Member-only story
I’m 80 and I fantasize about sex. Deal with it.
The only people who’ll be shocked by that headline are the young, smug jerkoffs who think they invented sex. The kind of young, smug jerkoff I was when I lived with my older brother and sister-in-law in 1957 in San Mateo, California. I was a virginal eighteen and my brother, sixteen years older, had invited me to come and live with him and his family and go to junior college, back when California was still the Golden State. Back when he’d given me a ticket out of the Bronx and straight to heaven.
I used to wonder why thirty-somethings cared about sex. They were so old.
My SIL subscribed to The Ladies Home Journal, and one day I read a column entitled Can This Marriage Be Saved. It seemed the thirty-something wife and husband had some issues with their sex life. As I read of their bedroom travails, I became acutely embarrassed for them. Perverts, I assumed. Why else would old people be interested in sex? That was the purview of teenagers like myself who were being plagued nightly by horny guys to go all the way.
My doctor asked me why I needed birth control since I wasn’t married any more.
When I was in my thirties, I tried to get birth control as I embarked on my new independence as a…
