Aging, and its not so subtle little indignities, is something everyone who lives long enough must contend with. And one of the most difficult aspects of this is that although the years will show either kindly or otherwise, you may not actually feel any differently than when you were younger. The spirit is eternal even as the body and mind ripen and begin to spoil. So even if you are able to avoid a mirror or a camera for any length of time, someone will be certain to offer you a reality check, whether you want it or not.
Consider women. A woman such as myself for instance, a vital woman of a certain age. Still young at heart, still looks good, feels wonderful, is bright, engaging, sassy, juicy, energetic, independent, emotionally grounded, a woman who continues to desire and enjoy sex. What’s the problem? There is no real problem, not at the moment. There are simply the little indignities to address each and every day.
“You look great...for your age.”
“Wow! I’m surprised. You have no problem keeping up!”
“You sure don’t act your age.”
“Do you need some help with that?”
“I’ve always been curious about having sex
with an older experienced woman.”
These comments are merely the most benign sampling of what I’ve been subjected to in recent years. All were well meaning, none were malicious, each was simply an aspect of the little indignities one must endure as one creeps toward advanced maturity. The little indignities require a healthy sense of humor on duty at all times.
Consider men. From my vantage point, men are not nearly as mysterious as I once thought them to be. Still, a viable, engaging, interesting man will always play an important role in my life, fundamentally, if not entirely, due to his necessity as a sexual playmate. Otherwise, what could be his purpose at this point? Certainly not procreation. Men can’t really be friends. They resent it if you need them and more if you don’t. If they are younger, they can stay with you sexually, but they generally haven’t the experience or maturity to meet you emotionally, so you wind up as their mentor. If they are older, sex, if they are still interested, requires so many adjustments or a pill that most of the pleasure evaporates. And if they are still lively, they are on point and prowl for the younger woman. Otherwise, they are likely lazy, uninspired, retired in every way and looking for a woman to take care of them, preferably someone who can and will pay her own way and if they’re lucky, theirs as well.
Being awake, alive and sexual myself, I inherently understand and certainly empathize with the men who are interested in lusty adventures with a younger lover. The ravishing sex, the seductive sensuality of youth, is definitely all its cracked up to be. There is, however, a little indignity that comes with all that delectable desire in the right here, right now, heat of the moment with an ardent young lover. And that is, since I don’t feel any older than they are, I forget completely, that my skin sags, my face is lined and unevenly colored and I have bulges in places I never dreamed possible.
Still, that little indignity is blessedly offset by the bonus of my passionate response which is longer, deeper, and more fulfilling than when I was younger. I would never wish to return to those times in my youth when so many other things were more pressing, mattered more than fully expressing and enjoying my life, my sexuality. No longer exhaustedly task and goal oriented, I am simply always oriented, receptive to whatever pleasure presents to me.
But though I possess a certain maturity, a lusty desire and driving passion, and it continues to be attracting, there is one little indignity that will just not be dismissed or overcome. That is, the number once revealed, which is my actual age, is more of a psychological deterrent than my aging body. The early courtesans only survived into their twenties. My charm has survived many more decades than that, but how long will it last?
This is the tragic relentless ticking of the biological clock that younger women understand only as the time bomb of fertility. But unless one succumbs to losing ones mind, the truly tragic ticking of that clock is the loss of passion and desire for sex, which in my view is the greatest indignity and the point of no return for the aging body.
Making love often, having great sex, by the way, alleviates many of the little indignities. The pleasure of writing about it alleviates the rest.
Foreword from Pleasure As A Higher Calling ~ Waking Up book #1 in Savannah's Pleasure Series