When you’re young, you take sex very seriously (what with all the sweating and trying to make yourself sound and look good). All that bumping and humping becomes pretty hilarious when you get older. You can’t hide the cottage cheesy skin around baby pouches, and a guy can only spend so much time on his knees after 50. The grunting is more about joint pain than pleasure, and the Big O refers to osteoporosis, nothing more.
The act itself is ridiculous whether you’re young and firm or 64 and flatulent. What we do to each other is absolutely goofy. Come on now — who among us hasn’t had that moment in time when you’re huffing and thrusting and suddenly you think, “What am I doing? This is RIDICULOUS!”
And it is. But the great thing about getting older is you realize it’s stupid and do it any way. That just makes it more fun. Plus, you need to get more innovative because of the barbaric medical procedures you will doubtless undergo after the age of 50, as in, “Don’t touch that, the doctor just stuck a hose up there!”
Some guys like my husband will try to play the age card to get kinky.
“Hey, put your feet up over my head,” he said the other day.
I just looked at him. I mean, what the hell.
“Why?” I asked with suspicion.
“Because we need to practice in case some day I have knee surgery!”
How’s that for lame (no pun intended). It’s no longer passion that enflames sexual positions; it’s post-surgical considerations. I work in a Day Surgery unit of our local hospital and most couples over 40 couldn’t care less about when they can get it on again. They’re pretty tired of each other. Many times, a wife will bring a hubby in for a simple procedure, pull me aside and say, “Hey, if I give you a few bucks, can you keep him a couple days?”
“Lady,” I’ll say sympathetically, “It’s not a kennel. But I feel your pain.”
Speaking of pain and colonoscopies, let’s talk about mammograms for a sec, shall we? If men had to get tested for penis or scrotum cancer by having their wee-wees put between two slabs of cold metal and unceremoniously squished, here’s what would happen. Science as we know it would grind to a halt. One guy would have his penis or balls smashed and word would get out to the entire Male Universe immediately. Research on real diseases would grind to a halt. “Geezus!” the men would say as they knocked over test tubes to get to work, “We’ve got to find a cure for penis cancer RIGHT THIS MINUTE!”
All it would take is one guy to have the testicle equivalent of a mammogram and that would be the end of it. But women subject themselves to this every year, rather cheerfully, because we think we have to. Scientists are mostly all guys, and while we’re getting our boobs smushed, they’re watching football.
Sex is silly, folks. No matter how old you are or what kind of shape you’re in. We waste a lot of time and energy thinking and worrying about sex when it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Bob and I went to the Smithsonian Zoo in D.C. this past weekend, and there in the Great Ape House was a typical domestic scene. The guy ape was sitting around, scratching himself and eating. The mom ape was exhausted, lying in a hammock with a baby crawling all over her. The only thing missing from this scene was ESPN. We haven’t really evolved that far, at all.
So if you read some article about people in their 60’s and 70’s having “a great sex life,” keep it in perspective. It really only means they’ve learned to work around the joint pain.