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.
