This
month I turn sexty-nine.
That
was intentionally misspelled to catch your attention. When they see the word “sex”, many people (even those with
no patience to read), sit up and take notice. Of course, because, face it, sex is yummylicious! But even if you’ve stopped being awed
by the promise of multiple orgasms in seven seconds, you just might want to
read on—at least, you’ll feel good to know this sexty-niner understands you.
When
I was 29—a super active rah-rah-rah, sex-boom-bah age, I must say—a younger
wife among my husband’s colleagues sighed, “You are such a perfect, sexy
couple! Sana ganyan din kami ng husband
ko hanggang mamatay kami! (I wish me and my husband could be like you until
we die)!” Observing my hubby and
me together, and hearing about our fun attitude towards sex—for example, we
would check in at motels on impulse to enjoy those mirrored ceilings—she
rightly concluded that we were a “perfect, sexy couple”. We indeed were a perfect sexy couple, vucking lucky our bodies were built with
equal sensitivity, libido, and precision timing. Never had a problem getting aroused or coming. I couldn’t ask for more; in fact, that
early I was already acting as de facto
sex counselor to wives with sex problems, like that 50ish mother of four who
confessed to me she had never had an orgasm, and who also called her husband a
brute because he would grab her by the hair and force her to do fellatio.
Thus,
I took the young wife’s words “I wish we could be like you forever!” as a
compliment, not even suspecting that one day I’d be telling myself: “Sex is
great, but I don’t want to be having sex until I’m 92!” But that was exactly what I told her
when she was in her mid-40s, widowed and disabled by gout.
So,
now that I’m already a seasoned sexagenarian, a grandmother, and virtually
single, I believe I have earned the privilege to laugh at sex. Because the sex act is so funny! Even when I was still having fun with
sex, I would already find sex funny, too.
Nothing could be more ridiculously funny that two humans humping and
pumping away to frenzy, like hairless apes. Watching porn movies I would cluck my tongue, the performers
reminding me of the orangutans in a zoo.
Interviewing
a zoo keeper long ago I learned that they had a pair of orangutans (named Josie
and Diego) who were of mating age but didn’t seem interested at all to
mate. Diego would masturbate by
sticking his thing into a faucet, not knowing Josie had the real thing. The zoo officials followed the advice
of foreign experts and soon Josie and Diego got a baby. How? They kept showing pornographic movies to the orangutans,
until they learned by imitation and nature took over.
If
you’ve ever watched documentaries of animals mating you’d see that essentially
there is no difference between humans and animal species in the sex game. There is courtship, foreplay, the
frenzied connection, the resulting offspring—except that sometimes the animals
are better parents than the humans, with their parental instinct to protect and
rear their young kept intact and healthy by nature, untouched by a
contraceptive mentality. Realizing
that humans are basically animals is both humbling and elating, and a blessing
particularly to women who, after years of an active sex life, enjoyable or not,
suddenly wake up one morning asking themselves “Is there life after sex?”
We
have differing ways of dealing with life’s many turns, turns that are sometimes
not to our liking, and if we are too lazy to use our power to think for
ourselves we end up following the herd—which will most likely say it is a human
right to have a sizzling sex life until our dying day. The herd, of course, overrates sex as a
way to human fulfillment, and propagates the idea of sex-for-pleasure with
advice that will keep women believing they can be goddesses if they are forever
sexy.
So
herd followers bombard you with unsolicited advice to make you “do something”
about your sagging breasts, eye bags, wrinkles and cellulites, and nudge you to
hate yourself because you don’t look 20 in your Senior Citizen ID card. They will offer you hundreds of tips to
stay sexy despite the years, to revitalize a waning sex life, to satisfy your
man: “try new positions and techniques… order oysters for dinner… undress and
make love to him when he’s about to leave for work… read porn to keep your
libido up… don’t be afraid to give him Viagra…”. In short, the herd would want you to be sex-obsessed to the
point of forgetting you are way much more than what your eyes can see.
I chose not to follow that path. I have since Day One Of Discovering I
Have A Brain been consulting that brain so that even when I sincerely followed
my heart in the best and worst of times I never forgot that my anatomy also
included a brain, which, by the way, is the most vital sex organ in the whole
of creation. Thus, I have
discovered a marvelous world that taught me sex beyond the realm of the birds
and the bees and orangutans and porn.
The knowledge should be an adventure to all, not only to women born with
a vagina, though most receptive to this must be the women who have found
themselves in the crossroads of “to sex or not to sex”. Whether she has lost her partner to
real death, to death by boredom, to a needier woman, or to a late-blooming gay kumpadre, if she’s bold enough to try
the untried she can still find sex in the oddest of places. But it will not be sex as she knew
it. And to hear me on this very
special adventure you’ll have to pay—but not “pay” as you know it. J
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