Sex in My 50s Is Better Than Ever—But How Naked Do I Want to Be?

I’m writing this on the cusp of my 56^th birthday. Even though I know how lucky I am to be healthy, to be gainfully employed as my own boss, and to still be curious about what lies ahead (so much so that I picked up drumsticks about a year ago and joined a band), I’m currently at a loss regarding what is particularly sexy about turning 56. It just seems very…Golden Girls, except that according to television lore, Rue McClanahan was 52 when she portrayed the sex-crazed senior Blanche on the now classic-to-campy comedy. And believe me, except for perimenopause, I’d kill to be 52 again.

I’m also writing this as I try on an array of lingerie from my ample wardrobe of lacy bits, in advance of seeing M, eight years younger than me, my demon lover, my wild thing. The one I should probably stop seeing because our schedules rarely mesh, but…why? The sex makes me see stars. 

M is a panties aficionado, so I like to make sure he can unwrap me like a box of chocolates. He, by the way, couldn’t begin to give a shit about matching bras, or mesh bodysuits, or frilly baby dolls, or trashy crotchless panties from craptastic online sex shops. He has no interest in thongs from tiny Parisian ateliers on the Left Bank, where even one pair cost more than your average lunchtime Salade Niçoise—all of which I have scads, because, well, I love lingerie. Nope, M just wants basic lace panties—to take them off of me, and if I let him, keep for later so he can have his way with them. He probably has enough souvenirs to make a quilt by now, that beast. 

M and I have been together for almost three years and in that span, wowee, have I seen some pronounced changes in my body. Besides the aforementioned menopause, which finally “took” in December, giving me that oh-so-sexy lower belly pooch (and a chance to toss my razor because apparently, I’m no longer growing body hair), my body itself seems a little foreign to me all of a sudden. My arms and legs are still toned from boxing class, and gravity has spared my tits for the most part, but my torso? Soft. Soft like a Renaissance painting. And don’t get me started on my ass, which was juicy to begin with but now is…can a 56-year-old say thique?

But you know what? I love this body more than I’ve ever loved any younger version of it.

I used to think it was because of all the great sex I was having in my early 50s (I may have more in common with Rue McClanahan than I thought), after entering a polyamorous relationship. This arrangement included a primary partner, along with M, as well as a few playmates that my primary and I shared. I was bouncing back and forth between Astoria, Queens, where I kept a place with my primary, and my upstate New York house, energy pulsing up the yin-yang. 

I think all those luscious sex vibes kept me extra trim—maybe more fit than I had ever been, a really nice fringe benefit—and my already fairly decent body image was even more pronounced. Polyamory was FUN (and apparently all the rage—see me rolling my eyes, New York Magazine?) 

Skip ahead a few years: My primary partner and I split but M and I were still going strong, so we shifted our thing into a more-or-less monogamous routine that has captivated both of us ever since. The sex is off the charts, but then a funny thing happened. Actually, not so funny: M and I both gained weight. 

I chalked my extra 10 lbs to menopause drawing nearer and less zipping around NYC after I left the Astoria apartment and returned to my place in the Catskills full-time. No more daily three- or four-mile city street stomps, running for subways to Manhattan, dashing across the bridge to meet a pal in Brooklyn. Country life is full of beautiful hikes and forest bathing, but also plenty of sitting on my back porch—and my jeans were getting tight. 

One day, I found myself standing in front of the mirror before a date with M, rejecting one sexy ensemble after another until I just said, “fuck it.” I stopped pretending to suck it all in, got dressed, and met up with him for an afternoon in bed. We hadn’t seen each other for about two months, during which I had been, I’ll admit it, ramping up my morning walks and eating more goddamn salad. For naught, by the way: My jeans were still tight. 

The sex was still a showstopper. If M noticed that I had gone a bit softer in my belly he definitely didn’t say anything. And I noticed that he had gained weight. M loves to walk around naked, and I assure you, he is not sucking in a thing. He’s always been a teddy bear type but now he’s just a bear. And guess what? I couldn’t care less. He is as delectable as ever. In fact, the extra heft sort of turned me on. 

Ah men. Yes, they may be blissfully unaware that a half a pizza consumed at 2 a.m. will land squarely on their waistline (assuming they’re not carbo-loading for a marathon), but a ton of them will turn that self-deceptive blind eye on women who do the same with a distinctly critical glaze—and that’s just bullshit. 

Thankfully, none of this was happening with M and me. We were just aging and ripening (like cheese?) in real time and no one was stammering any nonsense like, “I’m getting back to the gym soon.” Our dates that have followed that pivotal day have been more of the same sizzling reality, as good as first blush. Maybe even hotter. How is that possible?

Then it dawned on me. The reason M’s eyes still linger on my body with hunger, the reason he still pines for me even while I lay in his bed, isn’t just about our sexual connection. It’s also about the fact that we desire and see each other with completely wild, unbridled acceptance, love handles and all. We’re both noting, and feeling, this tangible passage of time in and on each other’s bodies. 

M wears reading glasses now, sometimes pulling mine off of my face if his aren’t close by, no longer grimacing that they are too strong for him (take that, Youngster!). We both need to nap more in between lovemaking sessions and while we can still toe-to-toe, belly-to-belly match one another in our kink appetites, too weird a position and one of us tweaks our back, while the other of us is left with a sore knee. It’s laughable and real and that’s probably the real reason that I love this fifty-fucking-six-year-old body as much as I do. Because when I slink over to his place, to his bed, I am on top of my proverbial game; my hair is blowing back from my face like Beyoncé at the Super Bowl halftime show, my hips are swiveling like an ’80s supermodel, and I am READY to be worshiped by him, because I am goddamn Woman Hear Me Roar. 

And OK, let me return to my senses for a second. There are some distinctly planned ahead elements that make all of this heady deliciousness even more so. I’ve got the lighting dimmed just the way I like at my place and at his place, there are scarves draped over lampshades for that Stevie Nicks boudoir look that flatters everyone (my gravestone should read “She knew all about correct lighting”). I’d be lying if I told you this was not a planned move, that when we’re having sex and he’s on top, I sometimes push my forearms into my tits to keep them from rolling off to the side because perky or saggy, middle-aged tits like to travel and I like ‘em front and center. Or that when I settle in to bed for the night ahead of M, I drape the sheet over my naked body in a way that I know best shows off my very hourglass shaped hips, which always makes M growl with pleasure when he joins me under the covers.

Is this artifice? Maybe, but I think it’s just accepting yourself while knowing your best angles—and at nearly 56, I’ve done both of those things. It actually doesn’t matter, because the greatest thing about sex with men no matter what the age? They enjoy seeing naked women. The End. Years ago, I had a lover who told me that I reminded him of a young Raquel Welch. I am a lot of things, but no one has ever confused me with Raquel Welch. My girlfriends and I still laugh ourselves silly over that one, and if one of us is really talking shit, it’s fair game to shut down the conversation by saying, “OK, settle down, Raquel.”

Without theorizing about why my own mother never told me about reclaiming her body, her power, or her sexuality in the latter part of middle-age (the answer could be she didn’t feel that way, or maybe this was a conversation she wouldn’t have wanted to have with me, and she’s now long dead, so it’s literally a moot/mute point), I’m going to assume that the women I know and adore who are having great sex in these middle years are more in touch with what turns them on, that they take care of their bodies, and that they aren’t shy to ask for what pleases them in bed. I count myself among that posse. And I also think that some radical acceptance of the whole “what goes up, must come down” attitude is crucial, because I plan on having as much sex with M as humanly possible until we’re either in traction or in diapers. Even if I can’t button my jeans. 

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