You
only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough. ~ Mae
West
When
I was in junior high school (more than half a century ago!), I wrote
a book report on Mae West’s more-than-slightly-scandalous
biography, Goodness
Had Nothing To Do With It.
My choice of reading raised some eyebrows, but I was fortunate to
have an open-minded teacher who gave me an A rather than grief.
Little
did he know he was nurturing a future author of smut!
I
was fifteen when I gave away my virginity – twenty five when I
received my first spanking – twenty seven when I participated in my
first ménage – in my thirties when I attended my first swinger’s
party. I didn’t publish my first erotica until my forties.
Sometimes it takes a while to fully develop the erotic imagination.
Or perhaps I was just too busy with other activities to sit down and
capture my fantasies in words...
And
now? In my dreams, I’m still the nubile, desirable tart I was in
grad school, but in the real world I’m just another little old
lady. I’ve got wrinkles, carefully dyed gray hair, arthritic hips
and knees. I can’t complain, though. I can still cook up a steamy
story when I get the urge.
Our
culture views sex as the purview of the young. I think this reflects
a fixation on the physical aspects of sex. If you’re not a hot babe
or a ripped hunk, according to popular wisdom, you can’t turn
anyone on. Of course this is complete nonsense. In fact, I find
myself increasingly attracted to more mature individuals: the woman
on the subway with the ethnic blouse and thick gray plait hanging
down her back; the grizzled guy in bifocals, sitting in Starbucks
with his suit jacket on the back of the chair and his business shirt
sleeves rolled up to bare his tanned arms; the white-haired couple by
the seawall, holding hands and laughing together. Oh, I see the
smooth, ripe flesh of the young, too – firm, unfettered breasts
under her tank top, tight jeans clinging to his magnificent gluts –
but I know that if I were alone with these beautiful kids, I’d
have nothing to say.
I
recently encountered this
encouraging article about the issues older people encounter
trying to express their sexuality. There are of course physical
constraints to senior sex, but the biggest obstacle seems to be the
notion that old people automatically become asexual, or even worse,
that old people having sex is somehow icky.
It’s
difficult to resist societal stereotypes, but I simply refuse to buy
this. I bet my sex life is better than most
millennials (who apparently are less
likely to have sex than any generation for the past four decades).
Anyway,
if my lover and I are satisfied, who cares what anyone
else thinks?
I’m
not willing to give up my sexual self. Writing helps me keep that
part of me alive. I’ve
penned a few tales where the characters are senior citizens, most
notably Gray
Christmas.
In that book, the protagonist’s adult daughter has a difficult time
accepting her mom’s lusty affair. I think there’s an audience for
stories like this that convey the reality that sex changes as you age
– but that you can still enjoy what has to be one of the greatest
joys on earth.
So
listen to this dirty old lady – don’t give up on nookie just
because you’re a bit creaky or sagging. After all, when Mae West
died, at the ripe age of eighty seven, she was shacked up with a
hunky former Mr. California thirty years younger than she was.
I
only hope I can do her legacy justice.
Love
isn't an emotion or an instinct - it's an art. ~ Mae West
