IN WHICH I’M KISSED, AND OFTEN, BY SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HOW.
In Gone With the Wind, Rhett Butler famously said to Scarlett, “No, I don’t think I’ll kiss you, although you need kissing badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”
IN WHICH THERE’S LONGING IN MY LOINGS.
The rays of the sun, now hovering over the Hudson River, were still visible glinting off the tall buildings on 57th Street. They bathed Anthony – the Sicilian-American, martial arts Olympic bronze medalist — in a golden light; as for me, judging from my rising blood pressure, I was pretty sure I was blushing crimson from the unspoken yet powerfully hot vibe between us.
IN WHICH I ANTICIPATE NO LESS THAN OLYMPIC SEX.
Banishing the untalented kisser Patrick to the Unbangable File, I now turned my attention to the 32-year-old Sicilian-American Olympian, Anthony, I’d met on OKCupid.
IN WHICH I REFLECT ON THE ENDURING VALUE OF A GOOD ERECTION.
How we hold ourselves is a universal body language in need of little translation. Round shoulders indicate low self esteem, while hunched ones are fearful and defended. Spineless people are, well, spineless. A stooped back is bent from burdens. Feeling depressed, low? Then so hangs our head.
IN WHICH I DEBRIEF MY DE-BRIEFING WITH DAVE.
By texting Dave that he’d given me blue balls, I’d teasingly wanted to avenge his insulting selfishness on an occasion that was supposed to be my simultaneous second deflowering/ blossoming. Ever-boorish Dave did not respond, and after his previous ardor, his silence was deafening.
IN WHICH THE UNIVERSE HANDS ME A NEW, UNWELCOME DEFINITION OF “ANTICLIMAX.”
Dave left me with a tender kiss, but I wasn’t fooled. As far as I was concerned, he’d enjoyed an afternoon of sensory satisfaction more with Hugh Jackman than with me — they should’ve gotten a room.
IN WHICH THINGS, BUT NOT DAVE, HEAD SOUTH — FAST.
When Dave had scored twice and I hadn’t at all, I’d gestured to my crotch and said, “Okay, I need to have an orgasm now!” — time to take that handsome head of his for a tour of the Southlands. But since he’d wanted to watch a movie, I figured he planned to pleasure me after. Because, after all, Dave’s prolific hot sexting of the prior two weeks had focussed heavily on his love for Southern cuisine.
IN WHICH DAVE MAKES SWEET LOVE NOT TO ME, BUT TO HUGH JACKMAN.
After inhaling a couple greasy cheeseburgers and fries, Dave — still naked — collapsed on the sofa and demanded to watch a movie. Burping from a series of Cokes, and farting with equal abandon, he chose X-Men, into which he proceeded to disappear, transfixed as if by the greatest art imaginable. I lay next to him, thinking the farts — which I greeted repeatedly with “Make yourself at home, Dave!” — were far less objectionable than the antics of Wolverine.
IN WHICH DAVE PUTS A FEW MORE MILES ON ME.
Between my lack of lube and Dave’s injured rod, we were both hurting from our erotic wrestling match. He said he would be ready again in a few minutes, and when I marveled over the endurance he was capable of, he remarked that girls with him could come two times to his once — something I could well believe: he had gone on and on.
AND WHILE WE’RE IN SIXTIES SONG MODE: IN WHICH I CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION.
Considering how young Dave acted and made me feel, it’s not inappropriate to call what we were now getting ready to do, GOING ALL THE WAY.
I'm a gorgeous goddess of a certain age who transformed from shot to hot, a feminist playa refusing to go into the sunset without a Mojito in one hand and a tumescent, throbbing ... well, you know what I mean ... in the other. Because sixty IS the new forty or even thirty I will not be dying with my boots on, but with my Jimmy Choo stilettos, thank you very much. I, a sexually liberated woman, stand defiantly against ageism and sexism, adamantly asserting not only is it possible to maintain and even enhance our sexual allure as we ripen, we women have the same right as men to romp in the hay with playmates decades younger.