Vol. 2, Post #67 I Am The Problem

This just smacked me in the face. Like a hard cock. My sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, (people with readers).

Last week, I wrote that we were going to get real about what’s happening to our formerly drenched pussies and go-all-night dicks as we age gracefully, like fine wine. And we will, but related to that, I had this epiphany after my date(s) — yes, there have been multiple dates — with Mr. Clean. It’s about my long-term satisfaction in this chapter, and moving forward towards that goal.

There is a problem. I think it’s workable. But it’s not a tiny fix.

I am the problem.

To recap, I had a date this past weekend with a man I’ve dubbed Mr. Clean, partially inspired by Hinge asking me to join up after discovering my Substack, and was chatting with one of my besties on the drive home from dinner.

Convo went something like this — she’s someone with whom I have zero boundaries, and vice versa, sooooo:

HER: “So, how was it? Other than knowing he’s a nice guy and can chat Shiva? (Mr. Clean is Jewish like me and as I had a funeral to attend ahead of meeting him, we talked shop about Jews & Death.) Was there any heat? Any chance your pussy could get wet for him?”

ME: “He is really sweet and definitely emotionally available which is so refreshing. Not my usual type but def. attractive. So let’s say this, yes, I COULD imagine fucking him and not throwing up. Also…did you hear what I actually just said out loud? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

(That last part ^^^ is a ridiculous question to ask my pal, as her “type” is the kind of dude who thinks Jon Bon Jovi’s Livin’ On A Prayer look is still a keeper, who can open beer bottles with his teeth, and who probably aspires to buy a new van for his pool cleaning business, in case his wife throws him out for cheating, so he can sleep in it.)

But that my girlie got right down to business is indicative of our lasting friendship. We both value a hot sexual connection and by early indicators, seems like Mr. Clean and I could be a good match in many, many ways. He is indeed a gem. Generous, chivalrous, funny, engaging, looks like he has a nice body and we shared a lovely kiss or two after our dates. But what about the other part?

My date is 63, a few years older than me; that’s a change as I’ve tended to date younger men for the last decade. He owns a high-end custom bike shop and as a result, duh, rides. A lot. So he’s in good shape and as I pretend to be in good shape, I had a feeling that if we kept connecting physically like we have already, we’d probably enjoy each other in bed. But here’s what else was in on my mind.

Let’s start with him:

• Erectile dysfunction is fairly normal part of the aging process for many men. We chatted about his former partners enough for me to guess that he enjoyed a good sex life and a healthy drive. Still, sex with a new partner (for me and I hope for you too, Dear Readers!) involves condoms and almost any man I’ve dated over the age of 40 has groaned a bit at the idea of wearing one, mostly because they say they can’t come while sheathed up. Since that’s not my fucking problem (no pun intended), nor negotiable until we’re monogamous and/or tested, I wondered what the deal would be like with this guy.

• I see changes in my own body as I age, and if I’m potentially dating someone in his early 60s, I know his body is not going to look like most of my former partners, some of them almost 15-20 years his junior. So I’m just chewing on that right now. Hmmm, does this make me ageist besides a Problem Child?

And, OH GOD, let’s get to me now…because you don’t think I’m escaping my own scrutiny on this whole aging bullshit, do you?

• What happened to my orgasm? I can come, but I don’t usually come the same way I used to, and sometimes, the orgasm begins strong and then peters out a bit. It’s not a BAD thing, but it’s a thing, for sure. And yes, this New World Order Orgasm, started right around menopause settling in so I guess it’s how things work now.

• Related to that? Granted, I’ve been on sex hiatus since earlier this year, but I don’t think I get as wet as I used to, and while there is most certainly a lube or three that will help this along if needed (shout out to Upstate Mary), well, that was NEVER an issue with me until recently. I laugh when I remember what a good friend of mine once said as she turned 60, “My vagina is so dry, it could etch glass!” I, on the other hand? Usually a geyser. Now? Not remotely The Sahara yet, but…

  

Ultimately, this internal conversation that I was having as I walked the dog in the park ended this way: I think the shifts I see in my body (and in my physical reaction to getting turned on) are scaring me a tiny bit. NOT because I find myself to be less attractive as I age, but because…who is this older woman in the mirror? And since it stands to reason that this older woman is now starting to date an age-appropriate man, are we starting to look like those people I see heading out to eat dinner at 6 or 630 p.m.? WHICH, by the way, is the perfect time to eat dinner, so you can then head off to bed at 9, maybe 10 p.m. if you’re goin’ hard.

This is, after all, NORMAL. And I think I’ve built roadblocks to this New Normal, which, unless I tear them down myself, are going to keep me single. No likee.

See what I mean when I say I am the problem?

After my first date with Mr. Clean (dinner and a rockabilly show), I spent most of the next morning going into a moderate spiral about how he was great, but maybe not for me. Too “easy to read;” too Jewish; too eager; too something — maybe “too normal”??? Which made me feel TOO NORMAL. Ridiculous, right?

I put myself right in Problem Child Triage. I spoke to a couple of my good friends who have relationships that I admire and asked them to keep me accountable on this, which means open to knowing Mr. Clean and therefore, not self-sabotage-y. And then I revisited (this was not pretty) all the commonalities that I normally lean into when dating — in other words, what usually hooks me or keeps me intrigued. Ready to vomit? Here’s what I realized I have welcomed. Too often.

• Men who have complicated relationships with exes. For that matter, my ex-wife fell in this category too.

• Men with flailing or failing creative passionate endeavors (music, art, food, all three — oh, you’re a bass player and a private chef who also went to art school and still love all three of those things but can’t really make a career out of any of them?) Usually, that passion, regardless of the flailing or failing, resulted in some preposterously hot fucking, which kept me from realizing how out of balance life had become. Do not get me started.

• Men or women (I’ve had both) with unresolved childhood trauma that resulted in, wait, you know what? YOU KNOW WHERE I’M GOING HERE. I don’t even have to finish this fucking tangent, right?

Suddenly, this Problem Child realized that maybe SHE wasn’t as emotionally available as she pretends to be. Maybe SHE seeks or sought out this same archetypal person again and again for that very reason. Shocking, right? I went over all of the great things about Mr. Clean — the things that I used to hope that any number of my former partners or boyfriends would do or would be — all the while as I also heard my friends’ voices in the back of my mind, telling me how their Beloveds, yes, drove them crazy on any number of levels but at the same time, how no one is perfect and that the majority of their relationships were utterly satisfying and joy-producing. Which. Is. What. I. Want. Again. And going forward, the only thing I want.

How had I forgotten this? How had I gotten so far off track that the attention from a seemingly normal, nice, interested guy was giving me agita BECAUSE he was normal, nice, and interested? I mean, am I really this fucked up? A conveniently scheduled therapy session brought me back from the edge a bit, and as I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom ahead of jumping into my shower this morning, looking at my solidly 57-year-old body, I realized I that yes, I was afraid of what I needed to revisit and maybe even re-learn. I have not always been a Problem Child. I had enjoyed a long and healthy marriage with someone who was age-appropriate, generous, and available. Likewise, I have dated others who were the same. Somehow I veered off course and into Problem Child territory, most likely, I think, as someone who couldn’t take back her own trauma from childhood, so she would instead try to soothe others who suffered the same. A lose-lose situation if there ever was one. “I am getting old and I am a little afraid of what I haven’t entirely figured out.” Saying it out loud made me less so. Made me think I could do this.

There’s not a ton I can do about the changes I’m seeing in my body as that relates to my sex life, besides welcoming those changes and standing steady in the “what goes up, must come down” reality that is Young Old living. I’m hoping that Mr. Clean or whomever I invite into my life as a lover, friend, or partner has the same resigned yet open-minded take on his aging process. And I hope we all can still enjoy each other’s physicality even though we’re not 25. Or 45. Or 50. Or, gulp, 55.

There might be a blue pill for some of this, or a bottle of lube, but there’s no other solution for the issues I’m creating in my mind (the biggest sex organ in my body) other than to just relax into the moment on this and exorcise some of the magnetic attraction to those actually-not-so-sexy traits that I once found sexy as hell. Let go, Problem Child. What if EASIER is SEXIER?

And so, with that in mind, I just had a third date with Mr. Clean. We ate oysters and drank champagne. Not a problem.