Sex after 50 or Oh! So THIS is What a Condom Feels Like.

Recently someone told me he’d had some not great first-time sex with his partner.

What I wanted to write back was, You’re over 50. Duh.

But I didn’t want to be ageist or wrong.

When I was in my forties, sex for me was like bark on a tree. It felt like I needed it to live. No one had told me that the best thing about being in my forties was the getting naked part! Who knew?! For a decade it felt like sex was a reason to live. A reason to shower. A reason to try. My skin was so hungry. I went to the doctors once to get bloodwork done, doing the standard sleeping around tests, and when the results were clear, the doctor asked me what I wanted him to do with the paperwork. I told him to write Miracles Happen on it and frame it and hang it in his office. And then something happened: I turned 50 and the party changed houses. When I had sex, which was not all that often since suddenly I wanted a friend more than a body, it was like someone had put a condom over my entire body, in and out.

Having sex and trying to find orgasm felt like trying to strike a wet match.

Hahahahaha.

Truly. I just wrote that.

And, sorry, it’s true.

Trying to light a spark with a post-menopausal woman who is not on hormone therapy?

Hahahahaha.

I can see why women start hooking up with women at this point. The penis becomes…less necessary.

Are you still with me?

It’s not that I don’t have fantasies. It’s not that I don’t want to be penetrated, to see fireworks. It’s that I want to feel fully present, fully invested in what’s happening, and my body does not feel the way it used to. My mind doesn’t either. My mind is a lot less willing to believe in special. To believe in this means something. I want more when I am with a man these days. (If I were with a man these days.)

I want love.

I know there are plenty of women who will argue with what I wrote, and that is wonderful. Maybe they will leave their contact information in the comment section and, if you are single, you can hook up with them! Maybe other women will have tips for me, suggestions on how to get the condom off my being. I welcome all ideas.

But this is my core belief: the more I become truly myself, the less I need the drug of sex to let me feel I’m okay. The more I occupy my body, the less I need yours.

That last sentence is both true and not true. Maybe I will die if I don’t have sex soon. Maybe I will dry up and blow away in the next wind.

I think nature is kind to the ageing woman (barf—sorry self who thinks I am still 12). Nature takes away distractions—kids leave home, the body becomes less of a siren song to others, the need for physical intimacy shifts from I don’t care what your name is to do you love me?

I think my body after 50 is redefining intimacy. It’s looking for ease, for truth, for the beauty of the shared inhale more than it is looking for distraction. Maybe it’s looking for traction, for a way forward, a way closer to grace, to the spirit of the united self.

Or maybe my body’s just tired.

That shit ain’t going to fly. I don’t buy tired, and for that reason I jumped into the freezing cold pool this morning. I’m willing to change, but I’m not willing to give up.

What I would suggest to my friend is that he hold his woman, he sing to her, he tell her how beautiful she is. I would suggest he make love to her face, her feet, her hands. I would suggest he take a long, long, long time. I don’t know that you can have great sex with a lot of women who are over 50. But I’m guessing you can have a hell of a time making love to them.

It’s so interesting to watch the things that used to have some sort of grip on me: sugar, alcohol, sleeping pills, spending money, Tinder, lose their power. Maybe the match isn’t wet. Maybe the spark I was used to was artificial, forced, chemical. Maybe the real power of sex after 50 is the drive to connect beyond the easy, beyond the immediate. Maybe the real miracle of sex after 50 is the dedication to the art of love.

I’m also thinking about how I used to believe a man was the answer to what was missing in my life, and so part of my passion was the hopeful throwing myself over the cliff of you will save me if I make myself yours and if you make yourself mine. Let’s merge and get this saving of me going!! But that whole belief system dried up with my ability to have children! Suddenly it was so clear to me that the only person who could save me was me, and, frankly, I was less inclined to have sex if it was not about getting me a more certain future!

Ha!

That is terrible! And amazing!

That means, if you and I are naked together, you really mean something to me. I really like you. I am not looking for anything but a kind of communion. Something holy. Something risky. Something hidden.

A belonging.