No one tells you that, when you hit middle age, you won’t be having sex.
“We haven’t done it much lately,” I said to Michael last winter. We lay spooned beneath a heavy down comforter enjoying the crisp Seattle night air. It had been at least two months.
“Yeah, what’s that about?”
“I dunno,” I yawned. “I’m tired.
“Me too,” he mumbled as we tipped over the edge of sleep. When we met, I was in my late thirties and Michael in
his late fifties. Sex and the City had convinced me that we’d be boinking with gusto for decades to come—I expected to be randy like Samantha in my 40s and 50s. The truth is, the middle-aged body revs down rather than up, especially after it
finds a mate.
“We should do it tonight,” I said a few weeks later. Sex became a task on a list.
Michael set down his reading glasses and The Economist on the night table. His face looked long and tired. “Maybe tomorrow night? I’ve gotta get up at five…”
“Yeah, me too,” I admitted with relief, my eyelids drooping. He clicked off the light and put his arm around me. “I love
you.”
“Love you, too.”
It’s not that we couldn’t have sex. It’s that sex stopped occurring to us.
In my twenties and thirties, I scrounged for physical contact; now, I finally had a partner with whom I could do it anytime—but we weren’
“You look beautiful,” Michael growled a few weekends later. We were dressing for an evening out with friends. “Maybe tonight we can—you know,” he winked.
“We haven’t done it much lately,” I said to Michael last winter. We lay spooned beneath a heavy down comforter enjoying the crisp Seattle night air. It had been at least two months.
“Yeah, what’s that about?”
“I dunno,” I yawned. “I’m tired.
“Me too,” he mumbled as we tipped over the edge of sleep. When we met, I was in my late thirties and Michael in
his late fifties. Sex and the City had convinced me that we’d be boinking with gusto for decades to come—I expected to be randy like Samantha in my 40s and 50s. The truth is, the middle-aged body revs down rather than up, especially after it
finds a mate.
“We should do it tonight,” I said a few weeks later. Sex became a task on a list.
Michael set down his reading glasses and The Economist on the night table. His face looked long and tired. “Maybe tomorrow night? I’ve gotta get up at five…”
“Yeah, me too,” I admitted with relief, my eyelids drooping. He clicked off the light and put his arm around me. “I love
you.”
“Love you, too.”
It’s not that we couldn’t have sex. It’s that sex stopped occurring to us.
In my twenties and thirties, I scrounged for physical contact; now, I finally had a partner with whom I could do it anytime—but we weren’
“You look beautiful,” Michael growled a few weekends later. We were dressing for an evening out with friends. “Maybe tonight we can—you know,” he winked.
Gabriela Denise Frank is a Pacific Northwest writer and the author of “CivitaVeritas: An Italian Fellowship Journey.” Her essays have appeared in True Story, Lunch Ticket, The Rumpus, Front Porch Journal, and the blogs of Brevity and Submittable. www.gabrieladenisefrank.com
At first, I didn’t think I had an essay—only a quiet complaint. Not having sex felt like failure. It wasn’t talked about. Sharing stories with friends revealed something larger at play. Our silence was actually a barrier to discovering a common experience of aging. I hope this essay inspires others to let fall the mantle of shyness and shame and see the changes in their bodies as part of a natural human continuum.
At first, I didn’t think I had an essay—only a quiet complaint. Not having sex felt like failure. It wasn’t talked about. Sharing stories with friends revealed something larger at play. Our silence was actually a barrier to discovering a common experience of aging. I hope this essay inspires others to let fall the mantle of shyness and shame and see the changes in their bodies as part of a natural human continuum.