This is the end of my sex over 60 ramblings. No more scandalous tale to tell. Just a thanks to my readers that stuck with me. Upon reflection, I gotta admit that
hitting the ‘send’ key after writing every salacious slog was not so easy. Why did I find it so important to pen under the name ‘A. Nonymous’ to spill the details? Here’s three possible reasons:
1. The most doubtful reason: My time of birth. Born and raised in mid-century America, the Judeo/Christian ethic of that time was that ‘good girls’ don’t talk about certain things; being honest about sex was definitely one of those things.
2. A somewhat truthful reason: Family considerations. Most adult children would rather stick a hot poker in their eye than read racy anecdotes about their senior parents. The exception is my free-spirited off spring. I’ll call her B. nonymous, my biggest fan. Then there are the evangelical relatives; I’ll call them E. nonymous. This slog would be received as distasteful at best, ‘going to hell in a handbasket’ at worst. So I remain A. nonymous.
3. The most probable reason: Life experience. Sex has gotten a bum rap for lots of good reasons. I’ve seen first-hand the damage wrought in rural patriarchal cultures when sex is used as a weapon of control and suppression. Or ask any ‘me too’ survivor about their take on the joys of sex. And don’t get me started on the leader of the free world, a creepy misogynist.
I only know I needed to tell my widow’s tale where sex, when practiced for all the right reasons, is the hero. It can be fabulous, fun and full of personal flair. I’ll let you decide why I chose to use the voice of ‘Anne’ to shout the merits of the incredible sexual, creative kundalini energy.
So what’s next? It’s not a news flash to anyone of a certain age, that no matter what we do (spoiler alert) nobody gets out alive. I aspire to limp to death’s door with certain sexy parts worn to a sore frazzle. My hope is that you aspire a similar fate, even if sex doesn’t come a calling, life is an adventure. Go create your own fearless, sometimes scandalous path. If we can’t get out alive, we can at least make sure to be happily exhausted.
I call these sublime times after 60 the reclining years because I like the sound of it. Recliners are relaxing places you go to take a load off and just stretch out. Here’s a list of things I’m learning to do in my reclining years. Some of these might have been a bit harder to prioritize in prime time.
Like the Chinese fortune cookie, just add the words ‘in bed’ after each of these.
1. Be honest and kind
2. Institute ‘no pants Tuesdays’
3. Take responsibility for your own pleasure. Love thyself. There’s a tool for that.
4. Beware of different appetites. Retire the judge’s robe. Neither a judge nor a jury be
5. One must maintain a certain sense of humor
6. Fear and guilt are pretty worthless mates
7. Be a slacker on occasion
8. To be an interesting person, one must do interesting things
9. Take time. Efficiency isn’t always the best policy
10. Remember to have fun
Actually, most of these work in or out of bed; especially ‘no pants Tuesdays’. Happy reclining!
The Do Rag: Do-over, Do-it-again, Do-it better, Just-do-it. Do dah do dah doo.
My do-over came in my 60’s. Significant parts of my life were done; career retired, husband dead, kids all grown and busy working on their own future regrets. I belonged to the purgatory class. If life gives you a do-over (aka do-it-again), take advantage of it. Enjoy more. Laugh easier. Rediscovering sex after 60 is like finding a new life force, and I’m not talking about the occasional B12 shot. It’s even better than discovering sex at 16 because at 16 you’re merely curious while at 60 you can really appreciate the juiciness of it. You’ve got way less going on to distract from the pure fun. From our 20s to 50s sex is something that often gets scheduled, has an agenda, and ends in pleasant surprise or bitter disappointment.
Pre-menopausal women live with the joys of monthly periods and spiking hormones all while enduring the same daily pressures men have; plus toss in extra duties like birthin’ babies. Dancer extraordinaire Ginger Rogers was fond of saying she did everything Fred Astaire did only in heels and backwards. With the pace of a woman’s life, it can go unnoticed that female bodies are literal pleasure machines. And I don’t mean a man’s pleasure.
Here’s a lesson I learned, based on my ignorance of pleasure. One particular evening while in the throes of competent hands (and a tool or two) I was surprised that I’d had three very delightful o’s all over the course of a couple of hours. The last one had me worried as I wasn’t remotely used to this and thought there was a real possibility I could have a heart attack or at the very least suffer a stroke. I decided to call it a night. As I started to crawl out of bed, my partner politely reminded me he’d not quite reached his ultimate conclusion, so I might want to consider hanging in a bit longer. His pleasure was as important as mine. What a concept! The irony was not lost on me that ‘equality in the bedroom’ has long been a legitimate gripe lodged by unsatisfied women the world over. But on this do-over, I’d found a partner on a mission to make up for all the injustices women have suffered throughout time. Well, if he can take that task on, it’s my solemn duty to risk life and limb to honor any disappointed sisters that have gone before me. It ain’t over til the fat lady sings, and even if she sings three times, it ain’t over til both are singing in harmony.
Do dah do dah doo.
PSST.. look over here! If you’re over 60, female widow, divorced or living single, or if you’re none of those things but want to know what the hell I’m up to over here… read on.
Sex is a contact sport played with no protective gear (condoms don’t count in this metaphor). I’ve heard tell that couples who try unconventional moves in bed have a ‘safe’ word that tells your partner a flag is thrown on the play. We both settled quite naturally into our own safe word. “Cramp!” When that word is invoked, it’s an immediate signal to disengage and tend to whatever hip or leg muscle has frozen up. Muscle cramps can be painful, but with a little relaxing massage, no 911 call necessary.
As we age, diet and exercise have more to do with what shape we’re in than any pill bottles lined up on the dresser. Even one who has never paid much attention and ignored ‘healthy’ life choices benefit from a change. When I started doing ‘gentle yoga’ it was mostly to get to that magical shavasana meditation at the end; but another thing happened. My arms and leg muscles started to limber. Even after 60 it’s not too late to train muscles to be our slightly stretchy friend instead of the uptight enemy. A bonus feature of reaching 65 is free gym membership compliments of Medicare.
The worst culprit to looming health issues for me was paying no attention to the fuel I was putting in my tank. If it smelled good, I ate it. If it was made of a fermented grape, I drank it. Then I read a book and watched some docs about our toxic corporate farming methods. My digestive system was under assault. Meat (if that’s what they’re still calling it) is so cheap at every fast food outlet; heart disease, obesity and colon cancer should be listed as the menu’s bonus feature. I decided to switch to a plant-based diet after 60. There’s still a ton of tasty organic eating choices. And the food industry keeps inventing foods that look like meat or dairy but are actually good for you. So far the biggest benefit I noticed is pretty big drop in my sky rocketing blood pressure, and I still indulge in occasional fermented grapes. Lucky for me, my partner is a committed vegetarian for humane reasons, so we don’t conflict when it comes to meals. There may also be a bonus feature. One thing we’ve not ever needed in bed; the thing that is many an old man’s bestie: Viagra. I’m not sayin’ a vegan or vegetarian diet is an rx for how to maintain a healthy stiffy, but if you are a lover of living, happy animals, feel free to start the rumor.
Sex and music go together like cake and ice cream; both can be enjoyed separately, but together and in the right combination… prepare for ‘hey, it’s your birthday’ type pleasure! Interrupt here for funny story: I honestly thought that a ‘hummer’ meant (inserting euphemism) ‘playing his piccolo’ while humming the tune playing on the stereo at the time. The first time he suggested I try a hummer, I said, “Sure, but I don’t really know this song.” Pause for laughter. Turns out I wasn’t all that ignorant. Music can be incorporated and add a good rhythm dimension no matter what body part you’re busy with. I think of it as sex dancing. And when he’s busy with my sexy parts, he does some rhythm dancing too. It’s quite fun. Each of us is our own conductor or player in the band.
So what music works best? That’s a personal choice. After graduating from the obvious Bolero, Barry White/Marvin Gaye stage, for me, it’s the music of my youth. In the beginning I noticed I liked Joe Cocker (no pun intended) when he was “Mad Dog’s an Englishman”. I let his voice take me to my fantasy place. One time in bed an amazing Led Zepplin drum solo played and I was stimulated to near madness. Who knew? The rhythm was so tribal. You just don’t hear many drum solos anymore. Jim Morrison is crazy sexy… sometimes he went too far and got himself arrested followed by dead, but it’s still fun to listen to him croon during sexy time. Music porn. I recommend good speakers because great music, like great sex, happens between the ears.
PSST.. look over here! If you’re over 60, female widow, divorced or living single, or if you’re none of those things but want to know what the hell I’m up to over here… read on.
5. I could say a lot about the three p’s: pot, porn and pleasure but most of it’s been said at some point by somebody, so I’ll stick to my personal experience with each… in bed.
Pot. If you’re not an old smoking pro at this point in life, it’s not too late to start. It can really enhance physical pleasure. But take it slow. Too much of an edible can render you immobile; eating too much magic chocolate bar sneaks up on the brain. Practice and nibble. My preferred method for getting high is pot by bong. Just enough of a Cheech and Chong hit to help get in the right groove. Oh. Beware of another thing. Uncontrolled laughing. Not every sexual partner thinks sex is hysterically funny. I prefer to think of it as joy laughing, but I get it and try and control the impulse when stoned and in bed. Another benefit I’ve noticed is that my blood pressure takes a dip when under the influence; alleviating occasional worries about getting too excited and having a stroke.
Porn. There’s a lot of free wheelin’ freaky sex available on line for everyone’s viewing pleasure. At first, when viewed together, porn can be a useful mood-setter; think video foreplay. But eventually out comes the internal movie critic. Hey, these guys aren’t great actors! The sets are unimaginative; plot lines are few and far between. This is a medium catering to sexually depraved teen age boys. Porn central is so close to Hollywood, too; so disappointing. Porn is just one tool in the sexy kit. When we choose it, I’m always sure to turn off the sound and replace it with some good tunes. There is no video match for what I can create in my own head with the right music playing.
Side note: If you become disturbed by images of bad actors having fake sex or somehow want to get serious about it, may I suggest googling ‘ethical porn’. This is really a thing, created by women, of course. It’s worth mentioning that porn is about the only industry where, even at its worst, women performers are paid more than men for the same job.
Pleasure. Our bodies are amazing sensual machines. Pleasure is not a limited resource. It doesn’t wear out so no need to be stingy sharing it, or even giving it to yourself! More on this later.
Next up: Practicing the rhythm method
So back to that first sexual encounter. We had plenty of email chats about what that first time would be like. You woulda thought I was losing my virginity with all the speculation chat. By the time we met the mere sight of his wholly clothed body produced an involuntary full body shiver. As it turned out there were plenty more shivers where that came from. But I get ahead of myself.
The most important thing we discussed pre-meeting were the rules of engagement. Or, in our case, lack thereof. Our agreement was that there are no rules in bed. The non-rule rule is that one is allowed to ask anything. Reasonable requests are granted. Having no rules, gives freedom to be fearless. At my age, any unrealized fantasy deserves to the explored; as long as it won’t get anyone arrested or cause bodily harm. Side note: I did pack a couple pairs of surgical gloves in my overnight bag; and one pair got used. I’ll leave that image to your imagination.
On our naked meet and greet, the first order of business was a very sexy ten-point inspection; our Midas moment, both taking a look under the hood of the other. A complete once-over determined if any parts were misplaced, replaced or missing; sore spots identified. It was pretty thorough. He may have even checked my dental health. This was serious business, no amateur prom date. Most of this was conducted in the shower. After both passing inspection, we moved to the big fluffy king-sized bed where we thought up some imaginative positions worthy of a porn video. Glancing occasionally in the large, perfectly placed hotel mirror, I was frequently reduced to fits of joy disguised as laughter. I mentally cheered myself on: “Look at her go! What a pro!” Followed by nagging fears similar to what might happen taking an antique car for a spin and putting the pedal to the metal, “Gez, I hope nothing important breaks.. or falls out.”
Full disclosure: Being high helped reduce my anxiety and added to the juices, creative and otherwise. In the beginning, it helps; later on, it’s just considered a fun enhancement, not always necessary.
For women, they say great sex happens between the ears. This is true. Imaginations must be fully engaged for best results. But sex also happens between the legs and what lies between those legs needs some careful attention before putting the old buggy into drive, especially after it’s been sitting idle for a few years. Nature seems to think that once women pass menopause our sexual services are no longer required, and we start to dry out a bit. Ok. A lot. It’s like the Mohave up in there. I found this out the hard way. My enthusiasm for the old ‘riding the pony’ action, even with the aid of coconut oil, good old KY jelly or fancy creams found on discrete visits to the local porn store was not enough. I was rubbed raw and I mean that literally. I needed the help of estrogen supplements, which I’m told, also requires progesterone; a fact I trusted when the GYN told me so. Every morning I take these two pills and when my boobs get sore I naturally think,” Damn, I’m getting younger.”
That brings me to my “Fountain of Youth” finding. Once the sex engine gets primed and put to use, the benefits reach beyond multiple orgasms. I look younger. You might call this illusion a delusion, but it’s a welcomed one. When I gaze upon my lovely face in the medicine cabinet mirror each morning, I see a new woman. I see Mika Brzezinski. I see blonde hair and smoky eyes. This delusion got shattered when I saw a pic taken by a well-meaning cousin at a family gathering. I was downright startled to see what the camera captured. Who is that old woman? Shirley, not me. Whoever said, “you’re as young as you feel” is right. I stay away from anyone with a camera who might want to rob me of my blissful fantasy.
Starting a relationship at 64 is intimidating, even with someone you used to know. At this age you’re supposed to be unflappable; you know stuff. But 64 can feel a lot like 24 when it comes to laying bare your most vulnerable assets. The risks loom larger than your slightly increased butt size. Because this new connection started miles apart, it meant lots of emails and before ya know it, the saucy pics were flying back and forth. Suffice it to say, neither of us can ever run for public office; overexposed.
This crazy sort of irrational behavior was puzzling. Kundalini had stripped bare any sense of shame. Of course, sexy pics leads to the harder stuff. One day, I spontaneously mailed a package to his front door. Enclosed in the carefully folded #10 envelop were my bikini undies dabbed in the sexy aroma of patchouli oil. The mailman surely got a nose-full on delivery day. I’d not lost my fiscal sense, however. The undies I shipped cross-country had a small bleach stain on em… in case this whole thing didn’t work out.
And speaking of the harder stuff, the day of reckoning finally arrived when he flew across the country for a highly anticipated week. As I cruised out of the house heading for the airport, my thoughts were consumed with anticipation. So much so, it wasn’t until a last-minute glance in the hall mirror revealed I was about to leave the house with no pants on. It was the sort of nervous tell that might have given the airport parking attendants the wrong impression.
Sex is important. And fun. And can make you a little crazy. But it’s worth it.
PSST.. look over here! If you’re over 60, female widow, divorced or living single, or if you’re none of those things but want to know what the hell I’m up to over here.
This is my story, my experience, my carnal understanding. In my case, it starts with death. When I was 63 my husband of 30 years died. He’d been ill for years and the transformation from vibrant human to shell of a man was not graceful. I’m only telling you this because after he abandoned life for parts unknown, I was not only sad but completely drained; emotionally and physically. In my depleted state, I resigned myself to the fact that his death meant one thing: I’m next.
Sex was the last thing on my mind. I’d forgotten all about life’s sexy pleasures except for one daily respite; time with my fondly named 007 shower head. This undercover water blaster offered a few brief minutes of up close and personal good times with my most intimate southern regions.
Fast forward a year and still not even an occasional thought of sex. I slowly started healing mentally with long walks and gentle yoga. My fav yoga pose was ‘shavasana’, eight minutes or so of pretending to be dead. I learned there’s an energy running through us all called kundalini; our creative energy, our sexual energy. Somewhere in there I started to let myself feel it. This old lady waiting to die gradually started feeling the force.
My logical mind concluded I was too far past my prime to ever have sex again; especially if it meant jumping into the dating scene. Whichever side of the match.com swipe you’re on, a manufactured interview sounded like work and I’m retired from all things that sound like work. Old school bar hook ups weren’t appealing either; one-night stand, followed by the regrettable hang over at best; STD at worst. Secret agent 007 remained my best kundalini release.
All that changed with a fateful phone call. From 3,000 miles away and 40 years ago, I heard a familiar voice. An old friend was calling to see how I was. Not just a friend, but a man I’d known quite well. Memories of hot nights of youthful sexy time flooded my brain; starting a rush of kundalini energy right through my practically unbreeched southern border. As he explained he’d been living alone for years, I immediately recognized the erotic potential. SEX was back on the table… and out of the shower (sorry, 007).