Turn-ons and the Healthy Picker

Recently I’ve been reading stories about what qualities make relationships work. Compassion, loyalty, commitment, and persistence are frequently mentioned. But are these traits inherent or do they develop? Can you spot them early on?

My mom used to say people put more forethought into buying a car than choosing a life partner. They enter the dealership wanting the very best auto their money can buy. Yet they often settle on a cheaper model when choosing a mate. Put another way, their car picker was more finely tuned than their mate picker.

If we want as much satisfaction from whom we love as what we drive, perhaps we need to work on our “picker.”

Most sextysomethings have learned some things about our picker. Mine in younger years liked handsome, fit, athletic. Throw in ambition and a sharp brain, and I think my picker yelled “Jackpot!” I was 16 when I met Mr. Jack Pot, my hormones were raging, and when I married him at 21, my picker was proud to have found me the right biological mate to produce children and support a family.

Years passed and the marriage ended. I was in my early forties and thrust back into the dating world. Could I trust my old picker? It still let physical attraction rule. But I wasn’t the little girl bride of 22 years ago. A more mature, seasoned woman was hopefully in charge.

Slowly I learned to guide my picker. It responded, like a smooth transmission as it glides into gear. Looks were nice, my picker and I agreed, but so were kindness, self-knowledge, parenting experience, and generosity. Especially as age takes hold.

Eventually I decided that my old turn-ons were turn-offs: they offered fleeting excitement, were even dangerous to some extent. When a friend asked if I’d like to meet “a good guy” she knew who might be an interesting date, I asked her why she wasn’t interested.

“Oh, you know I like bad boys,” she said, under the dictatorship of her picker.

I grabbed the chance to meet him. He sounded exactly right for me, the second time around!

What qualities are must-haves for you in picking a partner? My #1 essential is a two-word answer which I’ll share with you after you reply to the SEXTYSOMETHING blog.

Fear of Intimacy

Is it possible that the fear of being intimate after years of single living hasn’t significantly changed for older women since 1925? Watching the latest episode of Downton Abbey on TV last week raises the possibility.

I sat transfixed as the ever proper Mr. Carson and the equally correct Mrs. Hughes address-or painfully try to-the issue of intimacy in their still to be set marriage. Neither can face each other as they negotiate Mr. Carson’s desire for a “normal” marriage that includes the full bonding of a husband and wife amidst Mrs. Hughes’ palpable fear of being so vulnerable and exposed in a sexual union in her later middle age. Their acting is exquisite as a true gentleman like Mr. Carson tries to establish the marital terms he desires with a sensitive yet firm clarity, and Mrs. Hughes struggles to find the courage to match his desire for a physically loving marriage. The scene ends triumphantly with a kiss, both poignant and decisive. I reached for a tissue to dab my wet eyes as the couple moved forward to a deeper happiness than their single lives had ever allowed.

The next day I took a long “walk and talk” with my sextysomething friend Rita, a petite widow with beautiful silver hair and startling blue eyes. She has been casually dating (translation: no sex) an older man who she says has much in common with her, but she doesn’t feel any chemistry. I ask her what chemistry should feel like in older age? Does she want to be swept off her feet? Feel her heart skip a beat? Feel old-style, unadulterated lust? She laughs the questions off. No, she says, but when we held hands I just felt… nothing. Rita’s adult daughter has been watching her mother put the brake on this potential relationship and boldly asked her if she’s afraid of intimacy. Rita answered maybe. My answer: “Of course she is. Just like Mrs. Hughes!” Few women who have aged out of their loveliest bodies and haven’t had sex in a long time wouldn’t be afraid. Today, or in 1925.

Sex for seniors remains a challenging act. Even when both parties want it. Men often have erectile dysfunction as they age, a given if they take certain medications that prevent erections. Viagra and other gifts of medical science work, but are not a guarantee for the sustaining and completing of the act of intercourse. Post-menopausal women may have tissue issues: dryness, a thinning of the vaginal walls, pain resulting from penetration. As the ability to have vigorous sex wanes, many sextysomething couples substitute a gentler intimacy-stroking, hugging, mutual massage, oral sex, or any form of creative touching that feels pleasurable and loving. One of the greatest benefits of orgasm from lovemaking is the release of oxytocin: the miracle attachment hormone that bonds both women and men to their lovers (and moms to their babies). The glue of oxytocin intensifies the love humans feel for each other. 

But what if you are a Sextysomething who hasn’t been dating and intimacy is now a glass of wine and a good book? What if your married best friend wants to fix you up TOMORROW with a great available guy she met at a party? Will you shake like Mrs. Hughes because deep down you are afraid to be seen -skin spots, sags, and scars-by a lover? Does being naked terrify you because you look your age without clothes?  I remember my funny divorced friend Sheila, a curly blonde saddled with cellulite, who swore her boyfriend never saw her nude. They had sex, she said, but she walked into a dark bedroom backward. 

Sadly, I believe it. Hopefully, sextysomethings are more straightforward.

Imagine you are Mrs. Hughes or Rita or Sheila. How does the thought of being naked-exposed-with a new man in your life make you feel? If you are an older man, how do you feel about being seen by a new lover?

 

 

Let’s talk about “What I learned from a male sex surrogate”

I put this article on FB. It’s gutsy, frank, and moving. Now let’s view it here for all us sextysomethings.

http://www.salon.com/2015/03/12/what_i_learned_from_a_male_sex_surrogate/

Did that headline grab you? It did me. Who secretly hasn’t wondered what it might be like:

• To have sex with an expert? 
• Whose job is to increase your pleasure capability both as giver and receiver? 
• Who teaches you what sex and intimacy can mean to you when you get beyond your scripted thinking?
• Who actually reports to your therapist so that a team you trust is working on your behalf?

It’s the perfect recipe to face the vulnerability and fear that stops so many people from enjoying their sexuality and sensuality. These are gifts that change as we age.

Think of sex as a red pillow in a sunroom. It stood out, dominated, fired up the room when first placed there. In time it faded; still lovely, but not popping. It is now more rose than red. Inviting and warm, it is less vivid a shade. And like the rose, there are some thorns: biological, physiological, and emotional changes that can stab at what used to flow or unfold (or maybe didn’t).

Maybe we need to reeducate ourselves when we are more rose than red. Passion that sizzled is now on a lower flame. Touch for ten minutes, as the surrogate did, is a sensual warm-up (suggestion: back scratches can melt you to butter. The spine has so many nerve endings responsive to different pressures). Hugs and kisses and pats feel so good. Whatever works, enjoy the sensation.

Solo? Don’t give up on yourself. Sex toys work wonders and are online. There are other feel-goodoptions. When I was single and without a lover, I took manicures, pedicures, massages all for the sake of touch. Less thrilling, for sure, but connecting and warming. 

What do you think, feel, relate to about this honest, bare-it-all article?  The author is a fearful warrior in search of a solution to better her life. Aren’t we all?

Working out

Key to the Sextysomething lifestyle is exercise, whether it’s a walk, weights, Zumba, or whatever moves your bones and booty. Creating a regimen that lifts your spirits is really what matters most. For me, endorphins are just as important a byproduct of working out as are burned calories.

For years I was a runner who loved to race. I’ve done marathons, half marathons, 10Ks, 5Ks and the mile. Several years ago I began to feel a pull in my groin while running. I also experienced a sense of spinal compression–as if I was getting shorter–as I pounded out the miles on my runs. Clearly something was wrong, and I enjoyed running less and less. I slowed my pace. Stopped racing. Yet doctors and physical therapists urged me to quit for good.

It was a tough habit to break, especially the social aspect of getting together with other runners to train and race. I realize now that I was hooked on the “high” of running, ignorant of other ways to feel as energized and empowered (to feel SEXTYSOMETHING) after working out. I also had to find a friendship-making substitute. It was as if my athletic plugs were frayed, and I needed new outlets.

Soon after on a weekend trip to Canyon Ranch in Lenox, Massachusetts I took a dance class that looked interesting. The schedule said something about a choreographed number by a former Broadway dancer that would make us all feel like stars. I showed up and about 7 women were learning steps to a Broadway tune taught by a lithe woman wearing a microphone and shouting commands for jazz step, jazz hands, touch step, chassez. It was wonderfully intimidating. It was also Friday, and this class was a rehearsal for a dance show that would be performed at 6 pm Saturday night. The following night, to be exact. In the midst of learning the proper way to place one leg on a stool while facing the audience, the teacher leaned in and asked me,”Want to be in the show? We have two more rehearsals before showtime. This weekend is “Gotta Dance” and I think you can dance.” The other dancers had a leg up on me time-wise, but they were all looking at me with encouraging eyes. Then the queen of the dancing crew yelled over, “Please, we need you.” How could I say no to Broadway?

I’ve been dancing at Canyon Ranch Gotta Dance ever since, twice a year. I also dance year-round in Zumba and in any other class that asks me to put my feet to a rhythm. I love dancing, I love sweating. Most of all, I love the elation I feel at the end of the workout. And being totally honest, twice a year I also love the applause our Gotta Dance troupe gets at the end of our three dance numbers. What a high. Not as heady as crossing the finish line at a marathon, but very, very satisfying.

What does your exercise regimen look like. How does it make you feel? SEXTYSOMETHING!

What Ray Charles gave me

Ray Charles taught me about sex when I was a young girl. As did other early rock ‘n rollers. Goodbye white-shoed Pat Boone. Hello sexy Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Sam Cooke and the unforgettable Jackie Wilson. Now these were singers who had moves AND moved me. My friends and I were dancing in our basements to a new beat in a new world. Turned on, there was no turning back. R ‘n R and R ‘n B records were my sex education classes. I can still feel the raw sensuality pumping out of my wooden hi-fi speakers and surging right through me. Yes, Ray taught me about sexual feeling… long before Marvin Gaye came along with sexual healing, but that’s another story.

That sensory memory brought me to Cleveland this week to the I. M. Pei-designed Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, an Egyptian pyramid-style structure sitting astride Lake Erie. Inside are rooms devoted to the artists, instruments, and costumes that define rock ‘n roll. Its historic roots are important in a nation struggling at that time to leave segregation behind. The black church, southern blues, jazz, bluegrass, rockabilly and urban street all converged in this heart-beating, foot-kicking sound, heavy on pelvic swivel, guitar and drum. Special booths allow you to see who influenced the artists: how Aretha took from Mahalia Jackson; Nat King Cole shaped the early Ray Charles. There were gowns by Bob Mackie worn by the Supremes and Michael Jackson’s rhinestone-flecked glove. Elvis slid down a fire pole while Paul Simon revealed he writes songs in his car.

The memories were there. Loud and forceful. I felt the shot of adrenaline I had hit the road for. Thanks, Ray, for teaching me that sex and music are one. Dancing is foreplay, and we never age out of our passion.

When you want to feel the essence of Sextysomething, youthful and playful, put on that old favorite record. Who is singing what song?

About the blogger:
Jill Berke is a sextysomething writer and counselor. For many years she headed Jill Berke WordWorks in New York City. She has been divorced, remarried, is a parent and grandparent. A former runner, she now walks, dances, and leads a strong fitness and wellness lifestyle. Write her at jillberke88.wordpress.com