Sex in the Fifties

50’s Glasses

Prelude for Younger Audiences: “Ewwwwwww!”

So what’s the deal with Sex in the Fifties? Despite the hemorrhaging availability of botox, breast bags, hair weaves, penile implants, financial security, liposuction, hormone helpers, testosterone patches, mobility, anonymity, familiarity, butt lifts, viagra, and f***buddies, are we really getting any? Or are we just sick of the whole last-year’s-dance, preferring instead to curl up with a bottle of cabernet? We look old. We feel tired. We are Not in the Mood.

I wasn’t planning on giving up sex, ever. But even for those armed with a fistful of dollars and a bulge in the libido, nature keeps cropping up with a plan of her own. My mother always gleefully tittered that the years after menopause were the happiest of her life. Sorry Mom, but I beg to differ. If you’ve never had a hot flash, and by that I mean never been working away happy as a clam only to find yourself suddenly awash in a skim of sticky, smelly, pore ooze, usually in the midst of 1) a business meeting , or 2) clasping the Beloved, then get thee to a more appropriate blog.

And what’s with the weight thing? Decreased Appetite plus Decreased Intake = 10 pounds weight gain. Eliminating soft drinks, chocolate, and cream sauces (kill me now) = 2 pounds weight gain. Increased Exercise = a pleasant 1 pound weight gain. So tell me why, with all the additional padding, are old people always cold? My Dear Mother Nature, if you want me to keep warm, drop the pound baggage and Let Me Have Sex! Friction = Fire, you know.

They say that menopause causes irritability. Not true. Sweat swells, bulky girth, and a dearth of hickies cause irritability.

The sad truth is that I know why Mother afflicts us in the 50’s. She has caught a whiff of rotten eggs, and wants to protect the Future of Civilization by causing hunkish males to blanch at our bulbous pretties and eau de locker room, fleeing to wantonly spew seeds into the incubators of twenty-somethings unaquainted with palimony.

And what of those man-type humans? Is their procreational rivulet spiked with preservatives? Does Mother just turn a blind eye to their dalliances, secure in the supposition that no DNA will be mangled by the Over-50 Male? I suppose it’s entirely plausible that she anticipates an occasional dip in the fertilizer population. I, myself, have considered popping off a few somewhere between the gynecologist’s office and the bank.

No one cares if a man grows fat and bald, least of all the man. But I can’t complain, really, as my Dearest insists, “I didn’t marry you for your body.” Ass.

And yet we manage well, all things considered. And, all things considered, perhaps extraordinarily well. We kiss and clutch in restaurant parking lots as gratefully as adulterers, and roll about gamely on sundry pieces of furniture more carelessly than teenagers . . . until I heave him to the floor gasping for a deep throat of air conditioning, nipples thrust greedily toward the ceiling fan, “Faster . . . faster . . . come to Mama NOW, you Bladed Beauty, NOW!”

At least the neighbors think we’re doing it.

(Copyright 2007. All rights reserved Pamela Goode.)


11 thoughts on “Sex in the Fifties

  1. “The sad truth is that I know why Mother afflicts us in the 50′s. She has caught a whiff of rotten eggs, and wants to protect the Future of Civilization by causing hunkish males to blanch at our bulbous pretties and eau de locker room, fleeing to wantonly spew seeds into the incubators of twenty-somethings unaquainted with palimony”

    I busted out laughing at my desk here at work. thanks pam! lol…

  2. Blooming brilliant – and such an eloquent insight into our dilemma 🙂 Natural progesterone cream got shot of my flashes and upped libido…although there was nothin that could match my peri-menopausal libido with all that oestrogen pumping out at a disproportionate rate (no doubt something to do with Monsanto and cake) even the dustbin man wasn’t safe :D”

  3. I think men are forced to accept their age limitations earlier than woman. Along with hair we lose our strength and activity in our 30s, typically injuring ourselves playing sports. And because that former activity kept us thin, we never learned to eat with restraint, and then gain the weight.

    Another reason men let themselves go is that we are never told that our bodies are attractive. Women hear this from an early age. And women wonder why we stray, when (as above) the prevailing attitude is that it’s just as good and easier to satisfy themselves. The truth is women aren’t that attracted to us and we pick up on this…so when someone does act interested, there’s some mental justifications that go on.

  4. Ha! What a supreme pleasure to read the truth. I remember the first time I mentioned “hot flash” out loud to a woman my age… she carefully avoided me after that. Why are some women who intent on pretending that this thing called menopause doesn’t exist… that it’s something to be ashamed of? Oh please. There are many wonderful things that come with menopause, if you just decide to face it & look for the positives in life. Ya, that sudden splash of flash ain’t one of them, but how about the fact that you you can put on socks that don’t match and still drive to the grocery store, because you don’t give a damn. Or, the trip to Lowe’s on a Saturday afternoon, after you’ve been working in the garden for hours & look like total shit. Do you remember that you used to actually change your t-shirt and comb your hair before you’d go find that last needed bag of mulch? Yea, right. Let them see me in all of my glory… most won’t give me a second a look regardless of the sweat anyway. We had a dinner party the other night… the first in a long time, as jumping through those hoops just does not appeal anymore. But friends visiting from far-away shores prompted the “do”, so we did. Of course, there was a time when everything was so perfectly put together before everyone arrived, that I seemed almost Martha-like. Another “HA!” No more of that. So, the salad was being prepared while everyone watched, ugh, and YIPES! I slashed a finger… those 3 Advil at bedtime may help me sleep, but they also make me bleed like the proverbial stuck pig. I looked up to see four pairs of eyes staring at me. Thank God for my husband… he went straight upstairs for bandaids, and I was able to follow him & stop the gusher. I was so damn mad, if not for his move to the upstairs, I am quite certain that the lovely Brunello I was sloshing was going straight through the air. Another menopausal friend took the knife and promptly completed the job at hand, much to the relief of our guests. I thanked her later & told her how friggin mad I had been & she suggested that “mad” and “knife” don’t go together well. I wasn’t as worried about the knife as I was about smashing good crystal. Sex was the subject here, Pam, and I’ve not mentioned it once. Shall I say it ??? HA! That premenopausal period was way too short, in my humble opinion… boy, that was something. But this perimenopause sucks eggs. Yes, sex can be a good thing once you make yourself participate… but who wants it??? It’s so much easier to just take care of things yourself than to involve your partner! Pam, I’m so glad you’ve started this blog… I am delighted to know I have a place to come and laugh and listen to a real woman really “get real.” Virginia

  5. No Man-Bashing! It’s simple de-frag. And frustration at the facts of life-over-fifty. I have a love/hate thing going with change, but it certainly makes fertile ground for the philosophical rambling, and ideal fodder for tongue-in-cheek faux-rants.

  6. whew…that’s what I call the soul talken….great words…on the outer edges of the mind…please don’t stop…the void hungers for more…

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