Sex at 66. Really? I’d been so geared up with the excitement of getting my state pension (who knew that £220.20 extra a week could instil such joy) that I hadn’t considered there might be other benefits. Certainly, the thought of sex entering the frame at retirement age was something I’d never considered. It’s been so long, I’d assumed I’d be buried a virgin through lack of use.
I started to think about sex more when I was travelling in Eastern Europe, where I have been, on and off, for the past six months. Money problems had forced me to live in the cheapest places I could find while I figured out what to do with the rest of my life. I suppose that thinking less about money left my mind freer to focus on the more pleasurable things in life, and from what I recalled, sex was one of those.
But it was a hazy memory. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t been sitting on the sidelines and I’ve had the occasional dalliance – just not of the kind that go as far as DTD (Doing The Deed). I’m of the Bill Clinton school on this: it’s not sex unless it’s penetrative, the whole hog. Anything else is just a recce.
It wasn’t for the want of trying, though, but the guys I was meeting, invariably much older, take a lot more work for the end product to be worth the effort (what was I thinking with the 85-year-old comedian, for goodness’ sake? Wit really does not conquer all). You can deliver your best techniques from years of experience and still end up trying to look at your iPhone on the bedside table to check how long you’ve been at work. Then you just start to think of how much less effort a curry and a bottle of Rioja might have been.
So, when a man who I’ve known for decades started to show interest, I began to ponder the possibility that all might not be rotten in the state of Denmark. He’s a divorced guy who I first met at the Edinburgh Television Festival in the early 90s and, although we got on, I had about as much interest in him as I did devouring an entire haggis.
We bumped into each other a few months back in London and, after a couple of lunches and a dinner, I’d still failed to spot any signs of interest. My mother always told me I was particularly bad at that, and I am. Unless a man pounces like a bear, I always figure he has no interest in me other than my scintillating wit and, obviously, outstanding brain.
And pounce he did. Like a bear. It was great. With a 66 year old’s body, I never thought any man would be able to look at my slightly flabby stomach with anything other than loathing; but this was someone who was just . . . Well, adoring, and had clearly felt that way for some time.
Passion and tenderness. It’s the best combo.
The last time I was naked with a man was about 10 years ago and I certainly felt more self-conscious. But this was easy because he made me feel special – and beautiful, liking me just the way I am. He’s my age, well over six feet (I’m five feet but love tall men) and didn’t appear to be self-conscious about his own body – it’s a very good one, by the way.
Intimacy came easily to us both, as did laughter and conversation. I had been so nervous in the hours before I saw him, I had to have a £2.88 pint of Carling at Wetherspoons just to calm my nerves (can’t afford Prosecco).
I felt more at ease with him than any man I have ever been with – he also knew his way around a woman’s body better than any man I have ever been with. Heck, he knew his way around mine better than I do.
Decades of insecurity about my looks and my body, along with relationship angst were gone. Is that age? Or managing to choose someone who made me feel good about myself rather than the men who had me Googling plastic surgery?
I just felt like me; not a version of myself I was enacting for a man’s benefit.
We didn’t DTD (neither of us is into rushing things) but it set my body racing with desire, but my mind filled with fear again.
I thought of the recent smear test I had, when they said I had a stubborn cervix. What if it proved so stubborn that it acted as gatekeeper to any man?
So, we planned a date to DTD and I set to work with the planning.
I Googled various gels, lubricants and all manner of tools and toys that might ease the journey to my stubborn cervix. Gosh, there were a lot of them. Back in the day, you walked into Boots, hid a tube of K-Y jelly under a box of tissues, and that was that.
Now, I was scouring the aisles, desperate to ask whether the Ylang Ylang Durex lube was going to be more or less effective than the tingling one – and were they for penises or vaginas? My eyesight is so bad, I had to first head to the glasses section to buy a 4x magnifying pair just to read Durex’s small print.
I bought both and hid the lot under three packets of eye make-up remover pads, a tin of hair lacquer and two huge containers of cleansing cream.
For 20 minutes I waited at the checkout, the queue growing ever longer behind me. I imagined dozens of eyes focused on the see-through basket revealing my wares. Not since I was a kid buying my first sanitary towels had I felt so self-conscious.
I was brought up with a very unhealthy attitude towards sex – it was something you didn’t do until you were married; anything else was shameful. A sanitary towel was called a “rabbit.”; a tampon, a “mouse”. How I ever managed to buy condoms or make contact with any man’s organ is a small miracle. But old habits die hard.
Finally, I got to the till. Out came the make-up pads, the lacquer, the cleanser, all in a neat pile. Then the lubricants – laid out like a row of bloody lighthouses on the counter.
“Do you need a bag?” I was so embarrassed, I got into a conversation with the saleswoman about her highlights and where she’d had them done. Anything to pretend I wasn’t That Woman Getting It Tonight to the assembled throng behind me.
Of course I need a goddamned bag. And quickly. I was shaking so much, I didn’t even take the time to get my Boots points card out of my purse. Then the bill. Over 20 quid! Jeez, all it used to take was the K-Y and a couple of pints of Stella.
So far, so good. But then, owing to a misunderstanding with the potential penis player, I called it off. We happened to be in the same place where he was meeting colleagues and I thought he was irked to see me, so I sent him a text saying I wasn’t up for this.
Feeling rejected, I went back to Boots to return the products, and I can tell you, returns sit 10 times as long on the counter as purchases.
“I’m not allowed to do exchanges,” said the puce teenager serving me. “I’ll have to get the manager.”
Enter manager, who fondled the goods in a creepy kind of way.
“Ah, you don’t have a receipt,” he said, trying to avert my gaze.
Of course not, because I thought by now I’d have been enjoying a good seeing to and coming back for more goodies.
The lighthouses were now glowing on the counter – the orange of Ylang Ylang, the turquoise of another.
The manager’s words took forever . . . “I’m afraid without a receipt, it’ll have to be a credit note.”
“I’ll take it, that’s fine,” I spluttered.
To cut a long story even longer, later that day DTD was back on, after I received a text from the man to say that he respected my decision. Eh? What decision? Yes, I’d had a bit to drink after I thought I’d been spurned, but couldn’t remember any decision.
I checked my phone. S**T! Back pedal, back pedal. Fast. He reassured me that he’d been thrilled to see me and was just sorry we couldn’t have been together. So, with DTD rescheduled, I returned to Boots (a different one, obviously) with my credit note to repurchase everything. It was also a bigger Boots, so I ended up spending an additional £18.
I really hope he’s worth it.
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