I’m pleased to say that FrenchFancy* got me back over here! I had a bad time in November – January with the Migraine Monster (which the doctors in all their brilliance, now think are some sort of aberrant temporal lobe seizure activity; to what end I ask?) Sigh. Could be worse, could always be worse… I am going to make an attempt to get over here on the every other day I don’t write for Braveheart or Powder Room Graffiti. Thank the gods for the fact that so far I continue to have the material! Huzzah for sex before and after 50!
Fridays in New York
As we did every other morning of our vacation in New York City I got up at 0600hrs, went down to the Starbucks in the hotel (ask me how much we loved that; especially as the room service at the Waldorf has priced itself way out of reason – 23$ for a toasted bagel? No thanks, I’ll put my overcoat over my panamas and walk downstairs). Then I returned to the room and opened my laptop to write. I normally write until around eleven unless we have plans. It works out well as one of the adorable husband’s favourite indulgences on vacation is to sleep in, and he looks so cute doing it.
On this Friday in New York he woke around 0930hrs, took his café and paper (oh yes I brought him the morning paper each day along with his café) from our little suite-kitchen, and then asked, “Are you still intending to take me in a savage fashion this morning?” I had mentioned my plan to ravage him the night before when we were both too tired to do anything but go to sleep.
“Yes my love, that is indeed my intent,” I said giving him my best batting the eyelashes come hither look over my shoulder.
“How long do I have?” he asked quirking an eyebrow toward my laptop.
“About an hour I should think.”
“Right then,” he said and made his way over to settle himself in bed with paper and café.
Once the blog post was finished, links inserted, and proofread – I made my way over to the bed shedding clothing as I went. Readers of Braveheart-does-the-Maghreb will remember that in February 2009 I cashed out my Plastic Surgery savings account (that I started in my 30’s) and put it on my face and chest.
I knew that I would be thrilled to have my jaw line taut again but I had no idea that the biggest thrill for me would be the breast lift. I’ve been a D-cup and in underwire bras since I was eighteen. I long ago gave up any dream of wearing those skimpy little tops with spaghetti straps or walking about the house braless – you just can’t do that with breasts that large and I had no desire to have them reduced as they suit my very tall body quite well. They had held up nicely, but four pregnancies and fifty-nine years takes a toll.
When the doctor removed the halter bandages from my chest a week after the surgery I couldn’t believe my eyes. “You can’t wear a bra for two weeks,” said the doctor. Not wear a bra! Once I was in my fifties I didn’t go to the loo without a bra on!
Let us just say that now, at any given excuse, I will raise my top and grinning ear-to-ear present my perky chest – albeit that holds true for a very limited audience.
When I was in Massachusetts last year for Christmas with my daughter (who got her ample chest from her father’s Italian heritage) - I was downstairs early one morning having my tea and reading the paper. Q came down, got her café and sat across from me. “You aren’t wearing a bra are you Mom?” she stated in the same voice she uses when world leaders make policy decisions that she finds reprehensible.
“No, I’m not,” I said with a smug smile.
“I hate you,” she said and sipped her café.
But let it be said, and not without some warm fuzzy feelings, that the adorable husband had shown and expressed his fondness for my breasts before the surgery, which only makes it all the sweeter now.
You know that hot and sweaty sex you had in your twenties? Here’s the good news, you can have it still in your late (very late, going to be 60 next month) fifties. The good news is that the desire for sex apparently escalates as women age; that ‘waning’ crap is just that – crap. Even better, now we have knowledge and experience.
Before meeting in Paris in 2008, after 35 years apart, the adorable husband and I discussed the possible ramifications of having sex at this age. Fortunately, due to having lived together in our youth, and my own frankness regarding the subject, we were able to discuss all aspects of the upcoming event right down to my asking him, “Could you pick up some Vinegar and Water douche in America for me? It is impossible to get in Morocco and I don’t want to be searching for an apothecary once we hit Paris.”
His friends gave him ‘travel gifts’ that included lubricant, Viagra, and warnings that women of a certain age were “dry and their desire waning”.
I had not had sex in 13-years! Yes, loud groans everywhere please! It was not from lack of opportunity (thank the gods) nor any moral reasons, but rather that I had experienced sex without love, and then sex with love. I have to tell you, if you can get it, sex with love tops the other hands down. So there was NO waning! Quite the opposite and the two months of verbal foreplay over the mobile and through emails had served to increase my desire. Even before the adorable husband re-entered my life I had decided to have sex again before I died. If I didn’t meet anyone ‘special’ I would make good on some of the offers from younger men I kept getting. Well I mean… if you can…right?
He had not had sex in five years due to a bad marriage dying a slow death and his decision to honour his vows of fidelity. Admirable but lonely. So we both had performance anxiety if for different reasons.
He had even written me that, “Sex is not my first priority…".
I wrote him right back – “Not your first priority? Get yourself prepared Bucco because there will be sex in Paris! You just do whatever you need to do to prepare yourself.” I must say he responded with enthusiasm and in Paris seemed quite happy with the state of affairs.
I have always been blessed with a good body – good genes and intermittent working out, along with the label of ‘adrenaline junkie’ went a long way toward keeping it. But, and this is a big one, the last time anyone saw me naked I had been in my early forties and in really good shape from training to climb in the Himalayas; now I was in my late fifties and had been in Morocco for two years where getting to the gym was a half day proposition and there was no way to have a workout outside the gym – but walking the Medina helped as did yoga at home in my little house in the Oudayas. Nonetheless I was nervous about being seen naked and concerned about the ‘women that age are dry and waning’ – I knew that there was no waning but the dry passage was a concern as I had no control over that – so I loaded up as well, once I arrived in Paris, with female lubricant and some over-the-counter meds to keep everything in working order.
As it turned out, as was being proven yet again this Friday morning in NYC, there was no need for either of us to worry. Oh I won’t tell you that everything went smoothly that first time in Paris, or even that first week; but it went well enough that the lubricant and the Viagra are in the drawer for future use when needed. The adorable husband is fully up (couldn’t help myself) to the task of a long day of lustful lovemaking without the help of any pharmaceuticals so far.
Around three o’clock we managed to get ourselves out of bed, dressed, and out of the hotel for a lovely, late, slow lunch at Gramercy Tavern. The bed reeked of sex and on my way out the door I tossed the ‘yes change the sheets card’ on the pillows now hanging off the end of the bed . The adorable husband still had not had his orgasm so in the taxi on the way back to the hotel…
Yes I did, and he almost did but managed in an act of true control, not to come. A nice enthusiastic round of pleasure for the adorable husband in the taxi has rather become a yearly event during our trips to NYC. What can I say? You give me two glasses of 18-year-old MacAllan whiskey and I get even more randy. But the final event was saved for when we were once again in our bed in the hotel after what was a speed event from the door to the bed taking our clothes off with the adorable husband muttering to himself, “Harlem, why can’t I ever remember to tell them to drive to Harlem?”
Once everyone had had his or her orgasm – “Wow that was really something. You must be exhausted, you’ve been at it all day,” he said as I came out of the bathroom with hot facecloths for everyone.
“I could say the same for you lover, well done there. It’s so nice to have time for the hot sweaty sex. You really have to have time for that, not that the everyday sex is not grand mind you,” I said leaning over to give his now limp but happy organ a kiss.
We make it a priority not to go longer than three days without making love unless there is a damn good reason – like death or one of us being out of town.
I think (granted I had a long dry spell so I missed some of the segue) that when you are past the days when you have limitless time and energy it is important to keep in touch with the frequency of lovemaking. We still have two teenagers at home and he has long days at work. Planning is good.
I will also tell you this, after a session like that it does take longer to recover than when we were young. My body, that the adorable husband compares to a thoroughbred she said smiling, takes some gentle care to be back in true fighting form, but I’m feeling quite ready again thank you she said grinning wickedly.