sit at the far corner of the bar and order a pitcher of beer. He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye. I sense that he is preparing to pass on his wisdom. I listen attentively, sorely aware of my youthful shortcomings.

  “How do I get one of these ladies from the bar to my bed?” he asks rhetorically. “I say ‘Look, I’m not a teenager. I’m not going to put you in the back of my car and grope you. I’d like to take you home and make love to you.’ But I don’t want to appear anxious. When they’re ready, I order us another drink. When we get to my place, I suggest they clean up. I always keep clean washcloths and towels around.”

  I ask Mr. Midnight how many women he’s slept with. “I don’t remember,” he says. “I don’t keep track.” I throw out a number—100. “C’mon, were talking about my whole life, not just the last couple of years, right?” He orders another pitcher and we both scan the room. Jenny’s roomate, Martha, is singing “Roxanne,” by The Police.

  “Do you really see spending the rest of your life here?” I ask. “Don’t you miss the real world?”

  “If a judge told me I could never leave The Villages again, I wouldn’t care,” Mr. Midnight responds. “I don’t want the real world anymore. I just want to keep getting laid. Whatever happens now, you guys have to worry about it—it doesn’t affect me. Hell, I didn’t even vote in the last two elections.”

  “So that’s it? You’re just going to toss all your problems onto my generation’s lap?” I ask.

  “I paid my dues,” he says, emphatically. “Isn’t thirty years of teaching enough? Now it’s your generation’s turn. You work it out. I’ll be here kissing the ladies.”

  “But you can’t just hide from all the problems in the world, can you?” I counter.

  “There will never be peace in the world, and I thank God that I’m old so I don’t have to worry about that crap anymore,” Mr. Midnight says.

  “It just doesn’t seem right,” I say, deflated.

  “Look,” he says, “I know what it is like to be young. You don’t know what it is like to be old.”

  A stout gray-haired man with another pitcher of beer approaches. It’s Frank, a foulmouthed former plumber in his seventies.

  “Hey, Frank, any luck last night?” Mr. Midnight asks.

  “She was surrounded by her girlfriends,” Frank responds. “It was hard to break in.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough when they travel in herds.”

  Several beers later, Frank invites me outside for a smoke. Once we’re in the parking lot, he lights up a fat, fragrant joint. “It’s good shit,” he says, exhaling an impressive plume. I accept the invitation; I’ve never gotten stoned with a senior citizen before.

  And stoned we are. The breeze feels as though it’s passing right through me, as if my body has hundreds of tiny pinholes. At my behest, we jump into Frank’s souped-up golf cart with flaming decals, and drive high-speed lazy eights around the parking lot. Frank tells me about his latest female encounter. “She wasn’t exactly a redneck; she was more of a country girl. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to spend the night with her. I don’t sleep around. I’m not like my friend—he’s a slut. To me, screwing represents a commitment.”

  I ask Frank what he does most days. “Get high and play Nintendo,” he says, without hesitation. “I’m not much of a cook, so I just eat a lot of pepperoni.”

  “I like bacon,” I say.

  I stumble back into Crazy Gringos and order a plate of nachos. “He gave you the good stuff, huh?” Mr. Midnight says. “Frank’s always got the best. The way he parties, you’d never know he’s had two heart attacks and a stroke. If I were his doctor, I’d tell him not to bother winding his watch.”

  That night, I sleep fitfully and finally give up trying at around five AM. It’s still dark when I drag myself out of bed and go for a drive. I pull into a nearby gas station to fill up and buy a cup of coffee. I’m not surprised to see that the parking lot is filled with day laborers, but I am surprised to see a group of retirees sitting to one side on benches and portable lawn chairs, chatting amiably over jumbo-size cups of coffee.

  “Do you folks always meet this early?” I ask.

  The group has little interest in me, but one man finally answers. “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “Habit.”

  I arrange to meet the transsexual Wendy Marie for a late dinner at R.J. Gator’s, a reptilian-theme fish and burgers joint beside the docks in Sumter Landing. According to the menu, an alligator, who presumably craves fried food, owns the restaurant.

  I arrive a few minutes early and pull on the restaurant’s front door. It’s locked. I peer thr
ough the glass and see a cleanup crew mopping the floors. I glance at my watch. It’s eight fifty-five PM.

  A sleek silver sports coupé pulls up to the curb. A stylish woman checks her hair in the rearview mirror and effortlessly glides out of the car. It’s Wendy Marie, and she looks stunning in her low-cut blouse, white denim skirt, heels, and a pair of silver tear-drop earrings. There’s a chill to the air, and she’s wrapped snugly in her red leather jacket.

  We find a restaurant that is still open and make ourselves comfortable in a booth. We are the only customers left. She removes a pair of bifocals from her purse, casually peruses the menu, and orders a small garden salad and a glass of chardonnay. I stare across the table, straining to find any trace of Wendy Marie’s formally male persona. I’m stymied. If anything, she is the epitome of femininity.

  Wendy Marie is The Villages’ only transsexual and openly lesbian resident, and nobody is more aware of how her female neighbors dress. “I like women just as much as any guy, but the women here don’t impress me,” she says. Her voice is slightly raspy as a result of surgery to shave her Adam’s apple. “They’re overweight, dress like crap, and don’t give a rat’s ass what they look like. They’re more interested in their golf game or canasta. Nobody wears heels, nylons, or even skirts. Women dress so casually that a lot of them look like their husbands. And their husbands are so fat they look like pregnant old ladies.”

  She rolls her eyes at the thought. “But the worst are the single guys at Katie Belle’s. They’re a bunch of dirty old men. You should see how they hit on me. It’s never ‘May I have your telephone number,’ or ‘May I take you out for dinner.’ It’s always ‘Want to go to my place tonight?’ One geezer invited me to a motel after ten minutes of conversation. And he was married. What are these guys thinking? Whatever happened to flowers and dinner—where did all that go?”

  A retired major in the Air National Guard, Wendy Marie (then Donald) moved to The Villages in 1999 with his wife, Jennifer. Like most residents, they were attracted to the amenities. They bought a 1,100-square-foot ranch home with all the bells and whistles for $120,000. Donald and Jennifer quickly rose through the ranks of pickle-ball players. A paddle game played on miniature tennis courts, pickle-ball is particularly popular with retirees because it doesn’t require as strong a serve as tennis or quite as much running. Invented by a family in the Seattle area in 1965, the game was named for the family’s dog Pickles, who liked to chase after errant balls.

  “We beat the shit out of everyone,” Wendy Marie tells me. “It’s a fierce game when played at a high level. We slaughtered our opponents. And we excelled at softball, too.”

  It didn’t take long for Donald’s deepest longings to surface. He was a she, and he knew it. The couple separated and Donald started undergoing electrolysis. “Ouch, that hurt,” Wendy Marie says with a wince. The next step was facial feminization. Donald hired a top plastic surgeon in San Francisco to work on his face bones. “First he popped out my brow bones and sanded them down before putting them back in,” Wendy Marie calmly explains. I glance down at my hamburger and then over at the waitstaff. They smile back, oblivious of our conversation.

  “Next he raised my eyebrows, narrowed my nose, and raised my upper lip. And then he took out my chin and put a screw in and then shaved down my jaws. It was an eleven-hour surgery. The doctor even took a lunch break. I was hoping the surgery would be effective—after all, it cost me $37,000. The funny thing is, only one person said, ‘You look different.’ I just told them I lost weight.”

  In preparation for the surgery, Donald was careful to keep to himself—not an easy matter in a gregarious community like The Villages. “I just disengaged. I kept my car in the garage, so that no one saw me coming and going. And I no longer played pickle-ball and softball. Those people knew me when I was living as a male.”

  After the surgery, Donald renamed himself Wendy Marie. “I started leaving the house dressed as a woman. And I looked like a woman. One day I went to Wal-Mart and looked at everybody to see if they’d react. You know, yell out, ‘Hey, you’re a man!’ But they didn’t. It was then that I knew that I could live full-time as a woman and not be ridiculed or discovered. Now I love going out. I love being called ‘m’am’ and ‘hon,’ and being asked, ‘What would you ladies like?’ when I’m at lunch with a friend.”

  Next came breasts and then permanent makeup. “I didn’t want to have to pencil my eyebrows and put on eyeliner and lipstick every time I wanted to leave the house. Don’t forget, I was born male. You have no idea how high-maintenance women are: the clothes, the manicures, and the shoes—definitely the shoes.”

  “I hate shopping for clothes, too,” I say, jumping at an opportunity for common ground.

  Wendy Marie is uncertain whether she will stay in The Villages. To me, it’s amazing that she’s even considering it. “I’m not sure I have a place here,” she says. “There are a lot of boring people here, and there’s not a lot of pizzazz. And there’s certainly no gay scene. But there are people who know me and accept my decision. That says a lot about this place. Who knows? There’s an outside chance it just might work.”

  For now, Wendy Marie is in what she calls a ‘holding pattern’—betwixt the sexes. Her final “transition” surgery is scheduled for the fall, but it may have to be put off because of an ailment common among seniors—high blood pressure.

  “Frankly, I don’t have a burning desire to do it, but I can’t keep walking around half male and half female.” Her days are mainly spent indoors, protecting her privacy and tackling the boggling logistics of legally changing one’s name and sexual identity. Unlike most Villagers, she doesn’t belong to a single club.

  “Sure, I’m lonely,” Wendy Marie tells me. “A lot of people come here to live their second childhood. I just want to live my first. But I know there will be a rainbow at the end of it. Until then, I will just have to wait and see where I belong.”

  The next day I check the Daily Sun’s activity calendar for things to do. It feels like being at summer camp, where all I have to do is sign up for activities each morning. After a quick glance, I zero in on a listing for the so-called “Wine Club.” If Tommy from Katie Belle’s is right, then this is the front for the “Village Swingers.” My curiosity gets the better of me. As much as I am repelled by the idea of walking in on two dozen naked seniors in the throes of sexual rapture, the material is simply too rich for a writer to ignore. I’d never forgive myself for not pursuing it, so I decide to drop in on a “tasting” uninvited. But I’m nervous; I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Will they kick me out? Will they invite me to watch or, God forbid, join?

  I park outside a recreation center where the meeting is scheduled. I move quickly because the sky is filled with swollen clouds growing darker by the minute. At the club room I meet a man with a knee brace who greets me warmly. I give the room a curious glance; the participants look more like Elderhostel’s travelers than the sort who sway lustily from indoor swing sets. Have I come to the right place?

  I warily take a seat at one end of a long table. The first wine is poured, and I’m invited to participate. “Whoa!” the club leader says. “Anybody getting that banana flavor? Kind of fruity, don’t you think?” The woman to my right pours me another taste. “Really gets the juices flowing, doesn’t it?” she asks, and then winks at me.

  Just then, a thunderous crack fills the room, followed by an intense flash of lightening. The skies open up and let loose sheets of water. The sound of thunder once again reverberates across the room, and the lights briefly flicker. “We just might have to spend the night here,” the woman says. “Hope we have enough wine!” Everyone in the room laughs, except me. I manage a weak smile and contemplate my next move. Another wine is poured. “How about that last one?” someone at the far end of my table asks. “Nice big taste, don’t you think? Mmmm.”

  The wine keeps flowing, and everyone at the table insists I drink seconds. Before I know it, I’m tipsy. “This next on
e is a petit Syrah,” the club leader says. “The grapes may be small, but not the flavor.”

  A couple from the Midwest, who are seated across from me, are real aficionados and explain the wines I’m drinking. He worked at as a computer programmer and she was in middle management at a corporation. Now she is a part-time hostess at a golf club restaurant in The Villages, her husband cleans its bathrooms. They tell me this work keeps them busy and lets them afford the half-price golf. “I’m the ‘head’ pro,” the husband jokes.

  As the club members settle into warm revelry, the conversation is anything but kinky. It dawns on me that this night is unlikely to end with multi-partner sexual escapades. A guy down the table tells me about a new computer game that allegedly fights off senility with brainteasers. “Hope it helps!” he says with a hearty laugh.

  “You have to have a sense of humor when you get older,” a woman next to me says with a smile. “But we’re all in the same boat.”

  “That must be comforting,” I say.

  “It is comforting. It’s one of the reasons my husband and I love living here. The only thing I miss is seeing little babies. I just love babies. I tell my husband I want to have another one and he’s like, ‘Yeah, sure, the baby could be your eightieth-birthday present!”

  As we leave, half a dozen guys from Orange Blossom Gardens, who call themselves the Thursday Night Poker Club, take over the clubroom. Several of them wear terry cloth sports shirts and pork-pie hats. A man with thick black glasses spins a toothpick around in his mouth and shoots me a glance. “What are you looking at?” he asks.

  The next morning I search out Wendy Marie’s potential companions, The Villages’ lesbian community. But it’s a deeply closeted group: among the hundreds of activity and affinity clubs in The Villages, lesbian-friendly listings are conspicuously absent.

  I resolve to do what any other self-respecting writer with a relatively keen sense of gaydar would do—I drive over to the women’s softball league practice. I am soon rewarded with what I conclude are numerous closeted lesbians. Unlike the coy nymphs who populate The L-Word, these women have generous figures and some sports crew cuts.