An open relationship for a 70something woman in a SM
Oct 1, 2023 20:43:19 GMT -5
jim44444, northstarmom, and 3 more like this
Post by northstarmom on Oct 1, 2023 20:43:19 GMT -5
slate.com/human-interest/2023/10/what-an-open-relationship-means-when-youre-in-your-70s.html?cx_testId=2&cx_testVariant=cx_1&cx_artPos=1&cx_experienceId=EXTN1AT3F4AZ#cxrecs_s
From Slate Plus
"As my 78-year-old husband’s libido declined and then vanished with antidepressants and age, I spent five years alternating between anger and grief before asking him to open our marriage. We’d both been nonmonogamous back in the 1970s and we knew the risks: Most open relationships don’t survive, and neither did ours back then. But I assured him that I was not looking for a new partner, and that I was primarily seeking physical relief. I promised discretion and that I wouldn’t bring anyone home or stay out all night. Our life together would be unaltered. I would keep a firewall between my extramarital encounters and him. He could ask any questions he wanted and I would answer honestly, although I knew he was more likely to opt for “don’t ask, don’t tell.”
He agreed only because the logic of my request was unassailable. He knows better than anyone how much sex is a primal need for me, and he can no longer oblige. Our libidos have always been asynchronous—I was always ready and willing, while he could go weeks, sometimes months, without sex. He suffers from treatment-resistant major depression, and when the curtain descends, he retreats and becomes hard to reach. High doses of antidepressants prevent his condition from worsening, but they negatively affect his performance and produce an emotional flattening effect. Depression has been the unwelcome third party in our marriage, and it always will be.
Still, I’ve always found him sexy and desirable—and I still do. For most of our 24-year marriage, we kept our sex life alive, despite occasional derailments. It was mostly satisfying until it stopped suddenly and irreversibly five years ago, just after he turned 73. We were not just in the doldrums again; we had run aground.
He knew how distraught I was at his withdrawal. He asked me to be patient, and I was. He tried several forms of testosterone, none of which helped. Erectile dysfunction medications which had once provided a window for potential tumescence no longer worked without his interest or desire. And although we are both boomers—the generation that invented sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll—and had been enthusiastic partisans in the sexual revolution, my husband hasn’t expanded his view of sex much beyond insert Tab C into Slot V. For him, it was always fundamentally a point-and-shoot main course with foreplay appetizers. It worked for us for so long because I’m highly orgasmic and love him. But after five nearly sexless years, my patience had worn thin.
I felt hurt, undesirable, and anguished by the constant rejection. More than anything else, I was horny beyond belief. While sex toys helped, my situation felt so extreme that I wondered if I had a brain tumor or deranged hormones. I booked a visit with my gynecologist, who thankfully was sympathetic and open-minded, and took me seriously. She assured me that even if I was pumping out enough testosterone to grow a beard, she could offer no treatment. When I tearfully asked what was wrong with me and when I would stop feeling desire, she was aghast and asked, “You’d rather not feel anything?” She was right—sex has been a regular, vital part of my life since the age of 16, and at 70, I was not prepared to become celibate.
Thus began my quest to find a friend with benefits. I found a suitable site, created a profile, and uploaded a range of photos that were flattering, but not misleading. I fudged on my age a little and described myself as a 3G [good, giving, game] woman looking for an affectionate friend who would respect the boundaries I’d established—no overnights, no travel, and no hosting. I could be a friend, a lover, and a confidante, but couldn’t be a girlfriend.
Of course, I had some trepidation. Like many people, online dating was new to me. And I was well aware of how older people’s sexuality can be perceived. I had recently read a New York Times piece on “The Joys (and Challenges) of Sex After 70” and was appalled at the snarky comments—the “ick factor” is apparently high. Nobody wants to think about Iggy Pop’s crepey, sagging body in flagrante, or even Mick Jagger’s. And although social attitudes toward a range of sexual identities and practices seem to be more accepting, tolerance seems to stop altogether when it comes to older women. I figured I’d maybe get a few matches—if I was lucky.
I was dead wrong. While the prospect of casual sex is understandably appealing to many men, I was wholly unprepared for the hundreds of messages that flooded my inbox within the first 24 hours my profile was up. It was overwhelming—men in their 20s were suddenly after me, sending me messages that were hilarious, sometimes creepy, and occasionally perplexing.
What on earth did the studly and accomplished 6-foot-5 entrepreneur and lead singer in a metal band see in me that made him think I could be his domme? What about the ever-so-polite 22-year-old Southern boy who called me “ma’am” and told me he didn’t have mommy or mee-maw issues, but that I should use him like a vibrator by grasping his man bun and rubbing his tongue up and down between my legs?
I seemingly had the pick of the litter, but I was most excited to match with Luca, a nerdy middle-aged post-divorce dad. His fashion sense veered toward Kirkland, but he resembled Michelangelo’s David when he disrobed—it was impossible to keep my hands and mouth off him. We had a handful of protracted erotic encounters that rewired me in totally unexpected ways I still don’t fully comprehend, and he vastly expanded my capacity for pleasure. Sensuous and generous, Luca’s defining trait as a lover was compersion—deriving joy from another’s pleasure. He took delight in satisfying me for hours on end and I was thrilled to find the best sex of my life. I fell for him hard. But when he broke things off after finding a potential partner, it was an inevitability I expected. I felt a deep loss, but I doggedly resigned myself to once again finding another FWB.
The search proved elusive. Justin, 48, told me he was in a sexless marriage with his 57-year-old wife whose libido had vanished with menopause. He said he had always been attracted to older women because we are “less annoying,” know what’s important, and are supposedly more appreciative of sex and comfortable in our bodies. A lingerie devotee, he sent me photos of what he liked, and true to his word, they were all images of older women with short gray perms in demure poses wearing upscale white satin “granny panties,” full-coverage bras, and pearl necklaces—better to clutch in the heat of passion, I guess.
Greg, a sweet 33-year-old long-haul trucker, gratuitously declared his passion and dedication to me from his first message, telling me how much he liked my thighs and how he would make me happy with his youthful priapism. He’d had only a few lovers, but one of his first sexual experiences in his late 20s had been with a 66-year-old breast cancer survivor who’d had a mastectomy. He described three days of intense lovemaking with her and how he believed it was his sacred duty to bring her sexual pleasure again. I never met Greg and tried to disabuse him of the notion that we would ever be together, so I was amused and relieved when he texted to say he had found a 58-year-old woman to whom he was devoting his life.
I always came clean about my age within the first few exchanges, and to my astonishment, it did not deter a single would-be partner. Nevertheless, 20-year-olds were way too young for me, as were the thirtysomethings. To ascertain the youngest suitable age of a would-be partner, the rule of thumb is to halve your age and add seven years—in my case, age 43. With that in mind, I learned to be more selective about who I responded to and automatically disqualified anyone younger.
But when I focused on a more age-appropriate demographic, I found a lot of sadness and desperation among men in their 50s and 60s, some of whose life experiences were painful and left deep scars. I met twice with 58-year-old Jack, but we never progressed beyond vague hypothetical discussions about getting together in the future. He’d survived cancer in his 30s, and after dozens of rounds of chemo, had beaten it, but not without long-lasting aftereffects. When he was a year into remission, his wife was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and they spent most of their 30s and 40s raising two small kids and battling cancer. She died in his arms, and it was apparent from the urgent and obsessive way he told his story that the trauma was still fresh.
Another guy, way outside my geographic range, pleaded with me on the app to give him a chance. He was a “hero” firefighter. He had saved lives. He hadn’t had a relationship in years. He loved animals and trained dogs. His begging was a huge turnoff, as were his dour, unsmiling profile pics. I eventually had to block him when he continued to pester me after I declined clearly and unequivocally several times.
He was illustrative of several men who reached out to me, married and single, whose horniness was eclipsed only by their neediness. Men in sexless marriages with poor or little communication but who were stuck because of children, finances, or inertia were numerous. Others were single and felt they had lost their chance at love and despaired of ever finding it again. The sheer amount of alienation, sadness, and not-so-silent desperation was a sobering reminder of why suicide rates are highest in middle-aged men. It really is hard out there for them sometimes.
But, there was a bright spot: After a series of unsuitable candidates, I was relieved to find 55-year-old attorney Nick, who eventually turned out to be exactly the sort of friend I sought. After a few conversations, he initially told me he wanted to concentrate on finding a partner, and wasn’t interested in a FWB situation, but was definitely interested in being my friend. We forged a relationship by exchanging lengthy emails with each other for about three months. When we finally met for breakfast at a nearby diner, he was as charming and intelligent in person as he was in writing. As I hugged him goodbye, I couldn’t help but notice how good his body felt—strong and athletic—and how well we matched physically. But I put those thoughts aside and contented myself with having made a new friend. I was more than a little pleasantly surprised when I got an email thanking me for meeting him and expressing how glad he was that we were becoming friends, but that if I ever wanted to explore “benefits,” he would, too.
We met the following week and spent several hours walking nearby trails, talking and trading anecdotes from our lives. He described himself as a “50 Shades of Vanilla” lover, and later that week, I went to his house “for lunch” to find out for myself. Self-deprecating to an almost pathological degree, Nick is a great lover, with all the right moves at all the right times and astounding stamina. We’ve continued to meet for weekly lunch dates, and I’m hopeful we will continue for as long as it is right for us."
From Slate Plus
"As my 78-year-old husband’s libido declined and then vanished with antidepressants and age, I spent five years alternating between anger and grief before asking him to open our marriage. We’d both been nonmonogamous back in the 1970s and we knew the risks: Most open relationships don’t survive, and neither did ours back then. But I assured him that I was not looking for a new partner, and that I was primarily seeking physical relief. I promised discretion and that I wouldn’t bring anyone home or stay out all night. Our life together would be unaltered. I would keep a firewall between my extramarital encounters and him. He could ask any questions he wanted and I would answer honestly, although I knew he was more likely to opt for “don’t ask, don’t tell.”
He agreed only because the logic of my request was unassailable. He knows better than anyone how much sex is a primal need for me, and he can no longer oblige. Our libidos have always been asynchronous—I was always ready and willing, while he could go weeks, sometimes months, without sex. He suffers from treatment-resistant major depression, and when the curtain descends, he retreats and becomes hard to reach. High doses of antidepressants prevent his condition from worsening, but they negatively affect his performance and produce an emotional flattening effect. Depression has been the unwelcome third party in our marriage, and it always will be.
Still, I’ve always found him sexy and desirable—and I still do. For most of our 24-year marriage, we kept our sex life alive, despite occasional derailments. It was mostly satisfying until it stopped suddenly and irreversibly five years ago, just after he turned 73. We were not just in the doldrums again; we had run aground.
He knew how distraught I was at his withdrawal. He asked me to be patient, and I was. He tried several forms of testosterone, none of which helped. Erectile dysfunction medications which had once provided a window for potential tumescence no longer worked without his interest or desire. And although we are both boomers—the generation that invented sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll—and had been enthusiastic partisans in the sexual revolution, my husband hasn’t expanded his view of sex much beyond insert Tab C into Slot V. For him, it was always fundamentally a point-and-shoot main course with foreplay appetizers. It worked for us for so long because I’m highly orgasmic and love him. But after five nearly sexless years, my patience had worn thin.
I felt hurt, undesirable, and anguished by the constant rejection. More than anything else, I was horny beyond belief. While sex toys helped, my situation felt so extreme that I wondered if I had a brain tumor or deranged hormones. I booked a visit with my gynecologist, who thankfully was sympathetic and open-minded, and took me seriously. She assured me that even if I was pumping out enough testosterone to grow a beard, she could offer no treatment. When I tearfully asked what was wrong with me and when I would stop feeling desire, she was aghast and asked, “You’d rather not feel anything?” She was right—sex has been a regular, vital part of my life since the age of 16, and at 70, I was not prepared to become celibate.
Thus began my quest to find a friend with benefits. I found a suitable site, created a profile, and uploaded a range of photos that were flattering, but not misleading. I fudged on my age a little and described myself as a 3G [good, giving, game] woman looking for an affectionate friend who would respect the boundaries I’d established—no overnights, no travel, and no hosting. I could be a friend, a lover, and a confidante, but couldn’t be a girlfriend.
Of course, I had some trepidation. Like many people, online dating was new to me. And I was well aware of how older people’s sexuality can be perceived. I had recently read a New York Times piece on “The Joys (and Challenges) of Sex After 70” and was appalled at the snarky comments—the “ick factor” is apparently high. Nobody wants to think about Iggy Pop’s crepey, sagging body in flagrante, or even Mick Jagger’s. And although social attitudes toward a range of sexual identities and practices seem to be more accepting, tolerance seems to stop altogether when it comes to older women. I figured I’d maybe get a few matches—if I was lucky.
I was dead wrong. While the prospect of casual sex is understandably appealing to many men, I was wholly unprepared for the hundreds of messages that flooded my inbox within the first 24 hours my profile was up. It was overwhelming—men in their 20s were suddenly after me, sending me messages that were hilarious, sometimes creepy, and occasionally perplexing.
What on earth did the studly and accomplished 6-foot-5 entrepreneur and lead singer in a metal band see in me that made him think I could be his domme? What about the ever-so-polite 22-year-old Southern boy who called me “ma’am” and told me he didn’t have mommy or mee-maw issues, but that I should use him like a vibrator by grasping his man bun and rubbing his tongue up and down between my legs?
I seemingly had the pick of the litter, but I was most excited to match with Luca, a nerdy middle-aged post-divorce dad. His fashion sense veered toward Kirkland, but he resembled Michelangelo’s David when he disrobed—it was impossible to keep my hands and mouth off him. We had a handful of protracted erotic encounters that rewired me in totally unexpected ways I still don’t fully comprehend, and he vastly expanded my capacity for pleasure. Sensuous and generous, Luca’s defining trait as a lover was compersion—deriving joy from another’s pleasure. He took delight in satisfying me for hours on end and I was thrilled to find the best sex of my life. I fell for him hard. But when he broke things off after finding a potential partner, it was an inevitability I expected. I felt a deep loss, but I doggedly resigned myself to once again finding another FWB.
The search proved elusive. Justin, 48, told me he was in a sexless marriage with his 57-year-old wife whose libido had vanished with menopause. He said he had always been attracted to older women because we are “less annoying,” know what’s important, and are supposedly more appreciative of sex and comfortable in our bodies. A lingerie devotee, he sent me photos of what he liked, and true to his word, they were all images of older women with short gray perms in demure poses wearing upscale white satin “granny panties,” full-coverage bras, and pearl necklaces—better to clutch in the heat of passion, I guess.
Greg, a sweet 33-year-old long-haul trucker, gratuitously declared his passion and dedication to me from his first message, telling me how much he liked my thighs and how he would make me happy with his youthful priapism. He’d had only a few lovers, but one of his first sexual experiences in his late 20s had been with a 66-year-old breast cancer survivor who’d had a mastectomy. He described three days of intense lovemaking with her and how he believed it was his sacred duty to bring her sexual pleasure again. I never met Greg and tried to disabuse him of the notion that we would ever be together, so I was amused and relieved when he texted to say he had found a 58-year-old woman to whom he was devoting his life.
I always came clean about my age within the first few exchanges, and to my astonishment, it did not deter a single would-be partner. Nevertheless, 20-year-olds were way too young for me, as were the thirtysomethings. To ascertain the youngest suitable age of a would-be partner, the rule of thumb is to halve your age and add seven years—in my case, age 43. With that in mind, I learned to be more selective about who I responded to and automatically disqualified anyone younger.
But when I focused on a more age-appropriate demographic, I found a lot of sadness and desperation among men in their 50s and 60s, some of whose life experiences were painful and left deep scars. I met twice with 58-year-old Jack, but we never progressed beyond vague hypothetical discussions about getting together in the future. He’d survived cancer in his 30s, and after dozens of rounds of chemo, had beaten it, but not without long-lasting aftereffects. When he was a year into remission, his wife was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and they spent most of their 30s and 40s raising two small kids and battling cancer. She died in his arms, and it was apparent from the urgent and obsessive way he told his story that the trauma was still fresh.
Another guy, way outside my geographic range, pleaded with me on the app to give him a chance. He was a “hero” firefighter. He had saved lives. He hadn’t had a relationship in years. He loved animals and trained dogs. His begging was a huge turnoff, as were his dour, unsmiling profile pics. I eventually had to block him when he continued to pester me after I declined clearly and unequivocally several times.
He was illustrative of several men who reached out to me, married and single, whose horniness was eclipsed only by their neediness. Men in sexless marriages with poor or little communication but who were stuck because of children, finances, or inertia were numerous. Others were single and felt they had lost their chance at love and despaired of ever finding it again. The sheer amount of alienation, sadness, and not-so-silent desperation was a sobering reminder of why suicide rates are highest in middle-aged men. It really is hard out there for them sometimes.
But, there was a bright spot: After a series of unsuitable candidates, I was relieved to find 55-year-old attorney Nick, who eventually turned out to be exactly the sort of friend I sought. After a few conversations, he initially told me he wanted to concentrate on finding a partner, and wasn’t interested in a FWB situation, but was definitely interested in being my friend. We forged a relationship by exchanging lengthy emails with each other for about three months. When we finally met for breakfast at a nearby diner, he was as charming and intelligent in person as he was in writing. As I hugged him goodbye, I couldn’t help but notice how good his body felt—strong and athletic—and how well we matched physically. But I put those thoughts aside and contented myself with having made a new friend. I was more than a little pleasantly surprised when I got an email thanking me for meeting him and expressing how glad he was that we were becoming friends, but that if I ever wanted to explore “benefits,” he would, too.
We met the following week and spent several hours walking nearby trails, talking and trading anecdotes from our lives. He described himself as a “50 Shades of Vanilla” lover, and later that week, I went to his house “for lunch” to find out for myself. Self-deprecating to an almost pathological degree, Nick is a great lover, with all the right moves at all the right times and astounding stamina. We’ve continued to meet for weekly lunch dates, and I’m hopeful we will continue for as long as it is right for us."
