Okay, last time I promised to write about something more entertaining than politics, and in deference to my loyal readers I have decided that the subject of this post will be my sex life, which is by any measure a laugh riot. I have recently been enjoying the subtle pleasures of celibacy, which has, among other things, deepened my relationship with my cats, reduced the amount of laundry I have to do each week (also conserves energy!) and may yet bring me closer to God. However, since as a biological female I am apparently within spitting distance of my sexual peak, I am considering taking a slightly different approach to the matter. As in my last post, I find myself weighing several possible options:
1. Have sex with considerably younger men.
Since entering my mid-thirties, I have noticed that I have become suddenly quite popular with the under twenty-five set. During the summer months that now feel so achingly distant, I was practically besieged by men in their early twenties, as well as one strange boy who couldn’t have been a day over nineteen. (*shudder*) My friends tell me that I should find this inter-generational attention flattering, though I’m having trouble feeling anything but mildly disturbed by the earnest come-ons of Gen Y. How can someone who hasn’t been beaten senseless and left for dead by life be even remotely interesting? More to the point, isn’t suffering the font of all sexual passion?
2. Look up old flames.
I recently came into possession of the last known coordinates for Nathaniel, a man I met on an internet mailing list and went on to have a two-year long quasi-affair with. Nathaniel lived in Chicago at the time, and after a lengthy correspondence I decided to throw caution to the wind and visit him, sight unseen. When I arrived at O’Hare airport, I found myself being welcomed to the Windy City by a stunningly beautiful mid-Westerner who was so very generous with his hospitality that he insisted I share his bed, which was really much more comfortable than the sofa. To make a long story short, Nathaniel wound up moving to an intentional community in Virginia – seriously – and soon after that we lost touch. Now, I soberly debate the merits of re-initiating contact with a man who spends his days making hammocks and is probably hand-fasted to a woman named Rainbow anyway.
3. Start dating.
In nineteen years of sexual activity, several of them reasonably promiscuous, I have never once been on a date. I have hung out, chilled, befriended, drank, hooked up, even picked up (once), but not dated. While the concept sets off my authenticity issues in the worst possible way, I am being strongly encouraged by friends and therapist alike to give this particular form of social intercourse a try. I suppose I shouldn’t knock it ‘til I’ve tried it, right? Having said this, I have been closely observing my friends who do date and most of them aren’t getting any either, which is hardly a gushing testimonial. It does seem to make for amusing blog posts, though, which is something.
4. Rediscover my bisexuality.
Well, there is that drawerful of sex toys that have just been gathering dust – and it’s a political statement!
Hmm, maybe it’s time for a poll?