The S Word

I want to talk about sex – not sex in the abstract or sex in the past, but right now, up-to-the-minute, down and dirty, sex in the senior set. Those of you who are past 50 are now leaning forward, eager to read every word and savor the revelation that sexuality does not expire at 40. Also, you probably don’t see so good, so leaning forward helps. Those of you younger than 50, if you haven’t already run screaming from the room, are probably squirming in your seat, but since I have pointed that out, you will now lean forward and pretend interest, but hope you don’t read something that will make you more nauseous than you already are.

Right away I want to get something straight with any kids in the room -- not children, but kids, young people in their 20’s or 30’s. I like sex, I liked it then and I still like it -- and I like to have sex as often as my body will let me, which is not that often anymore, damn it. I also have news for you. Your parents probably like to have sex. They did it, and they still do it. And think about this. Sometime, maybe just last week, when you called them up in the evening and your dad, in a strained voice, said that mom was busy right now? Guess what she was busy doing. Still with me? Good, it gets better. Your mommy and daddy like to fuck and suck just as much as you do. They did it like crazy till it caused you to come along, and after that they still liked to do it. I know you think they only did it those 3 times when they wanted to have you and your brother and sister, but it doesn’t work that way (unless, of course, you get drunk and have a one-time, one night stand, forget the condom, and 45 days later you get that awful phone call. Don’t ask me how I know that.) Your parents jumped each other’s bones every which way they could come up with. They used every orifice, every appendage, and several household appliances in their quest for that mind blowing orgasm. Hell, I bet that unless they are sitting in the room with you, there’s a good chance they’re doing it right now. I know it’s not pretty, but I think you get the picture.

It’s not that I want to torture you with unthinkable images that I have forced you to think of (although that’s fun too). I just want you to know that being a sexual being, is natural, normal, and doesn’t fade away. So you can take some comfort in knowing that you probably have another 30 or 40 years of glorious bumping nasties ahead of you. As long as you want to use that thing between your legs, it will do it’s best to lead you to heaven and sometimes, unfortunately, to hell.

Mine has led me to both. I had a wife who loved me, and we had great sex. Thirty years, and I swear our sex life just got better and better, right up to the time that she walked out the door. She loved me and I loved her, but I fucked around and that’s the truth. I loved her, but I didn’t care for her, take care of her, take care of us. Had no idea what I could lose. Ten years later, and I still remember that last day, standing in the hallway of the house we built, leaning against the wall to keep my knees from buckling, my tears in her eyes. She had already rented a condo and was all moved in but she was taking a few last things. This was the first night she would never sleep with me again. “Please, don’t go,” I whispered, “Don’t do this.” The hall was lit from a window high above the front door. I looked up and through it I could see a white sky, and the hall was painted white and she had on a white tee shirt. How could everything be so white on this blackest of days? We stood there facing each other. I wanted to grab her and just not let her go, but the white was like ice and I was frozen in place. I watched her turn and walk down the hall. The hallway became a tunnel that stretched to the vanishing point, where she was headed. When she reached the hall tree at the door, she paused. I saw the key in her hand, and I knew that if she put it down, I would die. Frozen in place I would topple over and explode into a million shards. She stood there and held it for a time, for a lifetime, our 30 years together in her hand for one last moment. She gently placed the key on the shelf. Then she opened the door, took a deep breath, and as she walked out she exhaled, and it made a sound like silk sliding through my hands.

I met a woman this week. Yahoo personals. She’s 65. What’s with me and these old women? Oh yes, I forgot, I’m an old man. We met at El Cholo, had a margarita, ate green corn tamales, and danced that same first-date tango that everyone knows and loves, and hates. She’s a writer too, and we both laughed because without planning it, each of us brought our work to give to the other. She was attractive and lively, and got my motor to turn over once or twice. After dinner, I walked her across the street to her car. We said goodbye and kissed – a soft lips, no tongue, but nevertheless inviting kiss that we held a few moments longer than goodnight kiss protocol would suggest. I told her I would call, and I meant it.

At home, I got stoned and went outside, and lay naked on a lounge chair in the cool ocean air, and for more than a few moments allowed myself to feel the peace that comes with possibilities. After a while, I took the suggestion that certain chilled body parts were making that we all go inside. I sat down and wrote her an email. I told her what I had just been doing and of my fantasy of her lying naked on a lounge next to me, of us holding hands, eyes closed, feeling the night, and listening to our breath ebb and flow with the ocean waves. Got an email from her the next morning, saying how much she enjoyed our evening, my writing, but that she didn’t enjoy sex, was aghast at the idea of being nude out in the open. She didn’t want to mislead me. (That’s me sitting there, mouth wide open.) She had always felt that way, and was thinking maybe, after all these years, she could learn to like what she had in the past only tolerated. But then she realized that she could never relax and enjoy sex, that she would always be worried about, “ . . . what was coming next.” Well for one thing, neither of us would be cumming next.

Damn. I thought of all the excitement and ecstasy that she had never known, and how sad it was that she would never know what it felt like to give someone the gift of your very being, and receive the universe in return. See, that’s what I know now, what all the joy and sadness has taught me. That once upon a time, before I killed it, I was part of a great love – for 30 years, for a moment, forever. I crush that memory to me, and hope that maybe, with the grace of Yahoo, Jdate, or backing into each other in the supermarket, I can have all that again, one more, one last time.

(Ok, I know I said this one would be an up-to-the-date, new piece, but it's not. I'm getting closer though, only about 6 or 7 months behind. I'll definitely let you know when my writing is in present time mode. Soon, I promise. Very soon.)