The Brilliance of STIFFED. VIVA. VERVE. And ...

The Baby Editor — Moi

The Podcast.

The inspiration. VIVA in the 70s.

My inspiration. VERVE.

OK. OK. I’m always late to the party — ‘cause it’s been out a few months. But here we go. For any broad who has NOT heard of the steamy podcast STIFFED by Jenn Romolini — you gotta tune in — it’s so damn juicy. STIFFED is about the making of VIVA, an erotic magazine FOR WOMEN. Published by Bob Guccione (I know I know.)

I finished it up this weekend lying around on hammocks, blasting Donna Summers and sipping vodka tonics. Perf.

VIVA meant ALL to me. Out in the 70s — my awakening. The podcast tells the story of the scrappy feminists who put it together — the work, the ambition — and the HOT CONCEPT: flipping the coin. WOMEN want sex — WOMEN have desires, WOMEN have power and brains — give us those radical ideas — and while we’re at it: SHOW US SOME D**KS!

It brought many raunchy memories back — along with my OWN work, power and drive.

In the late 90s I created a magazine very much based on this idea. A feminist rag that celebrated US — REAL broads — lots of humor — feminism — and sex. I called it VERVE. We never got up the money for a launch — but that prototype ROCKED. So much fun — so many ideas — working on it with baby geniuses — now grown up geniuses Stella Bugbee, Laura Eisman, Corey Root …

“VIVA meant ALL to me. Out in the 70s — my awakening.”

— MJ

Last image is our logo and first proto cover. Ummm, very much “influenced” by VIVA ey?

Now, 30 some odd years later — creating the platform Glorious Broads, I realized listening to this fucking fabulous podcast (I sound like you Jen) — we are kinda doing VERVE — kinda influenced by VIVA — with the fine art of aging a huge component — and DEFINITELY for grown ass women.

An excellent lead-in to THANK ALL OF OUR NEW GOREOUS NEW FOLLOWERS on our Instagram page I must say…

We find these Glorious unconventional Broads on the streets of NYC — having plenty to say — about sex, about life, about age — and how it might POSSIBLY the best time of their lives.

Thanks to STIFFED for stirring up these memories — just what formed the broad I am today — one with a mission — and still a fine appreciation for a bulging crotch. Do note the images.

Lovers and the Inevitable Age Thing

Strangely appealing …

“Who else do you know who has this — a man who’d eat your p***y all morning, make you eggs, wash your dishes and vacuum your house.” — The Drummer, 74-years-old

And he’s right …

Been thinking a lot about the advantages — and disadvantages — of loving a partner older than you — in my case —The Drummer.

I had always been with the one and only Cindi Gallop on this one. Younger. One good night. Maybe 3. No stay overs. Hot and fun. I had girlfriends for the soul talks thankyouverymuch.

The most significant partner I had before The Drummer was 15 years my junior. It was what I was used to. And demanded. 

But five years ago — I took the dive into … ta dah … men my age. And double ta dah — friendships first.

Pros and cons:

PRO:

Gets my jokes and references (oh god how I have missed this!!!)

A widower — knows how to love. Cliché — but my truth.

Arty and – yea – gonna use the term – a friggin bohemian — which I love.
(except for the khakis and vests. Yikes … my own Maynard. G. Krebbs)

Doesn’t want to marry again. (yea)

Has his own place and doesn’t want to cohabitate. (double yea)

Open to explorations in the sack.

All still working. Whew.

CON:

Closer to the exit.

Closer to the inevitable changes of … aging. 

Closer to the disadvantages of sex declining. Hey — does that have to be?
I think of Mick Jagger and his 44th baby — and cheer up.

“Five years ago — I took the dive into … ta dah … men my age. And double ta dah — friendships first.Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.”

There have been many comforts of being with someone older — we may dimple together into our 80s. Maybe 90s. I’ll skip the 100’s.

Maybe I’ll stop freaking out at a new rash on his body. Instead choose to pick at each other’s bumps like a couple of Coppery Titi Monkey – the ones who bond for a lifetime.

Now  – that sounds kind of appealing.

Thinkin Cindi Gallop and her point of view – I love it. But mine has shifted. Things have shifted.

I no longer want to be writing the same story – with the same ending – over and over again. 

But am I ready?

Dumped. By a Sistuh.

I’ll have another …

I’m pissed.
No. I’m sad.
No. I’m mad.

How about pissed, sad, mad.

I could take a dump from a romantic partner.
Done plenty of that. And received plenty.

But it’s a BITCH gettin over a dump from a sistuh.

The last time a friend dumped me I knew exactly why.
It was 27 years ago.
And I deserved to get dumped.
I was consistently inconsiderate. And – well – a narcissist.

In other words — young.
And though I deserved it, I think about her every – well let’s not get dramatic – how about – every other day.
Because she was unique. Crazy smart. Super talented.
And one special Broad.
So grateful she is too cool for social media. ‘Cause I’d be a secret stalker to lick those wounds. Yeah, after 27 years.

“Maybe it is that you say things to your BFFs that you would NEVER tell your lovers.”

Why is it that we recoup from romantic breakups? Eventually … And not this?
Stewing, I found a podcast @eifpodcast on this very subject —
They talked about the “closure” theory. That closure ends romantic relationships.
But there’s often no “closure” in friend dumping.

Well. I dumped and was dumped in all kinds of ways romantically.
With often – no real closure. So that theory no help.

Maybe it is that you say things to your BFFs that you would NEVER tell your lovers.
You not only DISH – not only soul talk – you pour your guts out. And they get it.

Did you see that Jane Fonda bit on friendships all over IG?
Talking about attractions — drawn to women who keep her rigid back even more rigid. I liked that. You aim high — especially as we age — no room in your closet for just “hang out” friends.

Maybe that’s it. You are (or perhaps I am) more fussy about my friendships than I am about my lovers.

We won’t analyze that here.

Back to the dump.

Did it have to be during Women’s history Month?
And now — after all those martinis, mega laughs and slobbering cries — making our legacy officially history?

Why is it sooooooo hard to break up with a pal? Your comments may ease my heart. And help me to stop thinkin about the bitch.

Madonna. Rihanna. Cher. And — yeah — Mae West

I know Madonna was the obsession of last week. But this is about RIHANNA and Madonna. And Cher. And — ta dah — Mae West.

And ageism.

I want to share a memory of my very early days as an art director — and blatant ageism and misogyny I was too clueless to see. Or feel. Or say NO to participating in.

At Esquire, in early 90s, I assigned an illustration to a male artist — create a double page spread of Madonna at 65 (which seemed ancient to me and the rest of the young buck staff.) The artist sent me the painting (yes, painting) and I relished giving him feedback: “Make her tits hang more — give her a crinkled paunch and lots more sag around the thighs she’s so proud of.” etc. etc. etc.

“I think the boys were scared shit-less of the power and sexuality of Madonna. And we all did our best to take Madonna down”

I cringe when I remember the glee I took. Cause this was not a realistic portrait of an aging Madonna. It was done with spite, with meanness. I think the boys were scared shit-less of the power and sexuality of Madonna. And we all did our best to take Madonna down — at the mere thought of … ageing.

Yesterday, watching Rihanna at half time — lapping up her power, sensuality, mama-hood— I couldn’t help but wonder (oh that again SJP) — would any young broad today conform to the big boss who shall remain nameless — and assign this sexist art chock full of ageist misogyny — and get satisfaction bringing Rihanna down?

We have turned a page.

Or have we?

Yeah. I am disappointed Madonna is not growing older the way I would have liked her to. But. It’s none of my business. If she wants to look Alien — go for it girl.

I think of Cher and all the shit she got when she wouldn’t “age gracefully” (a term I abhor): "If I want to put my tits on my back, it's nobody's business but my own.”

Preach!

Madonna is our Mae West. And that brilliant artist did not go gracefully into the night. All sex. No shame. No apologies.

Whether it’s Cher, or Madonna, Mae or Rihanna as she ages — and she will age — let’s turn the page and support these fierce bitches. Consciously.

Are you with me?

Women ... Whining???

This cast!!!

"Whajathinkwhajathinkwhajathink? Babe?"

I couldn't even wait 'til we got out of the theatre – I was reeeeeeling with emotions from this EPIC film — “WOMEN TALKING” — despair, lots and lots and lots of rage — and then a tiny bit of HOPE and joy thrown in too — curve ball.

And what did my man say? “I liked it. I was sympathetic. But it should have been edited [the film is 104 minutes, people] — and — there was lots of WHINING.”

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT????

My head exploded. But. Being the Grown Ass Woman I have now become (!!!) — a miracle of its own — I said: Umm. Darling. The fuckin thing is called “Women Talking” — what did you expect?  We are holed up in a barn — listening to this cast of the most astounding broads — each one representing a part of what me and every woman’s soul out there is made up of — heroic, scared shitless, wise, authoritative — and then you add in rape and shame...

He grumbled.

I growled. “12 Angry Men” is one of his favorite films by the by — the same fuckin format— different genders. Duh.

And I left the conversation at that. The whining part I could not address and maintain my Grown Ass Woman status.

We drowned ourselves in good pizza, beer and jazz. I love my city.

“The whining part of his comment I could not address and maintain my Grown Ass Woman status.”

My first thought was to tell every woman I know — see this theatrical powerhouse WITH OTHER WOMEN. I don’t care how woke your dude is.

My second thought — MAYBE I AM DEAD WRONG. Maybe this brilliant film is actually required viewing for all men.

Cause there is relevance to all the shit that is going on in our lives. Right now.

And Frances McDormand OMG. Where is her shrine??

Revolution — Preach Chelsea!

My girl ….

She gets it.

She is soooooooo many of us out there — women who get this deeply:

“It is important to KNOW when you don’t have the skills (or just plain ole don’t want) – to raise a baby. Instead of SHAMING people you SHOULD say – ‘Oh good. Good for you — for knowing that you shouldn’t have a baby. You should get a carbon credit for not polluting the mass population.”

YES. ‘Cause we do deserve kudos. And cash.

And this had me shouting — with my girl:

“Like Chelsea: We have fun with ourselves. And we don’t want kids. Simple.”

“I have never been more confident in my life decision making skills — in remaining childless and alone… I have never been alone for two weeks in my life. I had never had a clue about how much I enjoyed the pleasure of my own company.”

YESSSSSSS!

BUT.

We women who CHOOSE to be alone GET A LOT OF... WORDS. THOUGHTS. FEEDBACK. And sympathy? Miss me with all that…

Like Chelsea: We have fun with ourselves. And we don’t want kids. Simple.

We love Chels so hard, and the special is chock-a-block with funny bits (manspainin anyone?). I'm bringing up the lack of offspring because a TikTok  I posted recently got SO MANY bitter comments from pissed off women — whaa? —  and a few dudes. “You will die alone desperate in a nursing home” “how can you possibly say motherhood is not for you when you haven’t tried it.” And on and on. Why? In the Year of Our Beyonce 2023? Aren't we moving beyond the binary? Why oh why can’t these three conversations — the pleasure of childlessness and the pleasure of parenting— the pleasure of a solo life — coexist?  F*** THIS. 'Cause in the end, all this vitriol and judgment is just another way to hate women and parents and families and it's horseshit.

To recap — having no kids: glorious. Having kids — glorious. Chelsea: Mutherf*cking glorious.  It's not pie, there's plenty of gloriousness for everyone my pretties.

Vogue Schmogue

Is it all just #dejavu?

I am wondering.

Maybe I've just #seenitall at this point in my life? (naaaaaa)

What's bringing this up? #decembervogue

Used to love print fashion mags. And I used to buy a lot of stuff.

Now I don’t. Buy much stuff …

Or magazines. But with my J.Lo on the cover — I couldn’t resist.

We start strong with Jenny from the Block, and the ever luminous Beyonce graces the back cover. But as I leaf through .... snore. One tall thin white ingénue after another. What year is it??

Getdafuckouttaheah with this lack of #diversity? All stick thin. I guess #bodypositive is over? Annnnd all 16-18ish. I guess #silvermodel is over, too?

A couple of features are interesting — some sapphic love —  OK, so I am in 2022. Only willowy white girls are pictured mind you, but — they do know how to tell a story.

And the ads: Ralph’s models … looking so Ralph. Prada (LOVE) features a young thang — styled as a girl in deep need of guidance. Valentino — didn’t we go through this cool look in the 70’s? We did. Lauder selling “serum” via a 13-year-old sans dark circles. Miracle!. And 36-year-old Amanda Seyfried re-re-retouched to unrecognizableland.

Hold up! Julia Roberts on the inside back cover??? Weirdly retouched into a skinny alien version of her already skinny self. What happened to #retouch? We ARE back in the 90s.

“Arrrrrrgh. I am done with this rag. And pissed again”

Fed up with what felt like at the time these important SHIFTS away from all whiteness, and away from women-hating retouching, and away from fat phobia, and away from ageist bullshit... From all of those just becoming hashtags — that vanish. Why isn’t this shit changing? And when it starts to change — why doesn’t it keep moving FORWARD.

1. Cover: Been there.

2. Valentino: Done that.

3. Prada: Duh.

4. Estée Lauder: She’s 15. You don’t get dark circles.

5. Amanda: I swear I didn’t even recognize her.

6. Features: Oh shut up.

7. Julia: I’m scared.

I'm #overit -- You?

In fact: I put this up on IG. And got lots and lots and lots of other OVERIT comments. Yea! I’m hoping for a bunch of GenZ’ers who will embrace this new world — some exist. No doubt. But I mean seeing the change at Vogue. Oh please ….

Globe Trottin' Broads

The one and only Hattie Retroage

Some inspiration and motivation for the traveling female, SOLO and ecstatic. Ages, 84, 86 and 99.5. Going, Going, Gone

GOING: OFF TO THE TROPICS — HATTIE, 86

“Courage? As I see it, just contending with being alive takes courage. Being older has made me braver, not more timid. How many times have I vowed: "No more New York winters for me!"  It was finally time to take action. I'm cancelling my lease and relocating to the tropical island of Anguilla. Seeing myself dancing to live Reggae in cut-offs. Brave? Perhaps. Passionate? Definitely!” — Hattie

GB: Starting it all over at 86? OMG.

Liz Friedman, rockin the look, as always

GOING: BOARDING — PRONTO — LIZ, 84

“In the past, when I was going on a trip, friends and colleagues would say “Have a blast” “Get Wild” “F*** your brains out” and other variations of eat, drink and be merry. This time, at 84, I’ve had dozens of friends admonish me with “Stay safe” “Be safe” “Be careful” etc. I wanna kill them for setting the bar so low. Is being safe what travel is about? NO! It’s new adventures, new people, FUN. If it’s safety I want, I can stay home in bed, under the covers — and save a lot of money!”
— Liz

GB: I love this bad-ass broad so much. Enough with ageism crap!

Vija Vetra, blew me away at first sight

GONE: JUST BACK FROM GREECE — SOLO, VIJA, 99.5

“My favorite night was when the moon was almost full. Over the Aegean. I danced under it. From my terrace. I focused on the waist up because of my arthritis. But my emotion lives there — and I’m better than ever.”

When I was leaving the plane, the pilot and I locked eyes. He asked if he could escort me. I said yes. And he and I swanned out. Purely magic moments.” — Vija, 99.5

GB: I MEAN

Paulina. Paulina.

“This is the gap I am stepping into: Not to shame women who refuse to age, but to offer an alternative.”

— Paulina Porizkova, Model, Author

“I see the distinct lack of visibility of women my age looking their age, proudly and beautifully. And this is the gap I’m stepping into: not to shame women who refuse to age, but to offer an alternative. Self-acceptance is, after all, the one thing age has over youth. – P.P.

Hmmmm.

Oh Paulina, that GENE pool of yours. This is not a hate piece. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re fierce. You’re gutsy. And congrats on the new book. But I am stating … you are not so great a representative for the rest of us … and we’re Glorious Broads. You, Paulina, are the blonde prototype of Goddess.

You’re a damn good writer. I often eat up your Instagram. Your causes. And often roll my eyes on your “invisible” rap …

When companies ask you to represent “middle aged” women – fighting “invisible” (which I’ve have always RUN from – you demand being visible!) — that Laura Geller Campaign this summer — “Let’s get old together” – swanning around with your spectacuar body that – supposedly — represents the rest of us as we’re aging together? No. Buzz kill.

You have NEVER been invisible.

We Glorious Broads say NO to this invisible shit.

No no no.

Nobody is invisible if they choose NOT to be.

But what do you think out there? Does Paulina represent “us?”

PS. I put this on IG. Got lots of comments. And I realized — duh — that of course there is no one woman who represents “us” — but I do give P.P. credit for creating a very distinct voice. That I do. And I blame marketers for hiring this goddess as representing “us” — and doing some women damage. And still say — she was never ever ever invisible.

Youth. Nuptials. Escape. And Me.

My “engagement” photo — in all its retouched splendor.

August 29:

I’m always skippin’ for joy on this day, August 29. ‘Cause exactly 51 years ago, I was to be wed. At 19. To a local boy. At a local wedding factory. In my local town. In Joisey.

Funny that I remember the date. But I do.

The breakup — in my tiny orange volkswagon  — of course it had flower decals — with THE WHO’s screaming “I’m Free” in the background. Roger Daltrey helped me seize the break-away moment. He’ll always have a special place in my heart. And I am sorry I broke this young boy’s heart. Though he did impregnate my neighbor within 3 months. And married within 5.

On this day, I am so damn grateful to have walked away from a life I was THIS close to. So close that my poor dad never got his $100 deposit back. And 100 bucks was some kind of money back then.

Here I am, 19 — my formal “engagement” picture. It took me 90 minutes to walk out of the house back then — to look “presentable” — I mean, do you see what we use to call “spit-curls?” Oh darling, that alone ate up 20. I think scotch tape was involved. And teeny curlers for “the look.” It now takes me 3 minutes to walk out the door — and I looking better and so much more glorious than this child I do not know.

What near catastrophe did you escape from — what life did you leave far far behind?

Belly Fat — MANopause Style!

JOSH K - WORKIN IT

ARTIE G - PILLOW TALK

JOSH H - NOT GIVIN A F***

HENRY - PERFECTION

Loved seeing the reaction to NYTimes belly fat in midlife piece …

FUCK pears and apples … and guilting us out …

HERE’s an article I did — about MEN and their rolls and handles and — big “apple” (sigh) middles in midlife — for @disruptaging. And the guys went there …

1/2. Josh K: “All of the sudden, I have clothes in my closet that I can’t fit into — but don’t wanna throw out.”

3. Arnie G: “I was Mr. America in 1994. Instead of a six pack, I have maybe a three-and-a-half pack. I’m not crazy about it. But my wife calls it her comfy pillow.”

4. Josh H: “I’m tired of trying to become something I’m never gonna be. I don’t want to fight it any more”

5. Henry: “I love all of my body. Now. But be careful with it. It’s gonna last you longer than cars. Love that body.”

Sound familiar ladies? Give us more of these pieces!

I’m with Henry. Love it up — and go for the ride…

Photos Scott Pasfield / Styling Regina Harris / Art Direction/Concept: Moi

Broad Hunting NYC Style

What we learned from Week 1 of BROAD HUNTING in the wilds of New York:

1.     Do not fuck with two Broads who are in deep conversations.

2.     They may bite.

3.     The worth of the term “Broads” is quite debatable it seems — not everyone gets power from it. Particularly the generation before me.

4.     Once we start pokeing crocodile hunter style — they start to love Broads with a capital B.

5.     Why they are so damn Glorious.

6.     And why we’re reclaiming it.

Photos: Mariah Carpenter @itsmariahlourielle

Sex After 50 Isn’t Good — It’s Fuckin’ Great

Go forth my preeties!

True, not every romp is as “athletic” as it was at 29 (five times a night, I’m looking at you). But fear not! Sex after 50 really does get better. And I mean heart-pumping fanamazintastic banging. For context, I just turned 72 and I’ve experienced plenty: Married, divorced, straight, bi, partnered, unpartnered. I’m writing to you from the promised land to say: Please anticipate — with sexual glee — the time ahead of you. Here’s what sex after 50 has looked like for me.

Breakthroughs

Age 50-54:

I got divorced at 48. He was beautiful, Brazilian. My type. But hardly any brains and no ambition, making him hard to respect. The sex life went kaput after seven years. I found myself free — with a need to explore what I’d fantasized about during the last bit of that snore-y marriage: Women. Not a woman. Women.

Unleashing desires tucked away for nearly 40 years? Now that is sexy. I am an extremist — either very “out there” or “very in.” And when that “very in” time is over — the coming out party can be ferocious … and it was. I had deeper orgasms with partners for the first time in my life. I realized I had been “performing” — not connecting during sex. Women (and lots of them) helped me with that. But it took some learning. And communication. And patience.

My lesson: Learn how to become a good lover. It makes the sex better for you, too. And scratch the itch of those pent-up desires. Now. Don’t wait ‘till you’re 50 people.

Age 54-56

I fell into a relationship with a Persian stud. But it wasn’t fair to her. I started to miss men. Well, not so much “men” — but their anatomy. I took my lessons of connection — and a tubful of sex toys — to be with a sexually charged man who happened to be 18 years younger. His sex drive was equal to mine — yea! And his disgust for anything “traditional” was deeper. Kink entered my life — a bit of bondage — a tad of spanking. Fun. New. And — for the first time in my randy life — a third party was introduced. I was open. Curious. We were officially polyamorous — for about 10 months.

While it was exciting at first, I found myself jealous about the time in the sack he gave her — versus me. I was disappointed with myself but, alas, my progressiveness had found its limit. I’d become a one-on-one gal once I was in deep.

My lesson: Follow your gut. While I loved the novelty of polyamory — it wasn’t for me. The kink stayed. The third party didn’t. And the sex was even hotter once I stopped worrying about pleasing him and came clean to admitting what I really wanted.

Sex In The Menopause

Age 56-58

All was horny and fabulous with my young buck until … Menopause. Desert crotch. It’s real. And sex f*cking hurt. Here’s an example of a conversation with my male gynecologist:

Me: “I don’t know what is wrong with me — I no longer have any desire for sex.”

Him: “I don’t know why either. You’ve got all the equipment.”

Nice.

Our wicked sex life reduced to nearly zip. And I had no clue what to do.

My lesson: Read a damn book! Prepare for menopause in your 40s.

Age 59-60

The stirrings returned … But still no home nookie. Whaaaa?

I pushed my workout routine to get my muscles (and my groove back, Stella) and — at 60 — became stronger than I’d ever been. It's possible!

The self-esteem from the workouts (kegels, kegels), emotional support from pals strapped into the same menopause roller coaster as me — nothing like a laugh during a hot flash — did wonders. And, oh, I canned that tone-deaf gyno, replaced him with a compassionate woman who prescribed a low dose hormone. They’re not for everyone, but for me — my desert was suddenly abloom!

But then my young dude dumped me. Ouch!

My lesson: My flood gates finally opened — and the partner who always wanted me passionately is suddenly never in the mood — and I kept telling myself it’s OK. It wasn’t. If you don’t want a roomie — move on. ‘Cause they’re about to.

Age 61-65

Into the world of internet dating … and what a world! Turns out older women are a sizzling commodity! Score. And I did.

The last thing I wanted was “romance” after that confidence-stealing heartbreak. What I got: All the ferocious head-banging sex I could handle.

During these years I specialized in “wrong” dudes — the broke and mostly drunk artist, the sad (but funny) comedian with the unfortunate habit of saying “awesome” after sex.

After crossing every sexual proclivity that called my name (which again, strongly recommend), I needed a little softness in my life …

My lesson: Important: Stand up to slut-shaming! I was getting some of that from my “pals.” Nope.

Embracing Change

Age 65-68

The f*ck-you 50s: Totally real. But for me? It happened at 65.

I used to be a freak about my body being “perfect.” But the body does change, and I wasn’t covering up anything anymore. You get all this — body and mind. And anybody who didn’t want it — didn’t deserve me. No sugar-coating. This mindset takes inner work, folks. And acceptance. I softened — my workouts “softened” — swimming, yoga, walking, breathing. And yes, meditation.

And the sex softened. My lover at this time was a man my age — gasp! — a good-looking director ... with erection issues. Softening everywhere, but sensuous imagination replaced hard-driving thrusts. He was a yogi — and helped me slooooow down. We made erotic films together, explored kama sutra positions, and a few rope tricks — with a little pill for the penis occasionally. Now, a director in the sack can work, but a director butting into your everyday life? Time to skedaddle.

At 68, I realized, I was ready for a kind, loving partnership. With great sex. Possible?

My lessons: Your body will change. No matter how hard you work out. Accept. Love. Also: Soft can be hot.

Age 68-72

My current lover was a good friend first — a widower who sports (bad) checkered shirts, khakis, and long black socks. Umm, can you say not my type?

Sitting on the orgasmic train with a person I actually like? And love. Feels like my standards are higher than ever. Even with the khakis.

My lesson: Move beyond your “type.” Consider someone who has been happily mated — they know how to love.

From my p*ssy to your bedroom and beyond. Go forth and frolic, my pretties. And you’re welcome.

NOTE: This story was originally written for The Zoe Report, whom I love.

https://www.thezoereport.com/wellness/sex-after-50

72 — and learning to give a damn about the things worth giving a damn about.

I’m puzzled at the doctor’s office. So many bizarre questions from the new PA… why is she asking me to draw 3:00 on a clock — am I in kindergarten? And repeating 3 simple words (apple, clock, chair). Her balance questions were not about what I owed them but about my ability to stay upright.

Then. I realized. She sees my number on the chart. She’s checking me for early signs of dementia. And — damn — I showed up looking so fine in my newest hot mama getup — and Balenciagas. There’s some balance for you…

Then it happened.

Two days later — I lost my balance in the middle of my “power walk” — on the 9,237th step to be exact — and ended up in the emergency room — with a couple of broken bones.

Was I hexxed? Or is this balance thing … umm…. a fact.

Vulnerability set in… am I really, truly and officially….a tottering ole broad? Or Is this simply … an awakening? My ageism rageism really kicked in when my (mostly very sedentary) pals started telling (active AF) me to “watch my step” once spotting the cast. No. I’m not tottering — but the vulnerability helped me realize — yep, time’s creeping up on me. It’s just a fact.

The evidence mounts:

My very first design assistant just invited me to her 50th birthday bash. Whaaa?

The group texts with my buds sounds like the recovery ward — “How’s your shoulder” “Is your ankle any better” “How’s that back”…. Oh, there’s plenty about vibrators, lovers, ageism, movies, food — and fuckin Covid and fuckin double fuck Putin … but lots and lots about arthritis….

And then there are the photos. They contain so many facts. Sometimes too many. I splurged on a photo sesh gift for a BFF— she lost 45 pounds during the plague — walked it off — and we wanted to mark this metamorphosis. I thought the shots were FAB and sent them over. Radio silence. For days. Huh? The confession: She was, in fact, shocked to see that her neck is no longer 30, and she has some bags under those huge almond eyes. She loves them now. It was simply — a fact.

Even the almighty R&B singer, Bettye LaVette is not immune. When Covid was FULL TILT, she heard – as we all did - that the “elderly” were more prone to getting IT – and dying. The elderly — not 76-year-old Bettye. So there she was, sporting a mask and speeding around town doin’ her thing. It was her young grandson who tapped her on the shoulder and said: “Ummm, you are an elder. Please don’t go out.” Shock. Facts.

I took this selfie of myself for my 72nd birthday WEEK. Oh yeah, It’s a week! Would I ever have stood in front of the camera minus a dash of makeup in the ole days? Hell no! And it’s damn freeing! And yeah, the face has changed. Shock. Facts.

Or could it be shock and awe? Once you get it. That change is the only constant — and these changes are punctuated by some cold hard facts. That are hard to swallow. But we do (I’ve never been a spitter).

This is not advice. It is an observation. Observing the way time takes you.

With the years, you get realer about aging, unrealistic beauty standards, love, and not giving a fuck about the stupid things.

I used to go out at midnight.

Now I hit the bed at midnight, purring over a good book, with my turmeric pill, ready to kick ass in the (very early) morning.

My lover is designated every other night. No more full time -— sorry not sorry.

Aging is an eye opening. And it is liberating.

You learn to give a fuck about the things worth giving a fuck about.

And that edits out a LOT.

Ok. It’s midnight. Tumeric, check, good book, check.

And grateful — no longer vulnerable — that I am still aging. And still got my balance bitches!!!

My Very First Glorious Broad. My Inspiration. My Valentine: Clara Hancox

Thump, thump, thump went my heart strings …

I came across this obit about 6 years ago — and something about the life, the chutzpah, the unconventional who-gives-a-shit attitude …

She is exactly who I wanted to be at 87. Except for the dead part.

Scootin’ around on her badass motorcycle, writing sexy-pansexual memoirs in the 70s — helloooo. Living up in the Catskills with a village joint on the side. Opinionated as hell.

And this obit quote:
“Hancox spent her whole life breaking the rules — an avid motorcyclist, dabbled in mountain climbing, piloted airplanes and lived a rich, full life after leaving fashion. She published a ‘racy’ (oh how I love this word) novel “To Mine Own Selves Be True” and was named the best independent published book of the year. (Must have been juicy!) Kabbalah and art became her passions in her 80s.” (Before Madonna y’all.)

The obit ends with her quote: “I’ve always been outspoken — and that’s what made me a good columnist — I was fearless.”

So, thank you Clara — for being my COOL AF MUSE!!! My icon for all the Glorious Broads that have followed.

You spoke to me.

"And Just Like That"

Oy. As if the movies weren’t enough punishment …

“And Just Like That” … I tried to keep an open mind! Really. But I’m left dumbfounded. And pissed. Note: I adored the first seasons of SATC. Until it got desperate.

Let me rant with a few queries.
(And SPOILER ALERT):

1. Why does Carrie hate her friends and their endless — and now sad — brunches? Her one-liners were funny first time around — now they just seem mean. Who the fuck would want a friend like Carrie? Not I sistuh.

2. Why the idiotic line from Miranda to Carrie that participating in a podcast and Instagram — she is “passing as young” — why is a podcast a foreign thing to these “media” and lawyer types working in the world? Where oh where have they been? And what kind of support is that to get from your bff (that again

3. Why did these women NOT know about the complete and perfect gender REINCARNATION that is happening in the world now? Why did they not know that making comments on black women’s hair is simply NOT OK … and the obvious racial tokenism DOUBLE NOT OK

4. Why did “they” make each and every one of them into DODDERING FOOLS????

I will tell you why.

Because, once again, getting older is portrayed as grim. As settling. As fucking sad. Nobody over 17 is having sex in this thing. And definitely not having ANY fun. No clue about navigating the world. Dinosaurs.

And yes, getting older does mean loss. But getting older also means learning to care MORE about the stuff that matters — not just accumulate more and more SHOES BITCHES.

The one advantage of all of this is Carrie's hothothot boss Che @therealsaramirez — hopefully soon to be lovers with Miranda. But there I go. Thinking they’ll be fun and MODERN. And, so far, this is none of that ….

So. I’m not finished yet. Only saw two. But while the stock of Peloton tumbles, I suspect my stock in this show will continue to take a DIVE…

This reboot makes me worship Broad City more than EVER. And the only Broad in the bunch — Samantha.

HOW ABOUT YOU??? Am I alone here?

Tick Tock Tick Tock

How we change …

I am fully aware of how obnoxious this photo is. It’s an editorial decision.

And how amusing it is to catch the moments and realize — wow — I am a totally different Broad.

Or am I? I ask that question to a lot of Glorious Broads. Has your core changed from your 20s 30s etc? They usually say no. Me? It’s a no. But my being in TOUCH with my core has…now.

Back from a 7-day retreat. In a mountain town that’s minutes away from being the next hipster spot. It has the derigueur cool coffee shop, a damn good martini a few doors from my lair. And an occasional hipster sighting. 

I got into this (kind of) “off-the-grid” life — and took care of my bod, myself. Wrote. Thought. Can’t decide if I am a genius with a new project — or is it shit. But that’s art. Not my GB story …

Back to that. First: I would never take this kind of trip younger. Oh. I’d travel alone. But agendas: Partying. Fucking. Business. I never took the time to DIG. I’d just DO.

And travel with a separate bag for accessories…and lipstick.

This trip? No lipstick. Sweats, sneaks, baseball hat.

Leaving … sigh … in Hudson catching the train. Needed a shot of GLAM. Dropped by The Mark Hotel doing its best to recreate the West Village, my home, in the Catskills. Oy …

I flopped down at the best seat available. And gave the poor young horrified hostess a near heart attack as she catapulted towards me toute suite.

Seeing her panic — I’d completely forgotten what I “projected” – ‘cause I don’t do funk like the always coooooool Patti Smith. I just looked like I needed a shave and a bed. Which I did…

Got booted. Though I took my time sauntering out — my “dress code” all wrong. Hahahaha.

This experience would have RATTLED me younger — Oh I wish I was French (this truly was my mantra in my 20s — pooryoungme) – the whole “am I good enough/cool enough” number…

Not now. I chuckled — felt for the poor hostess and her shit job — ousting folk not lookin the part — giving her a mini heart attack — knowing perfectly well that I am as Glorious in my sweats as I am in this GLAM photo shot in the REAL village bitches. 

Isn’t it great that we know we are Glorious – inside and out? That’s our core. And now we know it.

Has your core changed?

"Fuckable" Is Overfuckingrated

Enough Paulina …

Young. Lovely. Clueless.

I just found these photos. I utterly forgot that we ever made them. “We” was me and a photographer who I guess back then I called a “friend.”

I am so coy here. And very, very young. You know the drill — it was the '70s, I was new in New York, met him at a Soho party. He was dressed in a disco white flaired suit. The suit I remember. The face? Naaa. He did me lots of “favors.” Shooting pics of me, pals, family. The favor I paid back was — no — I didn’t f*** him — but when I see the look on my face here — faking the you are AMAZING with a side of completely unfaked PLEASE don’t touch me — deeply uncomfortable then and now. In fact, that mutherfucker was a pig throughout the shoot. And every shoot. The price I paid for mediocre pictures.

You just put up with it. THEN. It was invisible, something we didn't even realize we could speak up about. Good riddance to that bullshit.

And speaking of invisible, Paulina Porizkova is talking a lot about this on Insta these days — no expiration on sexy and the whatnots. I LIKE a lot of what she does, what she says. But — I mean — you win — you're a bloody model. You're posting jaw-dropping gorge photos TOTALLY looking for “am I f***able” outside validation at 50. Don’t put that shit on us. Fitness, sure, but fuckable is overfuckingrated.

“You just put up with it. Then. It was invisible, something we didn’t even realize we could speak up about.
Good riddance to that bullshit.”

In my family of 5 sisters, the eldest one was, without a doubt, the GODDESS. THE sex bomb. Too much emphasis on this in our clan, but she was worshiped — the Liz Taylor type. She came up in the '50s. Mad Men territory. And that was the business she was in. She WAS Joan.

I remember fishing with her, decades later, solidly in her 60s, a bad-ass broad, with her body — well — she looked like a bumblebee and she loved it. I asked her if she missed being the babe — the sexy young thang — her response: "Hell no. I was absolutely tortured for it …."

I'm NOT saying here accept being “invisible.” HELL NO. But being young and being attacked on the streets or creeped on at photoshoots makes who you are invisible. In her bumblebee stage, my sister was more visible than ever. We all get to be visible for who we absolutely are. If we own it. And today? I would have clocked that asshole right in the crotch for messin' with me.

So let's do it — be VISIBLE as the older, powerful Glorious Broads that we are. Nobody else’s idea of “f***able” — OUR OWN idea. Get botox if you want to. Do whatever the hell you want. But recognize. Decades change you. And that's OK. In fact, it's better.

A Day in the Life of a "Transformed" New Yorker

But will it stay ….

The same Broad as pre-COVID? Fuggetaboutit

Photo: Russ Rowland

I’ve definitely changed a bit since The Plague. Little things like — taking a whole day to just ... walk — so not me — meeting a friend for a middle-of-the-day coffee — whoa — taking the time to feel the city as it eeks (more like rages) open. Does it feel different? Do I?

Here's my yesterday, ranked by Covid Change factor:

1. Hair Cut: Desperately needed. Went to a friend of my present beau. Damn good job for ¼ of the price. She and I clicked — a real Glorious Broad. She was the best friend of his wife, who passed away two years ago. Talking to her made me feel like I knew this woman a little more — instead of being the (sometimes) jealous asshole I can slip into. I felt happy he found such a great partner and for so long before — me. We played Sinead O'Connor. I felt moved, lifted and grounded at the same time. Covid Change? I think yes.

2. On the streets: An occasional eye lock with a stranger. Sometimes, for fun, I admire a young stud. I can’t tell if he is responsive or weirded out. I don’t give a fuck. Definitely Covid Change.

3. Dumpy "spa" appt: How one forgets the INTIMACY of a wax — literally crawling inside your butt and pussy. This joint (I can't type spa again with a straight face) is run by Russians — but not MEAN — they blared Donna Summer’s disco version of MacArthur park throughout the torture. What the fuck did that song mean? But I loved Tania — and left the torture chamber humming, contented. Covid inspired? Not feeling pissy after a wax? Big time Covid Change.

4. Walking down 16th street: Finding the store, “Kidding Around” — which I’ve been trying to remember the name of for weeks as there is a new special baby in my life. BLING! But its fucking huge. “You were small and intimate — what happened?” Retail kid says (a bit condescendingly): Umm that was 28 years ago. But I did the math. Time flies. Nothing to do with Covid — except that bejesus this cute shop LASTED. And I was not a bitch to the kid!!! In fact, I was charming and explained when I was there last. Covid Change — a definite maybe.

5. The Murrays Bagel Miracle: I indulged in a glorious huge bagel with everything. Had the discipline to leave the other half on a 14th street ragged corner. Hope they like lox. I remember Andy Warhol did this after a luxury dinner — left little boxes of leftovers around town. So, I did it for Andy. Covid Change — yep.

NY deliciousness. Shared.

6. I hate to shop: But forced myself into Banana Republic. Not my style BUT figured I could funk up the basic boring prep look when home. After all, I was off to the Hamptons and when in Rome … The young sales kid and I had fun screwing the system finding every “deal” there was. Walked out of there with 2 pairs of shoes and many a basic bit under 200 bucks — under 30 minutes. The hilarious “screw the system” chats with this young GB were Covid Change fer sher, full retail price is a Never Again. For moi.

7. After this me me me day, I met up with Glorious Broad #18, ASIA and watched some stupendous flamenco. Toward the end of our margarita fueled catchup, a homeless guy approached.— My immediate reaction was — oh shit — how do I blow out of here? Not ASIA. She listened. She talked. She gave him respect. I saw this man transform from a homeless “tragedy” — to a person relieved to have another person to hear him. And I learned more about her — more about him — more about what COVID has done to all of us, with and without homes. Covid Change: off the charts.

Thank you, ASIA — you’re a pisser, I love you and appreciate you for being so damn glorious.

What about ya'll? Are you seeing, feeling some Covid changes in YOU? Tell me.

Too Old for NYC?

Always thought I'd leave feet first, but this last leg
of Covid’s got me ponderin' …

Phone. Remember these? Then you’re old …

All Photos: Christopher Scalzi / Distilled Studio

Am I a curmudgeon? (A bit.) Am I a bitch? (Yes.) Can I blame the pandemic? (Oh fuck yes.) — but now, in the year 2021, approaching my 71st birthday — I wonder — am I just too fucking old for this town?

I always vowed to leave Manhattan when I’d bump into my nephew at clubs. Or media events. Or high roller restaurants. ‘Cause I owned this town, goddammit. Well, that same “kid” became a super star. And scrammed for the Hamptons when THIS happened — months ago. To procreate. And now considers New York City OVUH.

O New York, how thy tryest my last nerve. Have I hung around too long? The evidence ...

1. I still loathe going to Brooklyn. Or Jackson Heights. Or Astoria. Or any of the “groovy” new boroughs (did I just say groovy?) I’m Pete Hamill, age 11, born in Brooklyn, longing to cross the Bridge that would take me to the golden land of Manhattan. So. Not goin’…

(And if you're askin' who's Pete Hamill? Groan …)

2. I can no longer get it up to pay $280 plus tip for a haircut. Yes — I am a fusspot about my tresses. But Covid’s left its mark: Dough — and lack of same. My look is no longer a DO, it's a solid DON'T. At this point I'm considering the corner barber. Taking a load off in one of those old chairs. Hoping the barber’s name is “Tony.” Is this longing for “old” NY pathetic? Maybe. But I still want that damn chair.

3. Speaking of ‘old New York. Candy stores. Newsstands. Penny stores (ok ok Dollar stores.) New York is constantly changing. I get that. But with that constant change — it is constantly leaving people behind. Finding a Jacks Dollar Store now makes me weepy.

4. My deli guy has moved back to Pakistan. The block is deflated. And I am crushed. Now, it is run by his prick-esh nephew. The last real deli in the hood. Where he charged $7.00 for a shitty coffee. But I merrily paid to be with … HIM.

5. Scaring the bejesus saying hello to zombies on phones — in the streets — on lines and especially in elevators — they glare at their screens as I torture them with my polite in-your-face “GOOD MORNING”. This has become a beloved morning ritual. It replaces the deli 'cause now — I make my own (shitty) coffee.

6. I miss kids. Whodathought? Minus the return-to-school-travel-time, the children have all been suddenly whooshed off … pooof! I'm all for adult content, but this is a little much.

7. Searching for restaurants in my West Village hood — what we are calling restaurants these days, mostly sheds outside — with glittery lights — so (old) Paris — but — where is the age diversity already? Only people in their 20s and 30s? Just a year ago it was — normal. Me and my 50-esh neighbor commiserate on the stairs — has the neighborhood changed? Or is it … us?

8. Speaking of dining: Totally done with $55 entrées. I DO want these over-priced haunts to survive (oh poor Keith McNally) — and I’ll splurge on an $18 wine (!!??) I can no longer afford for the cause. But a meal? It's a no. I can actually cook now — WOAH — and who needs a sneering waiter when I ask for ketchup. Fuck you.

9. Get outta he-ah: You're gonna use the bike lane like a high-speed freeway? Riding in the wrong direction touting an attitude? Brings up some rage.

10.  I said get the fuck outta he-ah already: Oh and the motorized bikers using the SIDEWALK now. People: The one reason bike lanes were constructed was to get them off the sidewalk ‘cause they were killing people riding on the sidewalk!!! More rage.  

Getdafuckouttaheah

11. But another thing: The Mail service! Several times a year a handwritten envelope — perfectly legible — is returned to sender as un-deliverable.

Name is correct. Address is correct — just returned.
Thank you notes for wedding gifts — returned.  
Christmas cards — returned. Once a year I like to hear from some members of my family!
Oh! Wedding invitations — returned.
Meanwhile, all my suburban friends and family receive their mail even when the names and addresses are way wrong!

Am I an official curmudgeon or is the mail service in this god forsaken town just plain old bad?  It ain’t COVID! It has sucked for a long long time. And it’s “nearly” over (we hope.)
But today I’m marching over to the post office to raise hell about it.

12. My neighbors DARE to party till 11pm: I mean. Really. A pal was over when I was ranting about overhearing them at 10:45 — my bed time now — when she patiently reminded me of MY old debaucheries — and how they would start at midnight. Oops.

13. The homeless: And oh there are so so many of them. Unlike the '70s when I lived through this before, I no longer am (or tried to be) that hardened New Yorker. Now, they break my heart now. Each and every one of them.

14.  Remember bookstores?
I do. Hang in there, Strand …

15. I even miss drop-in waxing by the often masochist “aestheticians” in the seedy street salons I’d frequent. Never thought I'd be wistful for a curt "Lift yo' leg," but both me and my bush are woolly and desperate these days.

16. My old “cool” neighborhood dissed by the young: When my beloved nephew complained that Tribeca was filled with old entitled white folks — "The Tribeca Tribe" — I stopped him in mid rant: Wait — two of my coolest artist friends still live there (I cannot mention them as they are still top drawer.) He gave me some serious side eye.

17. I live down the street from Carrie's stoop from Sex and the City. I usta hate the 20-year olds torturing the owners. Now I crave them. Bad sign…

18. Construction. No words. Here before Covid. With Covid. The tail end of Covid. An extra layer of shit: Noise, steel, and other debris for easy decapitation.

Stay strong — oh yes, gotta be. Fuck you.

19. Pedestrian Plaza: Bloomberg’s “success” of Disney-fying (i.e. ruining) all things cool about ole pimp’d out Times Square. It’s a 2-block square of my personal nightmare where tourists ‘hang’ and manage not to get rammed by cars and creepy groping Mickey Mice. But, now there is no Broadway — so — there’s that.

20. People leaving NYC saying how "it's changed/it's so different/ I need to live simpler: Bitch, you are leaving because you CAN. Some of us are here because we love it, or love to hate it, or hate to love it, BUT ALSO because we all don't have the means to buy a fucking country house in Catskill to "start over.” Privilege: Check it.

21. Cancel high-end retail: The ones that still exist. Some life bubbling in the not too distant future but — it ain’t the ole New York — where it was fun to GET DONE — so many places to see and be seen. That impulse and opportunity has died. (Sorry Bergdorf’s)

22.  Where are the old Jazz dudes at the old Jazz joints?? The other night, hearing great music, freezing my arse off as one does — with about 40 people around, I realized that only 3 or 4 of them were anywhere — anywhere — near my age. Do these youngies know Sonny Rollins, Elvin Jones or Sarah Vaughan?? Do I care? Jazz joints usta always be mixed ages ... I could swear …

23. Boyfriends Recyled: I always swore that I would never “revisit” a boyfriend type once done with them. There are so many in New York City! Musicians, painters, actors, designers, writers, Brazilians (yes, countries count) — and thankyouverymuch not a businessman in site — or between my legs.

However, It’s been a bitch not to repeat “types.”  So I have had to (four cyclists and counting). I have been cruising here for nearly 46 years. And Manhattan is an island, after all ….

24. THE Recycling Boyfriend bit me in the ass — 46 years later. I told my present boyfriend that I had never gone out with a musician — he's a drummer and my very first. He questioned that, as we are equally long-toothed ...

I racked my brain and — wait — I had been with this jazz pianist when I was new and fresh in NYC four decades ago — met him at a cool Soho party (remember cool Soho parties?) I remember what he played. I remember who he played with (impressive.) But name? Blank. Once it came to me zillions of hours later, the drummer said: WHA? I know him. My ex played with him. She not only played with him but gave me crabs from him.

The reclycling bit me in the ass.

My boyfriend of yore gave my present boyfriend a case of the crabs.

Is this, indeed, the final insult?

So there they are — my gripes and rage and annoyances. As Clark Terry would say (who's Clark Terry? Oh shut up) I’m not complainin’ — I’m explainin’ …

But really — is there anything MORE New York than bitchin’ about how New York has changed? It was fun to see Fran Leibowitz and Martin Scorsese goin at it in “Pretend It's A City.” And hate to sound like Fran but — where would I go? Paris? Rome? Lisbon? They’re all great — for six months. But Manhattan? Sigh … until that damn skyline no longer makes me swoon — I remain. The last standing soldier … kvetching.