In my daily life, and with my best readers, this odd development has become old news. So, here I am, daring to go public, confessing to my new not young sexy life. Turning sixty, beyond menopause, and ten years past the hysterectomy, I’ve been bewildered to find my hormones screaming like teenagers at a rock concert. The noise began slowly, in dreams, a couple years ago. After much cacophony, I’m sorting the sounds, and I’m finally getting the hang of the songs that I’m dancing to.
After the dreams, my awakening libido came out through my writing, during the final (so far!) draft of Rain Shine Secrets, which I usually refer to as “the Alzheimer novel,” but sometimes also call “my marriage novel.” The married characters required a sexual relationship, and being the complicated people they are, their sexual thoughts, feelings, and histories were equally complex. It took all my courage to put the body parts, and all the touching, kissing, screwing, hitting, screaming, crying, hugging, fucking love in that novel. But I wrote it all, and at the same time, it wrote itself on me.
There’s been an overflow into my private non-fiction life, although, even there, the line between truth and fiction is negligee thin. I remain happy as a single person; that’s always been my best lifestyle, and yet I’ve fallen into a few hopeless lusts. The best example is probably the ill-fated Robin Williams thrill that I confessed to a few blogs back. Also, I had an afternoon of pure physical breathlessness (which evaporated within hours) during a business meeting with a man whom I expected to be paunchy and dull, who turned out to be movie-star hunky, charming, and married. Also, I lived through some obsessive weeks of imagining becoming more than friends with a guy who was slightly less than a friend, and geographically impossible, but emotionally, politically, physically compatible, or so I imagined. Big and scruffy, “my type.” That’s the kind of lust that makes a woman buy new linens. That song inevitably faded into the distance. Oh, and then I had a crush on a man I never met, except electronically. Brilliant word games crept deep into my brain, lighting fires to wild thoughts, spawning sexy stories, until eventually that fever broke too. It’s been a great adventure, with more to come.
One recent night, on a long drive, I played a Harry Chapin CD I’d gotten at some garage sale. I didn’t know some of the songs, which was strange since Harry’s music* has been my music for forty years. The last song** wound around for fourteen minutes, blending new stories and familiar tunes, deeply personal, tackling death, art, and selling-out. Harry’s dear voice, powerful, dramatic, tenderly true. When it was over, I felt a long-lost luscious limb-tingling, a sudden physical joy, like an uncourted karmic orgasm, like a good man had just made love to me. Darling Harry! thank you! Being this lusty, and alive to it, is fucking fantastic!
**CD: The Gold Medal Collection, Disk One, There Only Was One Choice – 14 min. Follows Harry talking about Pete Seeger.