Happened to watch the better part of the super bowl with an 81-year-old woman named Virginia.
Former professor at Georgetown University, now living bicoastal between Manhattan Beach and New York.
Previously had her own practice as a Psychologist, having counseled many women in her years and a mother to two.
She currently has a 69-year-old boyfriend with whom she still has sex. “He’ll walk around with an erection,” she quipped, “but his problem is he’s a Baptist, and I’m Buddhist, and he’s got custody of his daughters two kids, six and eight years old.”
I was surprised to hear her having sex at 81! I mean who knew? And she said that after so many years being married she didn’t think she would have those desires, at least not for sex, certainly though the cuddling. And that I can get. I loved cuddling with my beau. My head on his hairy chest, listening to his heart beat, his right arm around my back, pulling me close, naked, our legs intertwined, he has a habit of touching my feet with his. It’s my favorite place. Other than his face between my legs 🙂 but seriously. I love that place. The Nook is what I call it. I love to be there, it’s my happy place.
I shared with Virginia how he’s pulled away from me in the past few months. She said that must kill you. It did. For two weeks I didn’t eat. I subsisted off of Peach Bellinis and Protein Shakes. I was an absent minded vacant mother and employee, quick to burst into tears if anyone dared to ask me a simple, “How are you?”
I was gutted. Eviscerated. I could t believe it was over. That the last time was the last time. But it wasn’t over. We have still been intimate. And I wonder, why did I put myself (and all those around me), through so much drama? And why did he do that to me? Or did I do it to myself?