While having a conversation with someone I know from high school (I don't remember the topic at the time), he responded to my comment with, "I still get hard." I blushed (yes, I still do that), and a nervous laugh escaped my lips, and I was stymied for a response. I couldn't just acknowledge that he had moved on to a sexual topic in broad daylight in public among a general PG-13 crowd nor could I give him any encouragement (I've had bad experiences when engaging in sexual banter -- the guys think because I'm willing to discuss it, I'm willing to jump in the happy sack with them). I opted for the obvious choice. "You must work out a lot with weights."
He moved on.
"Yes, I worked out every day."
Whew! Crisis averted. But the comment stuck in my mind and began plaguing me at odd times: when I was typing hospital reports, when I was counting cross stitch materials, going through floss, eating dinner and watching Andy Griffith, and even (gasp!) while sitting on the toilet. But it's not what you think.
I'm a single woman, and as such occasionally contemplate having sex with someone else rather than just the usual quickies with hand tools. Suddenly, the possibility of sex began to dwindle because of that comment. I have reached that point when the only questions were, "Can't you get them off any faster?" and "Who has the condom?" There was never a question of whether or not the equipment was going to work. Now I have to worry about if my partner still gets hard? Is this the future I have to look forward to?
Now I have to worry about whether or not he takes Viagra. Or if I need to keep a stock of Viagra on hand (I can get some from widows whose Viagra using husbands have gone on to their eternal rest). Then I need to worry whether they have a heart problem and can use Viagra. That means cardiac testing and questionnaires and suddenly I'm not feeling in a sexual mood. Not now. Maybe not ever. My hand tools are beginning to look a whole lot more viable and interesting. No questions, just do it.
I didn't mind sleeping in the wet spot -- most of the time (depends on who helped make it). I didn't mind a few different partners (I'm the only one who knows THAT number.) I didn't even mind the long dry stretches (wet stretches for me because my hand tools are always close by) because at least at the end of them there would be a functional partner who still gets hard.
I'm nearly 60 (2-1/2 years to go) and this is all I can expect.
I didn't even mind Junior with his inflatable penis. He was always hard if you knew what button to push to pump him up.
There was one partner who insisted on telling me he didn't get as hard as he used to -- in the midst of a frenzy of flying clothes and intentions of misbehaving NOW. He was hard enough for me and it worked. Sometimes guys just need to shut their mouths unless they're going to use them for close work or telling you how good you are. Anything else, they should just shut up and moan. Yelping is good. Yawping is even better. Praise -- sometimes it's just too much to ask while the other brain has all the blood.
So where does the blood go once it no longer goes to the other brain? It sure isn't in the main upper brain, the one that should tell them it's not polite to tell someone they still get hard or don't get as hard as they used to or ask if you'd like to pump up the volume on their twin inflatable prostheses.
My sexual future is bleak and getting bleaker and I don't feel like having sex with anyone -- any other person -- ever. Not if this is what I have to look forward to -- or rather what I don't have to look forward to. No wonder women my age are choosing their much younger sexual partners. The only thing they have to worry about is how to get their clothes off faster and point them in the right direction. They're already hard. They're always hard . . . and ready for action without too much talk.