Old man

Debbie was in town over the weekend, and stayed with me all three nights (Friday through Sunday).  She spent the days working while I went to a meditation retreat (more about that in the next couple of posts), but we spent the nights together.  And in her own way Debbie is every bit as sexual as D used to be.  She’s not as overt about it: she can find other things to talk about, she doesn’t work sex into all of her musings about spirituality, she doesn’t give off the same vibe of single-minded obsession that D used to.  But all it takes is one long, lingering kiss and she’s ready.  Since I’m fond of holding her and kissing her, this means she spends a lot of time around me in various states of arousal.

And every time we are together it seems like I can do less and less about it.  Oh, we kiss and cuddle; we strip off our clothes and frolic; I do everything I can with fingers and lips and tongue, although Debbie is more sensitive than D used to be so I have found that I have to be a lot slower and more delicate or I risk hurting her with too much too soon.  Still, I’m figuring out the right touch, and I do everything I can in that direction.

What I don’t do is to get hard.  It pisses me off.  It embarrasses me.  It makes Debbie say concerned things like, “Maybe this is about trust: do we need to talk?”  And the answer is No, we don’t bloody well need to talk.  All we need to do is fuck.  It’s not about trust.  It’s not even about passion: if my desire had its way I would fuck her hard in every direction and devour her whole.  But I can’t.  I don’t know why not.

I suppose it is something physiological.  I suppose it’s related to being in my fifties.  I suppose I ought to ask my doctor for a prescription for Pfizer’s little blue pills.  Or maybe it’s caused by one of a dozen other ailments that bedevil old men.  I have no idea.

But Debbie is uncomfortable with the idea of a Viagra-induced artificial sexuality.  She says she is more comfortable with whatever I can do for her naturally, even if it is less.  I don’t know, we only had the discussion once.  Maybe I should raise it again.  But I understand her sentiment that prefers what is natural to what is artificial, other things being equal at any rate.  It’s the same sentiment that makes me subtly uncomfortable with women shaving off their body hair, and Debbie – bless her! – actually agrees with me on that point.  When we first got together she was shaving just because she had gotten into the habit of it somewhere along the line.  And she still figures that as long as she has to wear hose professionally she has to shave her legs.  But once she knew that I was content for her to quit the rest of it, she did.

Maybe this means by the same token that I’ll have to remain un-Pfizered.  But that in turn means that my hard-ons are soft and flabby and unreliable.  It means that the only time I get truly, intensely stiff is when I wake up first thing in the morning and have a column of piss pushing my dick into shape.  It means there is only so much I can do to satisfy a woman seven years older than I am who nonetheless puts my sexual performance to shame.

Getting old is no fun.  Who knew it was going to happen so soon?