Wryly tho I yearn for mushy love ..of the commitment kind which none of my lovers one oler one younger are eager to offer…yes the sex is great and I hope it willlast foever..but o how I long for some mushy!

I’ve got to emphatically endorse the viewpoint of BearDownCBears, and I certainly esteem his witty joke which captures the point, that some of us (usually, though not always, men) cannot get enough sex. It is simply a core, biological imperative, which will not be denied.

Divorce papers have just been filed for my beloved wife and me. She is almost 69; I am almost 52. I love her passionately – she is amazingly zesty and beautiful. She loved and perhaps loves me still, in like fashion.

She was a couple years past 60 when we met, and a hottie. I called her my Sexy Sexa, with incredulous glee at my undeserved fortune in finding her. Our year-long courtship was an erotic feast… her clothing would magically fall off whenever we were alone together, and her body was my playground.

But shortly after we married that went away. Simply dissipated. She remained sexual, but although she claimed to still relish it, the act between us became perfunctory and rare… Once a week was a stretch for her.

I was reduced to starving, and like a starving man, food was all I could think of, night and day… allow my metaphor. Awakening each dawn to leave her sleeping form for solitary masturbation quickly became… old. But that release was all that kept me sane. No hyperbole is uttered here, for I was constantly in a state of unsatisfied lust, like a jungle beast in musth.

Finally, I began to consider some kind of open marriage, a prospect she refused to countenance. But she had no answer for our libidinal inequity. Those legs of hers would part in moist welcome of me scarcely oftener than the moon would shine full, and I came to live like a scraggly wolf, gaunt of ribs, mouth forever agape in a rictus of silent baying for this tardy, heedless moon.

More metaphor of a purple hue. So sue me.

And here now we find ourselves, she and I [after counsellors clerical and lay, after domestic frustrations taken out on guiltless glassware, after sad partings and hopeful reconcilitions - and sweet makeup sex! I would breakup every day if assured of this! - vain hope]… Alas, we have parted this last time, for good. Loving each other with the love common to mushy chick-flicks and the dramas of old bards, but just – tragically – unable to sync our disjoint hormonal urges.

Sex is for some a dessert, tasty and optional. But for others it is the staple of a pulsing life. These camps are mutually exclusive, and it well may be that age eventually forces us all to pull up our stakes in the latter and pitch our tent in the former. It may be, and I may yet come to learn this first-hand.

But if this be some inevitable truth, it remains foreign to me… and my ignorance has ruined a marriage for the ages.

Sexagenarian and the City, at

http://sexagenarian07.wordpress.com

It’s about my dating life with with sexagenarian (and a few septuagenarian) men.
It puts a whole new twist on the subject under discussion here…I dated 57 men, and the stories are all in the blog.

@BearDown: Okay, that is very funny.

Two elderly men are sitting on a park bench. One asks the other, “So Fred, how’s your sex life?” Fred says, “Well, it’s a lot like Social Security: I get it once a month…but it’s not enough to live on!”

I’m midway through Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook” right now, and loving it–I know she wrote a more recent book about an older (65?) protagonist’s unexpectedly falling in lust, and I’m eager to read that one next…

But if you’re a heterosexual woman wanting to have sex with a partner, the odds get slimmer and slimmer as you get older. Your husband dies, you spend your years mourning, you come back to life and begin to look for a new man. After a few years, you realize the new man isn’t in your circle of friends… or in your neighborhood… or in your city… or on the planet. The new man is dead, or deadbeat, or dating a woman twenty years younger.

So you start cultivating elderly serenity, wise tranquillity, laughter and the love of friends, satisfaction in sensuous scents, textures, flavors, music.

And when your physician asks if you’re sexually active, you smile, twinkle your eyes in that cute postmenopausal zesty way, and say “only solo.” It probably grosses her out, but why should you care?

I actually think that elderly sexuality would be liberating in a way because by the time you’re a senior citizen, no one looks like a model anyway, so there’s got to be less pressure to maintain a perfect body. Plus, no possibility of children. The joint pain would be an issue, but the sex would be worth it, I’m sure.