Sex and the Little Old Single Lady.

At 80 years old, why have I talked myself out of sex?

If you believe the statistics, it’s the oldsters who are getting it on. In a report by Allison Pareto of Athena Insight sexy seniors account for the highest increase of sexually transmitted diseases. You’d think someone would have told them about condoms by now. But safe sex aside, happy to know my peeps are keeping it real in the bedroom.

Just one thing before you go? What do I look like, chopped liver? Have all the eligible men my age mistaken my baggy old gym clothes for a nun’s habit?

I do my best to give every old geezer not on life support the eye should I pass one of the rare species in Whole Foods or sitting near me on BART. But either I catch them when they have a twitch and they’re looking away, or they must think I do and quickly change seats.

I have to confess, though, I might make my advances when the object of my attention has taken off his glasses or is checking the battery in his hearing aid.

Truth be told, my attempts to attract a member of the opposite sex is half-hearted at best.

But not because deep in my heart of hearts, I’m not wanting. But wanting what exactly, I can’t quite decide.

My indecision or perhaps confusion about my carnal desires is shot through with the complexity of aging.

I had open heart surgery coming up on seven years ago at seventy-two. At the time I’d been newly divorced, and my focus was on financial affairs not romantic affairs.

After the surgery, it was months before I could sneeze without fear of tearing my new heart valve apart. Sex was the last thing on my mind. But since then, my doc keeps praising me for my strong, healthy heart thanks to exercising and good genes. So I can’t blame my sexual hibernation on attacks of the vapors or an invalid status.

Five weeks after the surgery, I began a new career of publishing ebooks because, heart surgery be damned, I needed to support myself.

Writing was what I knew. Now, a month before turning eighty, I’m about to finish my 50th title, the third in a supernatural suspense series. My favorite yet. In addition, I have a stable of editing clients.

So my fingers haven’t exactly been idle, though lately, my thoughts are a bit devilish.

I’m justified in blaming my dwindling social life on lack of time I suppose. Yet, truth be told, I’ve always been a busy girl, and it never stopped me when I was younger. So what’s up now?

Perhaps I should blame my prolific client who sends me her toe-tingling steamy romance novels to edit. If anything could send my mind reeling in the direction of the boudoir, it would be her lush, explicit exploration of all manner of indulgent sex, at least in her books. But when I’m editing, I keep my head down to make sure the participants have taken their clothes off before the excitement begins.

You can’t imagine how many writers forget to undress their lovers before they turn them on.

And then dress them before the characters run out for some last minute items for dinner following their afternoon delight. Don’t want them choosing salad greens and the kiddies’ cereal in the altogether because the ghostwriter neglected to stick them back into their tight jeans, revealing t-shirt, and sexy boots.

However, after a few hours of scrutinizing the grammar for split infinitives and dangling modifiers, I’m so over the sex.

But in my real life too? Is that why I hide out in my kitchen and work all day at my computer? And tell myself I’m done with the chase and the capture, with men, relationships, and anything that comes after?

Something tells me I’m suffering from my ten-year itch. My love life has had a somewhat checkered past. I grew up wanting nothing more than a husband and a family. Which I had for a while until after seven years of marriage, I didn’t. Then came lots of dating. But as I look back, I seemed to have had spurts of dating and then these ten-year hiatuses. The last one had me dabbling on Match.com that ended in the divorce courts ten years ago.

So here I am again. Sex raising its ugly head

as my late friend and daughter’s beloved Uncle Dougie wrote on a funny cartoon back in our flaming youth.

We were both married, me to well, I’ve told you, and Doug to my best friend. Nobody talked about sex back in the fifties and sixties. We didn’t even know people who lived as long as I have. Those beloved three are gone, and now I’m left tapping my fingers on the keyboard, living my life. Wondering what’s next now that yes, Doug, sex has raised its ugly head again.

I seem to have it on the brain lately, where it’s been dormant since my heart surgery.

My fear of hurting myself in any way lasted for a good while after I recovered. Since I didn’t have a partner, sex wasn’t an issue anyway. But I know I made a conscious decision, realization, moment of acceptance … not sure what to call it, that sex was over for me. I was too old, I’d lost my shot.

Plus, I’ve noticed an alarming trend among some single women my age to diss the idea of senior romance. When I’ve brought it up, their faces contort into all kinds of disapproval. I cringe briefly at the foolishness of the idea. Why get involved with someone who might die of a heart attack on you? Or, is it a touch of shame I feel for a buried longing, a belief that life is for living?

Because that’s what I get from the 90-something couples with matching walkers I see in my doctor’s office who kiss and bill and coo while they wait for their appointment. The lovebirds older than I am holding hands walking past my apartment. And my mother. My own mother finding romance in her senior living complex in her 80s! And yet something in me hesitates. Pulls back. Is it a voice that says it isn’t seemly? Not really.

You see, I’m a taker when it comes to love. I’ll take what’s offered. If a delicious man came along and said let’s go play. If he ticked all the boxes for me, for sure I’d say yes. No question. Come on, big guy. Try me.

But where do I find a likely prospect? I don’t see any eligible bachelors hanging out around my workspace in the kitchen, which is where I spend most of my time. Do I go out onto the street and sidle up to the next guy my age who walks past me and say in my best Mae West leer, “Wanna come up to my place?” He’d probably hit me with his cane, or jab me with mine.

I’m not good at the come on, I never have been. Shyness, introverted personality that most would not believe if you saw me yucking it up at a party. But put me in a position to make the first move with an attractive man and I’m the crab my astrology sign says I am. I retreat into my shell. I don’t have the social outlets I did in my younger days.

So I enjoy my solitary life and live vicariously through the books I edit. But they say if you want something badly enough, you’ll go after it. And that’s been true for me.

But do I even want sex now? Or do I want companionship, a good laugh with a sweet man, affection, some intellectual compatibility?

Am I willing to take things to the next level with some nice man, assuming my arthritic body could haul itself up to that level?

I took a chance on upending my cozy life ten years ago, and the dust has barely settled. Same thing happened ten years before that. And on back into my history. Leave well enough alone you’d probably say.

Yeah, you might be right. But do I really want to say on the way to my funeral … Oh shit, I forgot to have sex?