Sex Over 50: A Satire (And That's Probably an Insult to the Term)
Recently we drove through scenic Alburtis, Pennsylvania where I picked up some great curbside appeal ideas. Like endless ways to use versatile rippled, green fiberglass roofing, the year-round charm of fake flowers in hanging pots and the magic of spotting a latent Halloween skeleton.
This could explain my sudden urge to build a carport.
I should have said “erect” a carport. My husband likes it when I talk dirty. That’s about as close to sex as we get since I entered my 50's.
For a moment, I considered revealing my real age but the truth is I can’t recall it. Some people think that’s a sign of early senility but I like to use the hazy term, “middle-aged.” The difference is, when you’re senile, you don’t remember things you wish you could. In middle age, you simply don’t give a crap. Another symptom of middle age is forgetting that sex is still a consideration. Like having another kid, it’s fun to think about but exhausting to consider.
In my defense, my husband doesn’t want to work at it either. With us, sex is like cleaning the house by buying a Roomba. I just hand him a vibrator and continue watching tv. That’s middle age. You don’t see them call it the “Vitality Age.” Or the “Golden Years"—that’s the time when you’ve forgotten damn near everything. Or at least pretend to for sanctity sake. I can’t wait until my husband snuggles up to me and I can ask who he is. What’s a reasonable age to do that? One where he won’t be suspect that I’m kidding.
My husband likes to think my problem is I just need more sex. Like I’ve fallen out of practice. Like clinically I’m suffering from a sex deficiency. The truth is I have a condition called “Don’t Fucking Touch Me.”
Because of this condition, we have one sexual position. I lie down and he does too. In this manner, there’s very little risk of injury. Plus, it facilitates my need to multitask. I used to be okay with just daydreaming during sex but maturity makes it necessary for me to actually accomplish something. I usually start by humming a song. Then I contemplate my calendar. I’ve considered learning to knit just to pass the time.
The festivities usually start with my husband pleasing me. That’s the easiest way to not disturb me. I’ve found that if I bend a leg slightly, he can maintain his horizontal position. The upside is, if he rolls on his side, I can fondle his privates with a foot. Five toes, working in unison, is how I exert myself.
I’m not sure what this position would be called in the Kama Sutra. I call it the “Special K.” It’s a contorted K but if you think back to Kindergarten, it all makes sense. It’s probably comforting to know that I’m equating intercourse with the precursor to grade school. Try that segue at the office.
I suffered so much anxiety in Kindergarten because the prospect of learning the alphabet was overwhelming. As toddlers we ate this cereal called Alpha-Bits. Like pen pals, it might still exist. When I first eyed the box, I thought every single piece of cereal in it was a distinct letter in the alphabet. That’s a lot of responsibility for a four-year-old who’s not very bright. It wasn't until the first day of school that I learned it was limited to 26 characters. Give or take. Thank God someone else thought of the possibility of duplicating the letters to create a family-sized box of cereal. If I was the manufacturer, I’d had simply sold Alpha-bits in tiny pouches. “Sorry, there are only 26 pieces."
Don’t blame me. I’m not Egyptian.
I wonder if they have Alpha-Bits in China. And what they would spell if they did. I imagine C-A-T isn’t quite the same when you eat them for dinner. Then again, you’re about to eat the letters anyway. If they had a breakfast cereal of Chinese symbols, scooping out C-A-T would be a lot different than scooping out the symbol for, let’s say, death. That’s probably why they stuck with fortune cookies. It’s far less stressful to get a message that reads, “Walk swiftly and if you hear something loud, duck,” than one that’s basically a spoiler.
Thoughts like these fill my mind when we’re in the act. That’s because the routine is simple. It’s like driving on auto-pilot. Preferably with no back-up camera. That could get ugly. It’s why we don’t have a mirror on the ceiling. Or SnapChat. I’m sure that somewhere, posting nude pictures of us even doing nothing could be considered terrorism.
Anyway, the routine consists of a number of steps fine-tuned over the years to prevent my discomfort or injury. My husband knows I’d milk one of those forever.
First, my privates must be clean. I draw the line at kitchen cleaner but I’m open to a bidet if anyone can explain why Europeans find them so appealing. The last I heard, abruptly dousing your privates with ice cold water was a good way to squelch “horny.” Personally, I prefer a quick shower if the house isn’t too cold and I’m not expecting anyone to contact me by any means possible.
When we once stayed in a handicapped accessible hotel room, I discovered that those showers are really handy in this capacity. I can sit and sanitize the area at the same time. Handicapped people must be particular about sex too. I felt a kinship.
Once the area is clean, I get under the blankets and when I do, my husband isn’t allowed to move until all the linens touching me are warmed. Then he slowly maneuvers into position. If the covers are disheveled, I’d feel a draft and I’d hate to catch cold. I’d be required to never let him live that down. With the length of that list already, it’s more than I can bear.
To avoid me getting chilly, my husband pleasures me from underneath all the blankets. On a few occasions he has almost suffocated but that’s the chance I’m willing to take. Sometimes I think that if he’s operating with less of his brain, being married to him would be so much more tranquil.
Then, while I hum, I usually push any stray hairs thoroughly away from my face so I don’t get tickled. Or get poked in my eye—that’s serious trauma along with almost any other discomfort. Like getting the urge to pee. That’s a cock-blocker. Or my teenage son getting home. If my husband develops erectile dysfunction, it’ll be prompted by three little words: “Mom, I’m home.” We refer to this as Pavlov’s dick. And it was caused by a child who never cares if his dad is the one who’s home.
Oh the irony.
If we’re correctly positioned, it doesn’t take me long. Especially if we’ve just watched Justified. Or anything with Bradley Cooper. Or Zac Efron. Now that he’s of legal age, I’m comfortable admitting that I’m a stalker.
My husband likes to watch anything with big guns. Weaponry is where it’s at. The envy is obvious. I’d be curious as to how the effects of Cialis could be enhanced by watching a good war movie for the thirty minutes it takes to kick in. Which makes me wonder how old people stay awake for that long. Is it laced with caffeine? I’d hate to have to actually talk. That concept alone has caused a complete mental block. I don’t even know what I was talking about.
That’s okay. After our tour of Alburtis, I’ve been contemplating buying concrete lawn ornaments, like a garden troll—something that reminds me of how precious life can be. Or a big gazing ball. It’s reassuring to know there’s something I can stare at when I’m pretending I’ve lost my mind.
Or maybe I already have.