Over the years, I’ve often heard people say “sex, like fine wine, improves with age,” or some variation thereof. This statement is misleading, in my opinion. It implies improvement is automatic and that is far from the truth. Great sex takes work, and yes, technique can improve with practice, but I think it’s the ability to communicate our needs, and self-acceptance that work together to improve the sex we have. Add those factors to a shared sexual energy with the right partner and sweet baby Jesus…
I made my share of mistakes in my twenties when it came to sex. I was sometimes cruel, using my sexuality as a means to replenish control, not caring how people were affected by my actions. I was too emotionally guarded, rarely letting anyone past the protective barrier I kept in place. I had no idea how to communicate well, and I didn’t understand its role in achieving great sex. I was also too quick to judge a person’s sexual prowess, laying fault of a less than stellar performance entirely on them, never shouldering any of the blame myself. I thought people just clicked sexually. Either you were compatible between the sheets or you weren’t. I was so fucking wrong.
Sex was almost non-existent in my thirties and it didn’t magically improve the instant I turned the corner into my forties. It doesn’t work that way. I had to learn how to be happy with myself again before I could possibly be happy with someone else. This meant discovering I had the balls to take control of my life and breaking free of my unhappy marriage. Believe me when I say it was no cake walk. But I did it, and I made mistakes. Lots of them as I sifted through the pieces of my life, searching for the person I once was. I own the mistakes I’ve made, though, and I managed to see the pearls of wisdom among the wreckage.
I’ve accepted that my body isn’t perfect. Realistically, whose is? Mine has been through a lot of changes in the last twenty years, though. I gained sixty-five plus pounds with each pregnancy, I’ve given birth by cesarean section twice, and fought hard to lose the baby weight. Then there’s my boob issues. My breasts are uneven because my implants need to be replaced. It’s a surgery I’m not looking forward to. And the latest age induced development is the delicacy of my va-jay-jay. Due to hormonal changes, too much exposure over the years to fragrance laced products, or who the fuck knows why, I have to use fragrance-free everything to keep it from screaming “what the FUCK?!” at me. But you know what? Skin sensitivity aside, I’m a forty-something mother of two. My body isn’t perfect, but it’s mine and I’m proud of it.
Communication bridges the gap between good sex and bad sex. It’s not criticism and I no longer shy away from it. In fact, Mr. K loves when I tell him what I need because he wants to please me. His willingness is the reason I don’t hesitate to open my mouth in bed. Heh. Open my mouth…in bed. Get it? *ahem* Healthy communication isn’t one-sided. I didn’t automatically know how to please Mr. K just because I have a vagina. I listened and I learned. And when he tells me my left hand is getting lazy during a blow job, I don’t pout from hurt feelings. I reach up and twist his nipple. Hard.
I’m not the same person I was in my twenties, (you’re welcome) or even my thirties, for that matter. I’m finally at peace with myself and I have an amazing man in my life who doesn’t care about the mistakes I’ve made, or judge the number of sex partners I’ve had. He loves everything that makes me me. Those are the primary reasons at forty-something, I’m having the best sex of my life. And as far as my sexuality outside of the bedroom goes, I’m slowly becoming aware of it with Mr. K’s nudging. But this time, I promise to harness it and only use it for the greater good. Swear. *snicker*