I'm Told it's Like Riding a Bike

I gave up sex in 1993, mainly because it wasn’t worth the trouble any more.  Not only were all the good men taken, the ones who were good in bed were definitely off the market. And it was depressing to see that the younger men I dated had none of the skills of the men of my generation. There had been a sea change in the failure of Feminism. The females who saw our assertiveness as a chance to get the men, had run in to our places with no demands and the urge to please. It was obvious that the younger men had no incentive to please a woman as she would stay no matter what. The Joy of Sex was replaced by the Joy of Sexting and the hookup became commonplace. Friends with benefits. Like brushing your teeth. Don’t make a big deal, I’ve got a call coming in.

You’ll notice that Bill Clinton never mentioned giving Ms. Lewinsky any pleasure…no. It was the new age where a man in power didn’t have to worry about showing his body because he didn’t have to undress in front of a woman. She would kneel before him and serve him. Oh, good. That’s what Feminism was all about…making a cheap porno. 

But look, guys, I realize that I had stopped holding up my end of the deal. Having realized that women having to spend more money on hair and makeup and clothes than men was unfair, I had pretty much ended my days of being dressing to please when I was first married at 21 to Anything Male With A Pulse. In 1993, I was 44 years old and twice divorced. The first shot of menopause over my head emphasized a huge difference between female and male. There is the natural attraction of a fertile women, but I assure all of you gentlemen that the urge leaves woman is a myth. I have not lost the urge or ability, I’ve just gotten hip enough to the idea of a woman of 62 talking about it is considered gag-worthy by most men. So, seriously, why would I want to waste the money on makeup? Botox. Plastic Surgery. You end up still looking like an old lady, but one that had work done.

So, I have to accept that the fact that the last time I had sex will always be an EH! memory and try to recall the four in the middle of the pack who were spectacular. I’m pretty pleased with the last man I kissed, so let’s just put that in the scrap book as the closing memory. The scrap book is not locked and might be opened again. Anything can happen and I’m not going to run away from men, but I’m not looking for it either. Yes, next June will be 19 years since last I assumed the position, but I’m told that it’s “just like riding a bike.” Well, yeah, if the lady’s on top.