Part 2…(Libido boosters)


“Libido Steel…make you…” he finishes by gesturing with his groin moving in that humping motion.

Holy crap. This guy suddenly looks like he’s ready to go right then and there. I immediately scan his crotch in search of a spontaneous boner, my bad,  but it’s as flat as a pancake.

“You’re sure I’m gonna wanna…” I finish by gesturing the same humping motion because, at this point, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose here.

His eyebrows go up and down as though he’s trying to dislodge something from his forehead and he grins at me.  He sets the bottle into my sweaty palm and I wrap my fingers around it like it’s some kind of treasure.

But wait, out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand reaching towards my right breast.


Did this mean I still had it? Did he get all worked up by my push, push, groin thrust? Was I hot to him? Were my girls turning him on?


I instantly react with the speed of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. I intercept his approaching paw with my best jiu-jitsu move and my do-jo cry–Keyah. I give him the evil eye!

He steps back and rubs his wrist. As close as we’re standing I can see a red welt rise where I’d just smacked him.

He stands there in complete shock, complete disbelief! His eyes fill with fear.

He takes two more steps back from me then raises his shaking hand and points at my right breast.

I look down and see there is a rather large ball of white thread sticking to my black sweater. It probably came loose from the coat I’d been wearing earlier.

“You got shit on your shirt lady,” he says in his defense.

“OMG…I’m so sorry!” I say as I pull the straggler off and toss it to the ground.

“Maybe you need hormone too bitch…help brain relax,” he says making his move towards the cash register.

I’m thinking this guy must be fucking telepathic because I had run out of estrogen. I’d been out of it, and out of my mind, for nearly a week because I’d forgotten to order it.

I try to hand him my credit card.

“No lady, you set card on counter, I pick up myself.”

I try to gather what’s left of my brain and defend my action but the second I try to speak his shushes me.

“You pay me, get out,” he hisses at me.  “You no come back.”

He rips my card a new asshole through his machine and tosses it back on the counter, then sets the sales slip down so I can sign it. As I reach for the pen he steps back as though he knows what my arm span is.

“Can I have a bag?”


“Okie dokey then.”

I hang my head in embarrassment and do as I’m told. As I head towards my car I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I know he’s watching through the slats of the window blinds to make sure I’m really leaving and I’m pretty sure I hear the clank of a lock being engaged.

But then I thought to myself, who cares, I’m about to get my horny on. I’m about to get my mojo back. I’m going to be that sex machine I once was. The boner goddess. The MILF! I may actually find that spontaneous orgasm. Whehaw!!!!!

I get in my car and nearly have to pry my fingers off the bottle so I can read the label.

I look at the main ingredient and burst out laughing.

‘Horny Goat Weed.’

It’s then I realize I probably could have just as easily gone to the local feed store to get this shit.

No one’s home when I get there so I crack the bottle, tip it towards the light so I can inspect the pills inside.


Was I supposed to swallow these things or were the suppositories? I have panic attacks when I have to take those little Advil tablets, how was I possibly going to manage these? I look at the label and read the instructions.

Take one daily for maintenance and up to four two hours before sexual activity. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow.

OMG! Now I was going to have to get anxiety medicine just to be able to swallow these suckers.

But I was on a mission. I’d just have to bite the bullet, literally, and down these horny goat weed suckers any way I could.

Flash forward one week.

I wasn’t feeling the sex thing yet but one thing I did notice immediately was that whenever I was driving, my attention kept wandering towards the long tall grass that runs parallel to the freeway. I’d start to feel hunger pangs followed shortly thereafter by the urge to pull over and graze.

I even started noticing barn yard animals in the most odd places. In Los Angeles proper it’s pretty rare to see anything other than a cat or dog.

I found myself wanting to visit a friend of mine’s ranch up in the Santa Monica mountains because I’d recently attended a woman’s horse retreat there and had a vague recollection of a very handsome billy goat wandering about.

I started answering questions and responding to statements in an odd way.

My son came bursting through the door after school one day so he could tell me a joke he’d heard that day. It was one of those really sick jokes if you know what I mean.

All I could say was “Eweeeeeeeeee,” followed shortly by a few “Bah, bah, bah’s” as his warped humor wrapped around my brain.

I’d catch myself late at night staring down at my front lawn from my bedroom balcony.

I ordered every version of “Grazin In The Grass Is A Gas” from iTunes.

One day my husband came home and I was laying face down in the tall cool green grass.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Mowing the lawn,” I said.

“Why is your hand down your pants?”

“I got an itch.” I respond.

What? Wait a minute!

Maybe it was starting to happen. Maybe it wasn’t just an itch. Maybe, just maybe, my vagina was finally getting the message.


I looked up at him staring down at me and cocked my eyebrow.

“Kids aren’t home yet. Would you like to step into my office?”

Oh yes, the world we live in, the world I live in, is a far better place when we can chemically alter it!

Part 1…Libido boosters…

…have become big business these days. So many people I know have had to resort to them in order to maintain any kind of sex life.

Where the hell have all the lost libido’s gone I wonder? Where was mine?  Was it lost in the same vacuum as all those missing socks I’ve failed to locate after dong laundry?

Did it fall out that day I wore granny panties instead of my thong? If that’s the case, I should have known better, I knew the elastic was loose.

Or did it escape when they ripped out my innards to protect me from the blob that had taken over my uterus back in my forties?

Could it have snuck out while I was sleeping one night when my legs spread haphazardly in the nine o’clock/three o’clock position hoping for one of those rare, did I say rare, I think I said rare, spontaneous orgasm.

There’s also a very good possibility that I lost it somewhere between packing lunches, running to the dry cleaners, washing, drying, and folding endless loads of laundry, dropping the kids off wherever then picking them up later, homeschooling my son, (kill me now) paying the bills, waxing the floors, dusting the furniture, washing the windows, dragging the garbage cans to the curb, negotiating with the plumber or electrician or the Roto Rooter man, cooking dinner, grocery shopping, bathing the dog, and whatever else needs to be tended to nearly every single day.

Mmmmmmm…………. Maybe it wasn’t just my libido I lost…maybe it was my entire mind that went AWOL.

Maybe, just maybe, when I find all my missing socks I’ll find my mojo again, but until that day arrives, I’ll be on the search for the magic bullet .

We women know very well that menopause does strange things to our bodies, and even stranger things to our minds. We look at ourselves in the mirror and are often surprised to see that erosion is no longer just a term reserved solely for soil. All those perky parts that used to be up there have gone south and are not expected to return home any time soon.

Your nipples, well, I have a vague memory of how proud they used to make me during the winter, you know, sweater weather. They could make a grown man stop dead in his tracks. Now…they sort of point towards the ground as though they’re weighted down with magnets and are constantly on the lookout for missing coins.

What used to be my neat little waistline, well…hell that thing now looks like a scrap yard filled with heaps of old worn out dented parts waiting to be crushed and hauled off. I never knew you could acutally grow cellulite on a belly but I was wrong. I was very wrong. My favorite trick with this newfound flesh is to squish together all the fat around my belly button to replicate the perfect bagel.

The lack of hormones, lack of energy, lack of time, lack of desire, all move us constantly towards that ‘not tonight honey I’ve got a headache’ syndrome. In some cases it’s even more drastic, it’s more like ‘touch me and pull back a bloody stub’. Worse yet, you can voice the words ‘touch me and die’ with a single glance at your partner.

Yeah, the lost libido syndrome echo’s across the nation like a sonic boom and you know who’s listening to these calls for help–the pharmaceutical companies—that’s who. They’re very aware of the need to put the zip back in your atrophying vagina before it closes shop permanantly. They know they’ve got you by the balls so to speak. So what do they do, they charge you a freaking arm and a leg for their products because they know that if mama ain’t happy, nobodies happy.

Yep, this craps expensive and because it doesn’t work like Erectile Dysfunction meds, which has an immediate impact, you have to take it long term.

I recently had coffee with my angel and his wife. We talked about all the normal things we usually talk about but then the conversation turned to his prostrate cancer. Now, this in itself is not funny at all, but his description on how his penis works now that his prostate has been removed cracked me up. Not only did he have to take Viagra to get a boner, he had to give himself a shot right in his wiener.

Holy crap!

When those words left his lips I felt my vagina shrivel up into a fetal position trying to protect itself.

Let’s put it this way, if somebody told me I had to stick a needle in my vagina to achieve an orgasm, I’d likely die an old non-orgasmic spinster.

Our conversation had to be diverted at that point so I asked his wife how her libido was. I figured she was a safe bet to ascertain a little info on this subject because she’s a little older than me. She told me that she had struggled with it over the years, having gone through menopause already, but she’d recently discovered a fantastic product that boosted her libido.

It was a combination of Chinese herbs that turned it around for her. She swore by them and told me I should get some for myself.  I hate trying new things, especially when it comes to pills of any kind, but I was desperate. I sucked back the rest of my coffee, excused myself, then rushed off to the herbalist’s store.

Now if I’d been looking for say, something for a cough, or something to make me sleep, I would not have hesitated to ask for help locating this particular product, but because it would be an admission of my inadequate sex drive I cruised up and down the aisles scanning bottle after bottle for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t find it.


I slunk up to the counter, and of course it was some young Chinese boy standing there, and I had to ask him to point out the libido booster section.

“Oh yes…libido…” he said looking me up and down.

“Mmmmm…” was about the only confirmation I could respond with.

“Libido broke?” he said in a half-question, half-statement tone.

“No, no, I just lost it somewhere between my forties and fifties.”

…to be continued!

Mating Season…

…happens in the early spring most of the time.

You got the birds and the bees doing it, the dogs and cats, as  well as a large population of various domestic and wild  animals. It’s such a natural phenomena that it usually passes  unnoticed, with the exception of those pain in the ass cats  who howl and scream at each other in the wee hours of the  night  demanding submission from their partner.

I’ll tell you this much, if someone screamed at me that way the  last thing they’d be getting is sex! I’d clamp my legs together  so tight it’d take a crew with crowbars to separate them. As a  matter of fact, I’d be off and running ‘cause if they scream at  you before sex, God only knows what’s going to happen later  on down the road.

These are signs that must not be ignored poeple.

I’ve discovered that Los Angeles has a human mating season that runs year round, but it doesn’t take place in the bedroom—it’s takes place on the surface streets, parking lots and wherever else people and cars can mix.

Here in LA there’s millions of cars on the road at any given time of the day. Even in the wee hours of the morning you can see the stream of headlights moving along the freeway like a trail of lava. Where  everybody’s going at that time is anybodies guess. Maybe they’re going to work or coming home from work, out partying or just flat out wasting gas because they’re bored, but there out they’re morning, noon, and night.

By my estimates about 10% of these road warriors are seniors, 75% are the money-makers—you know—us—the baby boomers, the shakers and the movers, and last but not least are the 15% who fall into the teenagers/young adult group.

This last group of course is the most worrisome. Not that we don’t have to worry about some of those seniors out there who have trouble discerning which is the gas peddle and which is the brake, or the baby boomer whose financial empire is about to fail and they’ve got six tons of metal and chrome to vent with.

My concern is the teen/young adult group. They’re so technologically user friendly, it’s rare to see one of them driving without a phone clamped in the palms of their hands as they try to talk/text/photograph whomever or whatever strikes their fancy while travelling at high speed. From my experience this usually always takes place right next to my car. And, oh, by the way, if you DON’T see the phone in their hands you should be especially careful because that means they may have dropped it on the floor and will likely start swerving about in order to retrieve this precious communication system.

What worries me even more is that they also seem to be searching for love on the road. I’ve seen it first hand, this banter that goes on between drivers who happen to catch each other’s eyes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for looking for love—but while you is driving? Come on people, this does not seem to me when you should be doing anything but keeping your eyes on the road with your hands placed precisely at the ten o’clock/two o’clock position on the steering wheel.

I guess this shouldn’t surprise me that much since the world has become this big pulsing beat that is so fast paced, if you don’t have a hold of the knot at the end of the rope, well, you’re in big trouble. You’ll be so left behind your kids will wander around aimlessly with that world famous question—Where’s Mommy?

Of course Dad, whose kept pace with technology all along as it progressed, will then in turn have to tell them that Mom missed the boat. She’s lost somewhere between the 80’s and the 90’s. He’ll then explain that she picked up the computer far too late, she can’t do anything with her blackberry except make and receive calls, and once you tell her East or West instead of left or right there’s a good possibility she may never be seen again.

Hell, this world’s so fast and easy you don’t even have to get out of your car at Starbucks any more. Yep, you can just drive through and never waste one precious moment of freeway time.  They all cruise around the building at a snails pace, but the very second that cup is in their hands they peel out of there like their pants are on fire. Yes, we Angelian’s love the coffee God!

Anyway, I got caught up in one of these mating sessions the other day after I dropped my son off at school. There I was, just sitting there, minding my own business when this young girl pulled up next to me. She stopped just slightly ahead of me but I could see her perfectly through the back passenger door window. I guessed her to be somewhere in her late teens/early twenties. She’s got her hair tied up in a knot of some kind on the top of her head. I recognize this knot because my daughter wears this same style. I’ve named it the Sumo Roll for obvious reasons. Okay, so this girl is probably cuter than I think but her face is covered under the biggest pair of sunglasses I’ve ever seen. I mean really, these things were so big you could barely make out any of her facial features.  They seem a little excessive size wise but maybe this is how she saves on sun block.

Her car, well, it’s not so much a car than it is pieces of metal screwed together, and it appears to have been, at one point, some shade of blue. My guess is she’s an avid driver/texter by the amount of damage I can see just on this side of the car. Oddly enough I also notice a small patch of grass hanging down from the bottom of what once was a shiny chrome bumper. What had replaced the factory authorized safety device now looked more like tin foil that had been used, scrunched up, and then recycled in the form of a bumper.  This crash I realize must be fairly recent since the grass is still showing signs of life and there’s a tiny sprinkler head peaking it’s head out of the patch and it’s still dripping water. What a lucky sod!

Now I’m curious about the interior of her car so I roll forward a little, just enough to snoop but not so obvious she’ll turn to look at me. The back seat is covered with piles of clothes, water bottles, empty coffee cups, empty cigarette packages, and a bunch of other things that I can’t actually recognize. This is what I’d call the typical teenage car. I know it like the back of my hand. I’ve got one just like it sitting in my driveway at home.

I notice that not only is she chewing gum, she’s also got a freshly lit cigarette hanging from her lips. Her fingers are flying across the keyboard of her phone at the speed of light for what seems like the worlds longest message composed on a phone. She sets the phone on the dashboard for a brief moment and removes the cigarette from between her lips. I see a pink bubble squish out through her lips and when it pops, there’s a small cloud of smoke that lingers in front of her. Holy crap!

I’m thinking that if there was ever an award for personal multi-tasking, this girl takes the cake.

On the other side of my car I see a brand new shiny white BMW pull up just slightly ahead of my car. This one is driven by a boy who looks twenty something as well. I watch as he looks at the girl across the one lane span. I see he is trying to get her attention so like any good voyeur I crack the windows on both sides of my car so I can hear them.

“Hey,” he calls out to her tapping his horn just a little to make sure he gets her attention.

It takes her a minute to respond. She turns the radio down and yells back “What’s up.”

“Wanna hang out?” he yells.

“No.” she says and rolls up the passenger side window.

Flash forward to the next light where we’re still aligned in the same way. I notice both her windows are down again.

He taps the horn in another attempt to get her attention then yells out his single greeting of ‘hey’.

She sees him again and turns the radio down.

“What?” she says.

“Can I call you?” he yells back as he waves his cell phone towards her.

She shakes her head no.

“Come on we’ll have fun, maybe we can go some hooka,” he says hoping this will entice her.

“Where do you live?” she responds.

“I live with my folks…er…I live in Hollywood.” he says trying to cover up his error.

She smiles the most beautiful smile at him showing off her perfect chicklet teeth then her window starts to roll up.

I look back at him and he’s got his hands up in the air as if to say WTF. He tries one last honk but the light changes. She flips him off even though she’s still got that big smile on her face then makes a left hand turn. He chucks his phone down on to the seat and speeds away.

So I’m thinking to myself, I wonder if this ever works.

About ten minutes later I pull up to another of the million lights I will get caught at on my way home. Sitting beside me is a kind of gruff looking young man. He looks to be around my daughters age. I decide to try out my own version of car mating just for the hell of it.

I roll down my window, tap my horn and wait for a response. Nothing! So this time I blast the horn. Well that gets his attention and he rolls down the window. His radio is so loud I have to shout.

“Hey you wanna hang out smoke some hooka?” I ask even though I’m wondering what I’ll actually do if he says okay.

“What?” he screams back at me seemingly annoyed.

“Wanna go smoke some hooka?” I yell back.

He looks at me, then looks out the drivers side window to make sure that I’m not talking to someone else, then turns back to me.

“No maam, I don’t. Jesus Christ aren’t you a little old for this?” he yells at me then shuts the window. Now he’s staring at me like I’m a complete idiot.

Cut me like a knife that little bastard did when the word ‘maam’ rolled out of his puckered lips.

But I persist. I wave my cell phone at him, make the ‘call me’ gesture with my hand, and wait for his response.

His window rolls down, I hold my breath.

“Get away from me lady,” he screams at me.

I ignore his protest and mouth the words ‘call me’ one last time.

The light changes, he stick his hand out the window, flips me off then speeds away leaving a little rubber behind to show his disgust that some old woman just hit on him.

So I rethink what went wrong. Maybe I have to try this with someone more my age. Someone who won’t be disrespectful.

I spot my next victim about two lights later and man this guys good looking. You know the type, suit, briefcase, bitchin car.

I roll up next to him and see his windows are down.

“Hey…wanna hang out, smoke some hooka?” I yell through the open window.

“Pardon me?” he says like he didn’t hear exactly what I said.

“Come on, let’s go smoke some hooka…” I yell back so there is no way he won’t hear me.

He looks over at me, shakes his head, rolls up his window, then goes back to watching the light. I tap the horn one last time but this time when he looks at me I’ve already got my hand in that telephone position, you know, thumb and pinky pressed to my ear and I yell out ‘call me’. He rolls his eyes and makes a dash out of there even though the light’s still red.

Oh well, I think to myself. It was a fun experiment. That’s when I hear the loud blast of a horn.

I glance over at the car that was next to good looking guy and see this old  Armenian man ogling me. Actually I can’t decifer if it’s a lear or an ogle, but either way, this guy looks like a piece of work. My guess would be he’s maybe seventy, seventy five. He’s actually waving a big red hooka pipe at me and nodding his head in the yes motion, all the while moving his bushy eyebrow up and down in that weird little come hither motion. I see he’s got a front tooth missing and he’s a little short in the hair area and I believe he’s wearing one of those blue plaid matching shirt and short sets, which means he’s probably also wearing white knee high socks.


I train my eyes back on the light praying it will change. I roll my window up to block out whatever he’s yelling at me because I can’t understand what he’s saying anyway as he spews out in his native language.

That right there was enough to put an end to my little experiment. As I headed towards home to hubby I felt eternally grateful that I didn’t actually have to pursue this ever again.

Sexy Gray Hair…

…looks absolutely fantastic on some people. It gives them an air of wisdom, an air of maturity, and sometimes an air of mystery, but for me, it’s just a sign of what’s come and gone. It’s a sign of getting old.

I was blessed with a thick mop of brunette hair. Thank God for the little things, right? I got the hair gene from my mother’s side I think. She’s always had  thick hair and still does, and guess what? At seventy-seven there is still not one strand of gray to be found. My dad, well, not so much. He ended up with one of those Nero like rings of silver hair that started just above his ear and ended just above his ear. The rest of his balding head was fodder for many sunscreen debates.

I love, love, love my long tresses as does my husband.  Doesn’t matter if I’m staying home, going to the gym, or going to grocery store–my hair is always washed and blown out into my usual style, unless of course it’s one of ‘those’ days whereupon I don a baseball cap. You know—the bad hair day where no gel or cream will tame it.

Okay so I’ve been in a hair rut for thirty some years but it seems to work for me. I think it’s my way of pretending that time has not slipped through my hands. I always wonder when I run into someone that I haven’t seen in a long time and they say “you look exactly like you did twenty years ago”. I’m never quite sure whether I should take this as a compliment that I have aged well, or , are they referring to the fact that I’m stuck in a rut. Mmmmm….

There are some things that change in our lives, like the location of our boobs and butts cheeks, our waistline, and our ability to stay awake past nine p.m. but, hair, well that’s something we can still control.

My motto is ‘there will nary be a gray hair on my head’. I just can’t let it happen!  That ‘au natural’ thing is not for me. I’ve tried to go blonde once or twice but I could never live up to the jokes.

I’ve always said that when it comes to tell-tale signs of aging I’m going to go down hard.

I know I’ve said this out loud a few times because this always seems to make hubby’s ears perk up if he happens to hear me. Yeah, you guessed right, the boner thing again. What is with that man?

Sometimes I’ll be talking to a friend on the phone about this very subject unaware that he’s within listening distance. As soon as I hang, sometimes even before I hang up he’ll come strutting into the room with ‘that’ look on his face and a very obvious protrusion in his pants.

“Remind me to starch those pants,” I say.

He can see that I’ve already busied myself with whatever I was doing.

“Oh, okay,” he says shoving his hands in his pockets. Both his upper and lower posture changes and he slowly retreats to the other room. Poor baby!

What I want to know is why this gray hair never just flows into your regular hair. Mine always looks like bionic pubic hair on crack. It points straight up towards the sky, gleaming like a beacon screaming “look at me, look at me!”.

I remember Christmas shopping a few years back. I was at one of those large discount stores standing near a bin of ‘whatever’ when I noticed a mirrored wall directly behind it. I looked up to catch a glimpse of myself thinking that I’d looked reasonably hot when I left the house that morning but was devastated to see this one lousy gray hair in its gravity defying position.

Yep, it was like someone had rubbed a balloon on the top of my head to create that magnetic weirdness. It was crinkled and white as hell, about three inches tall, and stood out like a sore thumb against the chestnut of the rest of my head. It shone like a neon sign under those horrid flourescent lights.

I remember this lovely older woman sidling up beside me at the same time I’d made this discovery.

“Do you see that?” I asked her.

“See what?” she says.

“That,” I said.

“What,” she asked.

“That hair,” I said.

“Oh it’s lovely dear,” she said.

“What’s lovely about it?” I asked.

“It looks good on you,” she replied.

“How does that look good?” I queried.

“It’s hair…it looks good,” she replied.

“What…are you blind?” I said.

Dead silence…

Of course this is when I notice the turban and the dark glasses she’s wearing.

I look down, and yes, there it is…the seeing eye dog. Yep, he’s got the vest and everything.

“Maybe you should buy a hat asshole?” she said calling on the dog to lead her away from me.


This, of course, put an end to my festive shopping. Instead I headed to the drug store for hair dye.

Standing in front of the mirror in my bathroom an hour later, my head smeared with dark cream, I leaned forward to take a gander at my eyebrows.

There it was!


One little gray mother-fucker sticking out away from the natural path of the others. Only this kind of close-up inspection would reveal such a betrayer. I reached up, stuck my finger into the shiny hair dye and dabbed it onto both my eyebrows. I stood there looking like a Harpo Marx stand in waiting for the timer to ring out that youth had been restored.

That was when another thought hit me. Oh no! What about…?

I had my first Brazillion later that day!

Hot sex…

…is something we all strive for. Who on earth wouldn’t? There’s absolutely nothing else like being immersed in someone else’s skin.

You know what I’m talking about. First you flirt, or ogle if that’s your style. Then you feel that little tingle start somewhere deep inside. Your toes start to curl up,  and then suddenly your body’s on fire. You’re entire being is pulsating like a giant time bomb. The anticipation of a good orgasm keeps you in the moment. You start the countdown 10, 9, 8…

You’re just about there when all of a sudden your mind wanders and you wonder whether or not you switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer…


Hot sex to me is when I accidentally burn my finger cooking dinner and I start hopping around the kitchen screaming ‘fuck me, fuck me’ while I dash to the sink to run cold water over it.

Of course this could actually lead to hot sex because if hubby’s in the house and he here’s this gut wrenching scream, the next thing you know I hear him sprinting through the house to get to me. I’ve seen him actually breaks a sweat after maneuvering the furniture in the living room, running hurdle over the dining room chairs, where upon entering the kitchen I can see he’s already got his pants undone, and yep, there it is, the boner. Unfortunately, there are just some fuck me’s that cannot be resolved with anything short of cold water.

Now don’t get me wrong here. I am uber-grateful that after more than thirty-one years of marriage he still wants to jump my bones! He’s forever grabbing my ass at the most unpredictable times, and while this is all well and good, I often times wonder whether this is a sex thing or is he just checking to see if I’ve been working out or not.

Sometimes he’ll rub my shoulders only to let his hand wander down the front of my shirt. Sometimes I stop him and sometimes I don’t, it all depends on whether or not those little stray nipple hairs have been removed or not. It is not cool to have more hair on your chest than your husband. But all in all–it’s all good!

Yes, in my world, hot sex is something that happens when the air conditioner is not working. Oh there’s plenty of steam and sweat but I can’t actually say it’s caused by body movement.

There have been times when we’re engaged in ‘you know’ and I get caught up listening to my spine cracking every time I move. Yes, at my age, it seems like all my bones are a little cranky when put to the test. My hip bones doth protest on occasion too and I wonder if I’ll be stuck in that god awful position forever. I do not want to walk around looking like I just got off a horse after a day of riding bronco bulls.

I got an e-mail in my in-box the other day. You know the kind. The ones that randomly show up and peak your curiosity. Well I clicked on the link and low and behold I got schooled on how long a man can have an erection. Forty-eight to seventy-two hours is what they claim.


Are there really men out there willing to walk around like that for two or three days in a row? Is this stuff safe? Does it come with a side order of nitro glycerin for your heart? I’ve seen all those televised ads for Cialis and Viagra and they always have a warning about “if you have an erection longer than four hours” you should contact your doctor. With this product if your doctor is not female and horny, what’s the point of seeing her?

What makes their ad particularly appealing to many consumers out there is that you can get absolutely shit-faced drunk and this stuff, ‘ViagPURE’, will still have the desired effect, and better yet it claims it can save a failing marriage and can make your sperm shoot farther and with more precision than an arrow leaving a spear gun.

Hellooooo!   Is the distance sperm can shoot something we give a lot of thought to? Mmmmmmmm! I guess I may have to ponder on whether there are actually any benefits to this.

Now unless you’re a famous golfer claiming ‘hole in ones all the time I don’t see the point. Or maybe, just once,  for two or three days I would ‘get’ the point and then wonder what’s the point.

It’s already bad enough that I don’t get enough sleep. I can’t imagine staying up for that many hours in a row just to wreak the benefits of this man enhancer, nor would I want to.

And what about the kids? Don’t you think they’d wonder where we were for those three days even though we were home the whole time? And how would we explain the bags under our eyes and the fact that once we emerged from wherever we’d hidden away that we could no longer move? That we actually might need medical intervention.

I don’t know, call me old-fashioned. I like a good romp in the hay but I don’t think my gina would be as acceptable to participating in this kind of marathon sex any more. Of course this would all boil down to whether I gave in to one of those middle of the night commercial I told you about earlier. You know…for VD–vaginal dryness. Maybe this is where that old adage comes in–the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

Now I’ve known a few men during my lifetime who proclaim they can go at it all night, but seventy-two hours under the best of circumstances seems, well, a little excessive to me–for anything.

I can’t help thinking that with all the blood running down there to keep that sinking ship alive, what the hell is keeping the rest of the boat floating? Doesn’t the rest of the body need some of that blood? But then again, women have always said that a man thinks with his dick so maybe the brain IS getting exactly all the blood it needs. I don’t know, call me crazy.

I say forget about a drug that keeps it up like the energizer bunny and instead just get one of those miniature life alert bracelets and attach it directly to the penis. You let your imagination run wild until a situation ‘arises’, the life alert goes off, and whammo.

“Oh honey….did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s beeping.”

“Oh…I thought that was the oven timer.”

“No, it’s me, hurry up, turn off the oven. We’ve got about two minutes.”

“But it’s a souffle, it’ll deflate without the heat.”

“Yeah, well…so will this.”

Maybe I’m just old. I do not want to have sex for seventy-two hours in a row, nor do my hip bones.

Let’s be real hear.

If you have the ability to stay awake for several days in a row you’re probably still in your twenties and don’t need this shit anyway. If you’re an alcoholic in a failing marriage, hello, it’s probably not lack of sex that’s causing your marriage to fail.