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.