Don’t Blame Darwin

Recently I was asked to contribute to an AARP article. The subject I was supposed to address with my “unique” blend of humor and sarcasm? HOW TO PLEASE AN OLDER MAN. (Apparently, my blog, singleat60sucks, has become the voice of sex after 60? Not that I’m not fine with it. My sons? Maybe not so much. But I figure it’s payback. After all, there was plenty they did in their teenage years I was less than happy about. Maybe it’s time for Mom to return the favor in her “golden” ones? Yeah, karma’s a bitch.)

So back to the question of how to please an “older” man . . . Here’s my response:  You’re kidding, right?! It’s a man. Young or old or in between, they ruminate, operate and culminate the same. Sex is one of only three “boxes” they have. (The other two? Sports and work.)  Moreover, the formula for male sexual success is a simple equation:  anticipation + sensation + stimulation = ejaculation.

Blame Darwin. I’m just the messenger. Caveman Ken didn’t have time for complexity—he had shit to kill. Moreover, evolution didn’t give him a lot of moving parts. Hence, it was in his “survival of the fittest/ top cock gets the top slot” world the male attitude/aptitude was born. Wam-bam and thank you, ma’am. (And here I’ll bet, you thought Hanna and Barbera gave Barney Rubble’s kid an onomatopoeic moniker because of a club? Sure they did.) All kidding and silly Stone Age cartoon references now aside, fast forward a few 100,000 years give or take. The primordial wiring remains. Age and Father Time have just lessened the warm and softened the bam. But the good ones (the smart ones) compensate with effort and technique, making up for the deficit in equipment. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should probably mention that the oldest man I’ve bammed is 53. So, on second thought, maybe I’m no expert on “older” men, after all?

But at 61, I’m pretty damn sure I qualify in regard to speaking on behalf of the female gender. So, the same question as to my sex . . . HOW TO PLEASE AN OLDER WOMAN? Be assured, AARP, she has an equation, too. Talk + tease + touch + time = take-off (or get off—tomato/tomahto) And you can still blame Darwin. Cavewoman Barbie needed to keep wam-bam Ken around because doing so equaled security and sustenance for her and her offspring—ergo survival. And the hard-wired primordial programming remains. Because evolution adjusted her parts accordingly. Unless Ken lingered and let a few other of his parts do his talking, she wasn’t listening (or getting off). Since the survival of the whole damn species was at risk, competitive/ever rise to the challenge Ken adapted. Kinda. With some men, it’s an ongoing learning curve.

But Mother Nature is no more kind than Father Time. The bitch! Our vaginal tissue thins and natural lubrication decreases.  Intercourse becomes not only uncomfortable but downright painful. And for many women, the interest then all but disappears. Emotional, psychological and other physical issues can also factor in. But the result is the same:  little to zero interest. And in a lot of women, the resultant belief sets in that it doesn’t even work anymore anyway. By the way (and no doubt TMI), I’ve never encountered or even heard of the same vanishing act occurring with the male of our species. In fact, some get pretty hard proof some mornings. I’m fairly certain it all has to do with the fact we run out of our allotted supply of eggs, while a man is able to seed life all of his life. Again, blame Darwin. Pulse + penis = desire. But for a lot of older women, disinterest + physical discomfort = desert. Trust me. I know.  Funny thing though . . . the drought ended when the marriage did.

But Mother Nature didn’t turn back any clocks—biological or otherwise. Nor did she do me any favors. It was my partner who did. Yep. Talk, tease, touch, technique and time . . .  So, ladies, take it from the voice of sex after sixty (and the mother of three mortified thirty-something-year-old sons). If you’re not feeling it, in this case, don’t blame Darwin. Blame him. You know . . . morning Woody—the guy who just rolled off ‘cause he got off?