Sex in Your Fifties

            My late father, a man of astonishing insight and directness, had this advice for me shortly before I got married at the very premature age of twenty-one: “If your sex life is good it will be five percent of your life; however, if it’s bad, it will be ninety-five percent of your life.” Of course, it was belated advice, but it was still good advice.

            I always took sex for granted. I was always curious, always interested, and an eager and willing student. In my fifties, little has changed, except I no longer take sex for granted.  The changes in my sexuality surprised me as much as my first period, my first orgasms,  the loss of my virginity, and childbirth. My reaction to all these events was consistently the same: did my body just do that?”  I was eleven when I got my first period. It was hot. Probably the end of June, just before I was due to leave for sleep away camp. I was wearing sky blue Wrangler shorts. My mother asked me to go to the grocery store for a few things. I remember waiting at the corner of Ellwood and Nagle for the light to change. I felt nauseated, and I had a headache. I had never had a headache before.  On the way back from the grocery store, I felt faint as I waited for the light to change. Once I got home. I put the milk in the refrigerator and the bread in the breadbox. When I pulled my shorts and underpants down in the bathroom so I could pee, I was mildly surprised to see blood. I knew what had happened. I just never knew it would really happen to me. I went to get the sanitary pads and belt that I had sent away to Kotex for, a pair of clean shorts and pair of underpants. Back in the bathroom, I soaked my shorts and underpants in the tub and went to tell my mother what had happened. According to European tradition, my mother slapped me on the cheek and said, “You’re a woman now.” I didn’t feel like a woman, but I was pleased. My father brought home roses for me that night, and my older brother grunted something indistinguishable at me. Nothing seemed to have changed.  

            Orgasms were another story entirely. I welcomed them with ardent enthusiasm though I didn’t really understand the mechanics of this almost out-of-body experience. Still, I loved that my body could experience them—with or without a partner.  In retrospect, there may have been nothing sexier than all those years of making out and groping that I enjoyed with my high school boyfriend, and then later with the boy I almost lost my virginity to before fate intervened when the doorbell interrupted us at the definitive moment—a lifelong regret that still leaves me wondering. All those years of preparation offered the promise that orgasms would always be available. Then, of course, once I was no longer a virgin, orgasms took on a different, even better context.  It never occurred to me that there was anything my body could not achieve.

            I don’t remember my first orgasm, but I do remember the day I was no longer a virgin. I’m fairly certain everyone remembers his or her first time.  I think the first time is probably not a great test of sexual prowess.  Mostly, I remember looking at myself in the bathroom mirror after it was over and wondering if anyone would be able to tell. I didn’t feel any different, and I certainly didn’t look any different. Nevertheless, I had passed a milestone. My body had obliged, forfeited its status, catapulting me into alleged womanhood. I applied myself with intensity to my new rank and enjoyed each new discovery. I was a college freshman, but I was only sixteen, still very young to play at womanhood even though my body felt more than ready for the challenge. 

            Childbirth was remarkable for any number of reasons. However, after twenty-two hours of labor and a forceps delivery, I remember looking down between my legs and seeing the screaming, bloody head of my son and feeling somewhat stunned that he was emerging from my body. It seemed impossible that this creature was not only mine, but that I had carried him around for over nine months in my swelling body. The separation was profound. When the nurse placed him against my chest, I remember wondering how it would feel to move through the world without him inside my body.

            None of these events, however, could have prepared me for menopause. In my own way, I mourned the end of my periods. I know that might seem strange to some women, but the loss confirmed the inevitable—unwelcome changes that would require some commitment.  I was not ready to abandon my sexuality, so I initiated a campaign to circumvent the realities. In the process, I developed a kinder, gentler attitude toward my body. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I am less critical of my body. It’s a perfectly fine body for a fifty-seven-year-old woman. Indeed, it is flawed, but I so foolishly thought that the fifteen-year-old body I once had was also flawed even though the boy I then loved told me that I looked like an angel.  Now I understand that what matters most is how I see myself… and I am still working on that perception, still encouraging myself to see myself with gentler eyes. The journey is far from over, and I am grateful for that.