Now and Forever--Let's Make Love (20 page)

Rick looked at his wife questioningly. She smiled back at him. “Oh yes,” she said loudly. “We will.”

As Rick lay in bed, he felt Cathy turn over and cuddle against him. He knew he would never really make love with Lynn, but
it was a delightful fantasy. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his erect cock. “Dreaming about me again?” Cathy said, sliding down
to take him in her mouth.

As his cock slid deeper into Cathy’s throat, Rick no longer cared whom he had been dreaming about or why. He just enjoyed.

It was a hot, humid night and Claire needed a breath of air. The central air conditioning in the split-level house she and
her husband, Glen, had rented for the summer had gone on the fritz, just at the beginning of a series of steamy July days.
They had been sleeping in the family room, the coolest spot in the house, but tonight, rest had become impossible for her.

“The repairman will be there on Monday,” the landlord had promised, but now it was Thursday night and the air conditioner
was still dead.

Claire slipped a light cotton cover-up over her damp skin and opened the back door, leaving her husband asleep. She glanced
back and watched the even rise and fall of his chest, his body illuminated by a shaft of moonlight through the open door.
She smiled at the corner of a sheet he had pulled across his groin, conservative even in his sleep.

Sighing, Claire slipped out the door and walked through the backyard, wiggling her toes in the cool grass. She slid her hand
under her long hair and lifted it from her overheated neck. Nothing seemed to cool her off. She approached the swing set that
the landlord had installed for the previous tenant, lifted her dress to her waist, and sat down on the plastic swing strap.
She took little backward steps until the swing was as far back as she could get it, then lifted her feet and spread her legs.

The feeling of the warm air rushing across her hot, wet skin as the swing swept forward was exhilarating. Back the swing flew,
then rushed forward again, the wind between her spread legs incredibly erotic. She pumped her legs like she had as a child,
but the feel of the plastic on her naked buttocks and the air on her skin was most assuredly a grown-up feeling. She let her
head fall backward and closed her eyes.

She swung for several minutes, her eyes still closed, savoring her feelings. Suddenly, she felt the swing stop, held a few
feet forward. Her eyes flew open and she looked into her husband’s face.

“What a sight you make,” he said, his voice hoarse.

A bit unsettled, she said, “It just felt so good.”

“I could tell.” He stood there holding the swing partway forward in its arc. “You look good enough to eat.”

Claire wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. Did he mean that double entendre? He was usually so serious about love-making,
preferring it in the bedroom, at night, in the traditional missionary position. She had wanted him to loosen up for a long
time, so now she said, “So? What are you going to do about it?”

His hands on the plastic chains, Glen pulled the swing closer and pressed his open mouth against his wife’s. Unable to hold
her against him with his hands, he used the force of his kiss to pull her to him. Long moments passed, their mouths fused
together under the moon-bright sky.

Claire wrapped her legs around Glen’s waist and pressed her wet cunt against his bare belly, just above the jeans he had thrown
on over his naked body.

“God, baby,” he growled. “You will get yourself into a lot of trouble if you do that.”

Claire was delighted at the way Glen was loosening up. How far could she push him? “What kind of trouble?” she teased.

“This kind,” he snapped, letting the swing down into its resting position. He sat on the ground beneath the swing, his mouth
at exactly the height of her pussy. He pressed his hands against her buttocks and held her body against his mouth. Like a
man starving, he lapped at her wet flesh, stroking the length of her slit with the flat of his tongue. “Oh God,” she moaned.
“Oh God.”

He licked, then sucked her engorged clit into his mouth and massaged the tip with his tongue. Rhythmically, he sucked, flicked,
then released, until Claire felt her orgasm boil from low in her belly. “Don’t stop,” she yelled. “Oh God, don’t stop.” Over
and over, he licked until, with her thighs tight against his head, he felt her climax.

While she was still coming, he quickly stood up and pulled down his jeans. He lifted her from the swing and set her on her
feet on the grass. Almost unable to stand, Claire watched him sit on the swing, then motion to her to sit on his lap, facing
him, her legs over his thighs. A bit awkwardly, she climbed over him and felt his cock against the entrance to her passage.
“Do it,” he groaned, and she lowered herself onto his shaft, burying it to his balls.

He moved his feet backward, lifting the swing, then let his feet go. The swing dropped, then rose like a pendulum. Back and
forth they swung, Glen’s cock buried in Claire’s pussy. Screaming, Claire’s orgasm began to peak again, continuing as Glen
pulled the front of her sundress down and took a hard nipple in his mouth. Holding the plastic chains, sucking and swinging,
he arched his back and erupted deep inside his wife’s body. With a loud scream, Claire came again, as well.

Too exhausted to do anything but hold on and let the swing come to a stop, the two rested for long minutes. “Oh my God,” Claire
said finally. “That was amazing.”

Eyes downward, Glen said, “I don’t know what came over me.”

Claire squeezed her vaginal muscles and giggled. “I know what came, all right.”

“But I’m not like this,” he said, his speech hesitant.

“You aren’t usually,” Claire said, sensing her husband’s discomfort. “But this was sensational and I loved it.”

“Really?” Glen said softly.

“Really. I have always wanted our lovemaking to be fun, spontaneous, and creative like this.”

Glen looked at his wife, her body drenched with sweat, gleaming in the moonlight. “This certainly is creative. I was so hot,
and I saw the door open, so I stepped outside for some air. When I saw you swinging, your body so beautiful in the moonlight,
I just needed you like this.”

Glen’s voice suddenly interrupted her reveries. “Honey, are you out there?”

Claire opened her eyes and saw her husband wander out the back door. “I’m here.”

“I am so hot,” Glen said.

Claire smiled. “So am I. Come join me.”

5

A seventy-three-year-old man is seated in his doctor’s office after his semiannual physical. “You’re in great shape,” the
doctor says. “Healthy and fit, for a man your age.”

“That’s wonderful, Doctor,” the man answers. “And that’s very good news, since I’m getting married next week.”

The doctor leans across the desk and shakes the man’s hand. “I’m so happy for you both,” he says. “Tell me about her.”

“Well,” the man says, hesitating, “she’s gorgeous and sexy, and she’s twenty-seven.”

The doctor clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “You know you’re no spring chicken. Sex … Well, you understand…. You might
consider—to keep everyone happy, you know, sexualy—you might take in a boarder.”

The man thinks a moment, then says, “That might not be a bad idea.”

Six months later, the two are again seated in the doctor’s office. “Marriage seems to agree with you,” the doctor says. “I’ve
never seen you healthier.”

“Thanks,” the man says. “And by the way, my wife’s pregnant.”

“Congratulations. I guess you followed my advice and took in a boarder.”

“I did,” the man says. “She’s pregnant, too.”

M
any people, like the doctor in the story, have written sex off among older people. “Make the best of it,” they say, “because
the best of sex is behind you.”

While I was listening to the Frank Sinatra song “It Was a Very Good Year” recently, I realized how pervasive that idea is.
The song tells about the women with whom Frank had relationships at seventeen, twenty-one, and thirty-five. Now, he sings,
in the autumn of my life, I look back and think about how good my life was. That’s all well and good, but Frank, of all people,
should know that it’s not all over just because you’re past sixty, or seventy, or eighty. As the old line says, “Just because
there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean the fire’s out in the furnace.” I can testify that my furnace—and Ed’s, too—is still
functioning perfectly, and I intend to keep it that way for a very long time. Maybe our days of hanging from the chandelier
are over, but the days of good sex can continue as long as we want them to.

Allow me to introduce you to the role model for good sex in later years.

As an avocation, I am an emergency medical technician and I take ambulance calls with two local volunteer organizations. In
my town, there are several residences for seniors, and, as you can well imagine, we get called there frequently. Recently,
we got a call to respond to one of the residences to aid a man with a hip injury. I’ve changed the names to protect the delightfully
guilty.

We arrived and were met at the door by one of the residence’s senior administrators. “You’ll find Mr. Smith in room one fourteen,”
he told us. “But please, be discreet.”

“Is there a problem?” I said, wheeling the stretcher down the long hallway.

“Well, one fourteen isn’t exactly his room.”

Still puzzled, I looked at him while one of my partners began to snicker. “Oh,” I said, comprehension dawning. “Is there a
need for secrecy?”

“Well, no, not really. He and Ms. Jones are certainly consenting adults, since she’s eighty-one and he’s eighty-three. But
I don’t want it to set a bad example.”

Bad example, I thought. It’s a great example. However, I decided to tread gently. We arrived in the room and found Mr. Smith
on the bed. “It doesn’t hurt too much,” he said, “but I can’t seem to move.”

Ms. Jones was seated in a chair, dressed in a chintz robe, looking very distraught. “I’m Barbara Jones, his er … friend. We
were just, well, we were …”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Jones,” I said, “we’ll take good care of him.”

“Hey, Barbara,” Mr. Smith said to Ms. Jones, “go ahead and tell ’em what we were doing. I’m damn proud of it. I gave it to
you good, didn’t I?”

Ms. Jones merely blushed and hugged her robe more tightly around her.

“Well, lady,” he said to me, “I give as good as I get, maybe better.” He winked, then added, “What are you doing later?”

“My name’s Joan,” I told him with a grin, “and let’s not worry about later right now.”

Preserving what modesty we could, we examined Mr. Smith’s naked body and concluded that he probably had indeed broken his
hip. We carefully transferred him to our stretcher and covered him with a sheet and a light blanket. Then we wheeled him back
down the hallway toward the main front room, through which we had to go to get to the front door and out to the waiting ambulance.

When we arrived in the main sitting room, several older women were waiting to wish Mr. Smith a speedy recovery. Suddenly,
Mr. Smith whipped off the blanket and yelled, “Hey, ladies, who wants to see my injury?”

There were titters, giggles, and, from myself and my crew, hearty laughter.

Thank heavens this case isn’t unusual. There was an article in the
New York Times
recently about a very prestigious senior residence facility in New York City that had issued a residents’ bill of sexual
rights. The men and women had the right to explicit material—books, movies, and the like—and they had the right to date, carry
on, and such, as long as they did so without upsetting others.

It isn’t that this hadn’t been true in the past, but the facility was now openly admitting that their residents were, and
had every right to be, sexual beings. How wonderful. And this is happening more and more as the population ages.

Sexual age discrimination occurs all over. Dozens of times a day, we are bombarded with this message: I’m still young and
useful and sexual, but if I don’t do what the commercial demands, I’ll be old, dried-up, and useless.

“I’m over forty and I still look wonderful.” First we are led to believe that the fact that she is over forty and hasn’t fallen
apart yet is simply due to the power of the advertiser’s product. And, more important and more insidious, we are being told
that if you don’t look good, you’re finished; your life is over.

If one more nubile twenty-five-year-old says, “I’m not going to age gracefully; I’m going to fight it all the way,” I think
I’ll scream.

“For the young and the young at heart.” I particularly hate that phrase; it’s as though
old
is a dirty word.

Okay, let’s get realistic. Aging does bring about many changes in our bodies. After menopause, a woman can have difficulty
lubricating properly. Men can have problems with getting and maintaining an erection, and that erection may not be as hard
as it once was. So what? We will get to specific problems and solutions later in this chapter, but it’s that awful mental
image of used-up, nonsexual people that I’m fighting first. You’re older, not dead yet. Let’s get together and stamp out pejorative
phrases like “dried-up,” referring in part to a lack of lubrication; “sexy senior,” as if that’s an oxymoron; and “dirty old
man,” as if it’s worse to have sexy thoughts when you’re older and supposed to be beyond that. Okay, I’ll get down off my
soapbox now.