It's been a good life and a satisfying marriage. Gemma and I enjoyed threesomes, foursomes, separate room swaps, solo nights away with new partners and massage practitioners who went further than planned (but no complaints).
But menopause and unexpected side effects from HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) brought on the belly fat that goes with andropause. One needs to stay aware of unintended consequences. A family trait of women losing height as they age compounds the problem as the waist compresses and that belly mushrooms more.
And yet she still turned me on, totally.
I feasted on looking at her just as I did the first time I saw her in the pool 45 years ago. And by that, I do mean turned on, with as good a hard-on as any virile 63-year-old gets. Plus she'll distract me from any plans I held, to now wanting to get her in the sack.
But relations had fallen into a schedule trap of 10:15 each Saturday morning. Only. Unless other conflicts get in the way. 10:15 when there would almost always be an interrupting telephone call at the worst possible time. No, it seems to unplug was not an option she would agree to.
Saturday breakfast was always the same; coffee and newspaper at 7:00, bacon & eggs with one piece of toast and a bit of fruit at 7:30. Debate the news content, complete the crossword and check emails. Then brush our teeth and head to the bedroom after 10:00...AM.
Fellatio had stopped 18 months ago, it had indeed become a rarity already with the need to suggest (ok, beg) for it. Fortunately, I really enjoyed, and that was what I was delighted to get down to after the five to eight minutes of kissing, then a varying amount of breast play. Finally, my finding the sweet joy that resided between her sometimes shaved legs.
Of late, any of my fingering seemed unwelcome, and it was up to my tongue to provide the entertainment. Usually about 18 minutes later Gemma would orgasm, or say she did, followed by four minutes of intercourse. On our sides. Longer was less fun, and she pointed to recent articles in The Guardian and in Medium as proof that longer just wasn't necessary for a woman to enjoy the act more. But, uhm, what about my joy?
Each night I'd raise my eyebrows in appreciation or lechery at seeing her naked body as she prepared for bed. Increasingly she was running down her appearance and attractiveness. Maybe I was a lousy judge. Perhaps my tastes were off.
Getting away with the boys for the annual golf game I realized that we'd been busy or had conflicts the previous three Saturdays, and had gone without sex. No longer did I get "send off" & "welcome home" from the trip sex. I mulled about this both during golf and in the first few days back.
Maybe she was right, and my viewpoint was off. Her age, weight, sore knee, sore wrist and grumpiness about life did add up to her...being past her LFD (Last Fuckable Day).
So I found other things to do each Saturday morning after the bacon & eggs, leaving before she was done the crossword puzzle.
A month later she challenged me as to where I went each Saturday morning, "was I getting carnal relations elsewhere?"
"No," I replied, "my golf games and who I played with are in the club record and easily reviewed as proof to my being good."
"Is there something wrong with me? Do you no longer find me desirable?" she asked.
Though I had anticipated this question for a month, replying was going to take a fair amount of tact and reassurance. I paused. No, froze is more like it.
"Gemma, I love you. Completely and even more so than in any of our days gone by. Please let me gather a few thoughts and don't say anything until I'm done. Nod your head if you agree".
She gave me a puzzled look and nodded slowly.
"We have done some amazing things together and stayed strong through some unusual sexual exploration."
She nodded.
"Life is about stages, and we are entering some final chapters. Sex has come to an end as you have reached your LFD."
My bad, a term she didn't know. Now I have to be blunt in explaining it to her.
"You know, like milk has a best before date, then it goes sour." was my abysmal choice of words as an explanation.
Her face dropped, and tears started, "Is that what you think of me now? An old, shrivelled cow?" She stormed off to her room and slammed the door.
Next morning I was down first and (unusual) made the coffee, I had hers waiting for her with the paper when she came to the table. She was in a good mood, the conversation was breezy and never went near last night's argument.
"I've got lunch plans, and I might not be back before dinner. Think of making something nice for us." She said. "Oh, and keep your cell phone charged and with you this afternoon." Dismissing me, she turned on her heel and went back to her room. Separate bedrooms three years earlier had been good for sleep but really hindered reconnecting when we would be mad at each other, like now. Or was she disappointed in me?
