I bought this month’s issue of a women’s magazine without my glasses and it wasn’t until I got home that I saw the headline, “Great Sex Over 40!”

I promptly hid it under a pile of books so the Snapper wouldn’t see it—not because I’m a prude but because teenage boys are incredibly grossed out at the idea of women our age having sex. One time when George was kissing me in a promising way the Snapper snorted, “You guys are too old to be having sex!”

Uh-huh.

I think the Snapper’s girlfriend’s father was itching to tell him he was too young to have sex when he saw the way the Snapper was hugging and kissing his daughter at the pre-prom party. The father needn’t have worried though—I already told him that, in no uncertain terms.

Teens are always looking for private places to have sex. I know some of my sons’ friends have even done it in their houses while their parents were unknowingly in another room. Yes, I know who they are and no, I’m not telling because I never reveal my sources. But I do feel their pain. Quiet sex is quite a challenge. I know this because I live in a small house. With teenagers.

It’s not just the interior geography which poses problems—it’s the hours they keep. When they were little I could put them to be at eight or nine and be between the sheets by ten. Now, they’re still going strong at two in the morning. 

This dichotomy does however lend itself to teens having sex in the living room while their parents are fast asleep dreaming of it upstairs.

When Wally and the Snapper started staying up, we took to scheduling sex. We’d try to figure out when they were going to be at football practice or out at the movies and lock the date in. Teens being who they are, they’re not always where they should be, and so this didn’t always work out. We’d be on our way upstairs with a glass of wine and suddenly the door would bang open and they’d spill into the living room, home early with a group of friends. George would look at me and say, “Was it good for you?” 

In my dreams, honey.

I discussed this problem with my friend Bella, an older, wiser woman and a former Madam to boot. She suggested “lunch dates.” I said I thought that was a dating service but she said no, it was sex in the middle of the day. She said, “Lunch dates are perfect because you’re both awake, and there’s less chance of being interrupted by your teens, unless they’re cutting school.” She added, “You also get to burn off calories instead of consuming them.” I asked her if she ran lunchtime specials when she ran her house and she said, “What do you think those three hour lunches in the ’60s were really all about?” I wouldn’t know because I was in grade school then. But my dad did take me to lunch in a Playboy club in the mid ’60s in New York. The bunnies were awfully nice, but that’s another story.

So George and I tried lunch dates and I have to tell you, it’s fun and it feels awfully French. In French movies lovers always seem to meet in the afternoon for some passionate lovemaking before they return to their power point presentations. Maybe this is another reason why French women don’t get fat. 

At any rate, none of the articles in the woman’s magazine addressed issues like lunch dates or teenagers. It’s all about failing libido and Kegel exercises and how sex after forty is not as exciting or sexy as it used to be. I felt badly for the women who wrote these articles because frankly, I think sex is much better than it was when I was younger—I know I’m having more fun now then I did when I was twenty-two. But reading through the articles, it sounded as if sex wasn’t very fun at all.

On second thought, maybe I’ll leave the magazine out after all.