Ageless Erotica

INTRODUCTION

Joan Price

Older folks still enjoy sex—boy, do they!—and you might be startled by the diversity of plot, characters, theme, and imaginative sex acts in this anthology of erotica by, for, and about women and men ages fifty to eighty-plus.

How did this collection of senior erotica come about?

Since 2005, I have been on a mission to talk out loud about senior sex, and I’ve become known as a spokesperson and activist for older-age sexuality. I’ve written award-winning books and a popular blog about sex and aging, I give talks and workshops, and I’m pulling senior sex out from under the covers and showing people of my age, as well as those older and younger, that we don’t need to give up our sexuality just because our bodies are older. Yes, there are age- and health-related challenges that we need to face, but with knowledge and creativity (a sense of humor helps, too), we can dance to our sensual music and leap over every barrier—even with arthritic knees.

But where is the erotica for and about our age group? Personally, I don’t respond to erotica that’s all about sopping-wet panties, rock-hard erections, and instant orgasms. I know the brain is our primary sex organ, but my aging brain wants to be stimulated by sexy stories that reflect my experience and the realities of my age group in a way that’s both truthful and racy. I neither wish nor need to go back in time to spark my fire, even in my fantasies.

With much encouragement whenever I shared this idea with readers and audiences, I began envisioning an erotica anthology by senior writers featuring sexy senior characters. The stories could be fiction or memoir, but they had to reflect the sexual experience of our age group with some accuracy—not just slapping wrinkles and an arbitrary age on the same old, youth-oriented erotica.

I put out the call for submissions on my blog, on Facebook, and on sites that attracted writers of erotica, and I encouraged others to pass it along. I knew that erotica writers over fifty, sixty, seventy were out there, but would they be willing to write for our older audience specifically?

They were not only willing—they were enthusiastic. I received 106 completed submissions by the deadline, and close to a hundred additional inquiries. The variety of characters, sexual events, interactions, and attitudes thrilled me. Skilled writers—many widely published, some new to this genre—sent me erotica about sizzling sex in long-term relationships, new encounters, and solo pleasure. Some were tender, some were rough, some were lyrical, some were raunchy. They wrote about women with men, women with women, men with men, and women pleasuring themselves. You’ll even meet a woman with a jaguar. The writers in this anthology bare the challenges of sex, relationships, love, and living in an aging body with accuracy and compassion, and sometimes with humor. Many of these stories are based on true experiences; others are fiction; many are a combination. All are sexy and proud.

I know my vision of senior erotica will be challenged. You may not want to know the realistic details of sex at our age—that we may need pillows under our creaky knees, that we’re sometimes embarrassed about how our aging bodies look, that our medications may affect our libido, that sometimes we can’t reach orgasm without a vibrator or have erections without a pill. You may question the eroticism of comparing HIV medications or enjoying a sexual encounter that does not end in orgasm.

You may, in fact, question the whole premise of this anthology, that “senior erotica” needs to be different than the traditional genre, as erotica writer Tsaurah Litzky did in an open letter to me:

I don’t challenge anyone else’s view of erotica—I applaud every way that your imagination stimulates you. I do think it’s time to embrace a new notion of erotica or to expand the old one, so that we includes details of what actual sex is like at our age, and how we don’t just accept it—we celebrate and eroticize it. That’s what our Ageless Erotica writers did here.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I do. Please email me at joan@joanprice.com and let me know.

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TO BED

Erobintica

We undress. You stand, unbuttoning your heavy flannel shirt while I sit on the edge of the bed, unzipping my black suede boots. We talk about the movie we just watched, sitting together on the sofa, sharing a lap blanket to ward off the January chill. Every now and then I reach over and take your hand, wishing our sofa were more snuggle-worthy. Mission-style furniture, for all its aesthetic appeal, is not at all encouraging of eroticism. Straight, hard lines don’t allow for loose wrapping of limbs.

I watch from the corner of my eye as you undo your belt and slide your jeans down to reveal oh-so-sexy army surplus long underwear. Swedish blue, and seen better days. You’ve never been a snappy dresser. Clothes are just practical coverings that have to somewhat match the activity. You unbutton your shirt, remove it, then slip your T-shirt over a mostly gray beard and receding hairline. Still so handsome to me. I watch you slip your wool socks off. We both know we’re going to have sex. It’s been almost a week, and there is a subtle charge to the air.

But there is no overt suggestiveness. Often I want that, longing for the enticement of candlelight and the slow progression from small touches to all-out ecstasy. But not tonight. Never good at seductive disrobing, I slip out of my jeans and pull my sweater over my head. As I undress, thoughts of unattractiveness creep in. My body has seen births and weight fluctuations. It is not the body of the young woman you married. My large breasts hang close to my rippled belly, which is streaked with stretch marks. But your familiarity with the skin I’m in helps me overcome my self-consciousness.

The bare wood floor is cold, and by the time we both climb under the covers of our waterbed, my feet are cold, my toes icy. Yours are too, but not like mine. We laugh about our “popsicle toes” and tuck them all together, seeking warmth. We spoon, my back to your belly, and you wrap an arm around me and gently knead the softness of my stomach. I recognize the affection of this little gesture. In the past, I might have taken it as critical, me never having a flat stomach, even before children, and always wishing for one. But you have loved me in my body through thick and never-ever-thin, and I’m finally able to appreciate that. I snuggle closer as we talk a bit more.

It is dark, only hours from a new moon. Often I like some light. The gentle flicker of candles or the bluish glow of moonlight, especially reflected from snow, something we’ve had little of this winter. Despite the stereotypes, I am the more visual of the two of us. We’ve talked about this. Especially as I explored my sexuality, unbridling myself from residual shame as I’ve aged. For years I took your preference for dark as your preference for not seeing. But you said you most enjoy focusing on touch, and sound, the changes in breath. They are your turn-ons. I like the dark as much as the light now, and tonight I don’t even think of setting match to flame.

As we talk, we both comment on how quiet the house seems. I even wonder if the power has gone out, it’s that quiet. Tonight is the first time we’ve had the house to ourselves in over a month. Though our two oldest moved out years ago, our youngest, still in college, was home for winter break. There is a subtle inhibition I feel when others are in the house. Even though we made love often through all the years our kids were growing, I hadn’t realized until now how much I like having our privacy back.

Our conversation slowly drops off, and I feel your fingers on my belly, more deliberate as they make small stroking movements, then brush against the curls of my pubic hair. I smile in the dark. This small gesture lets me know that you, too, want sex. Since we sleep in the nude and are cuddly and affectionate most of the time, we have subtle signals to communicate desire.

There was a time when just the slightest touch from you—on my lower abdomen, the side of my breast, or along the line from the nape of my neck to my lower back—would turn me on instantly. And sometimes, if I’ve been reading or writing erotica, priming the pump, so to speak, it still does.

But we’re both at that age: We’re slowing down, and our reactions are slowing down. Our desires are no longer hair-trigger, and I’m thankful we’ve learned to give ourselves time to warm up, to let our bodies catch up. When I went through menopause and arousal began to take longer, I often would get discouraged and give up. I think of this as your fingers find a nipple and give it a slight pinch and I can feel my response, not quite as electric as before. But I love sex and could not imagine living without it. Neither can you. With time, we found that if we just kept going, eventually our bodies would get the hint, and the end result would be worth the effort.

You play with my breasts, and I can feel your cock begin to stir against me. I reach a hand back, stroke the outside of your hip and down your thigh to let you know I know. By this time we’ve stopped talking. I often wonder what is going through your head, and I have asked you, wanting to hear your fantasies, but you tell me you’re just concentrating on what you feel—my nipple hardening under your fingers—and what you hear—the small catch in my breath as you touch me somewhere unexpected.

These days my mind is often a jumble as we begin our love-making. I remember the load of laundry I forgot to move from the washer to the dryer, or I think about the erotica story that I’ve been working on. I’ve found that, just like my physical erotic response, my creative erotic mind has slowed down too, and the erotica does not flow so easily from my imagination to my keyboard. My hope is that, just like with our perseverance between the covers, if I work past the it’s-not-happening stage, the sex will also happen on the page as it does in our bed.

It helps that you support and enjoy my erotic writings. I remember when we sat in bed, you snuggled against me, and I read to you the first erotic piece of mine to appear in print. I was nervous, worried you wouldn’t like it, even though you’d read it several times. But you liked listening, and it turned you on. I smile and roll over, turning towards you.

With my head resting on the pillow next to yours, I stroke your chest and brush against one of your nipples as I press my crotch against your upper thigh. We often take turns, you doing to me, me doing to you, though I realize that as of late, I’ve not been as bold as I’ve been in the past. While part of my brain wants to examine that more closely, your hand tracing my curves draws my attention back to the here and now. It is time to concentrate.

Your cock is still not fully hard, so I play my fingers around it, through the curls around it, along the crease of thigh, over your hip, and around to the small of your back. As I hear your breathing quicken, I feel my arousal. I press against you, move my hips, and then take you in my hand and stroke the underside of your now rapidly hardening penis. I cup your balls and press several fingers against your perineum, rubbing and listening to your breath get raspy. This turns me on even more, and I grind against you, find myself aching for you to be inside me.

Sometimes I roll onto my back and you reach down between my legs. There is a sound you make when you first feel my wetness that sends me to a joyous place. It does not seem to matter to you if it is my own natural lube or if it’s from a bottle. You slip a finger inside, two, even three, and you stroke and press and I begin to lose the thoughts and just experience. Sometimes we play with our arousal, bringing each other close and then backing off, a zigzag path up the mountain that can seem to go on for hours since we know each other’s bodies so well.

But tonight is different. You have yet to place your hand between my legs. Have yet to finger my soft folds, tickle my clit. And while I love all that, tonight I want the immediate sensation of your cock in my cunt. I raise myself and straddle you, not an easy move anymore on our waterbed. With my hand, I guide you to the entrance and slowly sink onto you. You make that sound, the one you make when you find me wet, but it’s more intensified, and I sense that if I wanted to, I could just come right then and there, just from hearing that. But I love the feel of you inside me, so I refocus and start moving my body with yours.

As I ride you, moving up and down, sliding back and forth, or the stirring motion I like so well, you grip my ass, my hips. You reach up and take hold of each nipple, and I lean back and reach behind me and caress your balls. We both sense that orgasm won’t take long, and we give in to the animal in us, and just fuck. I can feel my peak approaching. I do this thing with my hips, a press into you that makes my clit and g-spot happy at the same time. I feel a little surge of fluid escape me as we press and press into each other. It’s almost as if we’re trying to fuse with each other, and then, I’m there.

I try to hold still, just feel the rush, but you are bucking and soon you grab my hips and hold me to you as you orgasm, too. Suddenly I am aware of the noise we’ve been making, the moans and cries and gasps that haven’t been stifled, because suddenly they cease and we’re both just panting. I feel the pulsations of you inside me, and I twitch a few times, the aftershocks of my orgasm. Then I climb off you and drop onto my back as we both catch our breath.

I have a fleeting regret that it’s over so soon. I’ve grown to love the long, drawn-out lovemaking that we do. But these “quickies” are a rare treat and remind me that we are not machines with an obsolescence date. It is in these moments after we’ve done the work to arouse each other and ourselves, after we’ve copulated like the best of animals, after that moment of “little death,” that I feel most thankful.

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SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMETHING BLUE

Nancy Weber

If the name Victoria Delvaux rings a bell, you probably read about me in Avid and Ribald Pensioners Monthly: “Oldest Living Tantric Goddess Says, ‘Skip the Gym if You Must, but Wiggle Your Kegels Every Day.’” The story—which was published on my seventieth birthday—drew twice as many emails as the Jane Fonda cover. The server crashed for two hours! How’s that for celebrating with a bang? An ob-gyn said I should get a Nobel Prize in Medicine.

Instead I got a summons to divorce court. My lawfully bedded Lewis, “the luckiest man in America,” had found another woman. No matter that seventy suited me fine. I was triumphantly lithe and lubricious; let the numbers fall where they might. But Lewis, on the verge of seventy-five, couldn’t deal with having an “old” wife. My big round number shrunk his psyche. And his penis wasn’t far behind.

For whom, you ask, does a bald, white, commodity trader leave a Tantric goddess, albeit one with some mileage? A teen with tip-tilted tits and smart-phone savvy? Hold onto your hats, my darlings; it was worse. He ditched me for a fiftyish frump who didn’t know kundalini from Kandinsky. Here’s what she had: season tickets to the New York Giants. Her uber-connected husband had died and gone to the Skybox, bequeathing her a pair of premium seats on the fifty-yard line. Plus parking in the players’ lot.

I was mad and sad and a little sorry for Lewis. But mostly I missed his parking in my lot. Putting his hot dog in my roll. (Hold the mustard.) My guilty ex had left my bank account stuffed, but my yoni was a ravenous hollow.

I needed a man. Not buzzing plastic nor organic cuke would do it; nor my fingers, such use of which makes me feel like a twelve-year-old. Anyway, we tantrikas tend not to be clitocentric, which also pretty much leaves out the L thing, although some of my best friends are women.

Call me old-fashioned, but I’m mad for the male body, every un-pretty inch of it. I like putting my hands and lips all over a man, from the top of his head (especially if it’s bald) to his ugly but suckable big toes (well scrubbed, if you please). Oh God, it makes guys wild when I wrap my tongue around those mock cocks, especially if I reach up my hand and pump the real thing while my mouth is doing the toe. And I like making them wild, because then they give me what I crave.

Where to find one of the darlings? Online trolling and the bar scene weren’t for me. Then a batch of snail mail brought inspiration via a glossy catalogue from a grand old midtown menswear shop where I’d picked out countless presents for Lewis. I flipped the pages and ogled the models, delicious silver-haired specimens with alluring lines around their eyes. They looked like the CEOs and senators I’d seen buying tennis sweaters in the store. One of those masters of the universe was just what I needed as a present for me.

I was on fire as I conjured images of starched, striped shirts crumpled on the floor and power ties leading a double life as cool, silky restraints. But I couldn’t just dash up to the venerable shop and stand there exuding pheromones. I had to have a cover.

The next day I dolled up in layers of cashmere and pearls and stormed their employment office. More accurately, I proved myself as a saleswoman by selling them on me, never mind that I had no retail experience and clearly didn’t need a paycheck. Charm and passion for their brand covered the holes in my resume.

Of course I wanted to be on the second floor, where suits and slacks are sold and titans of industry submit to having their inseams measured. (Oh, God. The measuring tape.) But I had to play it cool and be gracious when management posted me near the famous bronze front door at the ground floor hosiery counter. I quickly saw why they wanted me there. If I quirked a smile at someone walking by toward the elevator, he suddenly needed to buy argyle socks for a country weekend or black silk hose for a night at the opera. And if I threw back my shoulders and jostled my breasts under my gray cashmere sweater, he had to have tennis socks, dozens of tennis socks—anything to delay his departure from my turf. Cha-ching!

The accessories manager, a great-looking jerk, loved how I made his numbers rocket. By the end of the second week, I despaired of getting off the ground floor and close to the dressing rooms. The un-dressing rooms. I dropped hints, to no avail.

But Monday brought a beautiful surprise. Almost.

“Well, Victoria, you’re getting your wish,” my manager greeted me. “Three people called in with the flu, and I’ve been ordered to send you upstairs.”

“Upstairs? That’s fantastic! Of course I’m sorry about people being sick—”

“Of course,” he agreed solemnly.

“But I’m on my way to the second floor!”

“And then right on up to three,” he sang, with what I can only describe as vicious merriment. “Women’s.” he added, as if I didn’t know.

“Mr. B, you’re kidding, right?”

The women’s department is the reincarnation of Peck & Peck. I don’t think they’ve changed a thing since 1959. It would have been closed long ago, except that the owner’s beloved Aunt Mabel buys her chocolate brown tweed suits there.

He wasn’t kidding. Up I went. Past heaven to inferno.

The morning was so slow among the dust motes on three, I considered not coming back after lunch. Would anyone even notice? My sole colleague, who’d had the foresight to bring a crossword puzzle book, could handle any traffic that strayed our way.

But a deal is a deal, and so at two o’clock I assumed the position behind the sweater counter. The colors ranged from soy latte to cocoa bean. And then my life changed forever.

She walked in.

As I’ve made clear, I don’t look at other females as objects of desire. There was something about her, though. Her boldly silver-streaked hair. The confident set of her shoulders. I felt alert in a way I don’t usually feel unless there’s a man present.

“Good afternoon, madam,” I said politely. “May I assist you in any way?”

“Oh, thank you, no, I’m just looking,” she said. But as I busied myself refolding a pile of cardigans that didn’t need refolding, I realized she was mostly looking at me.

And smiling. And saying, “I can’t help noticing that you and I have the same coloring. What do you think about this sweater on us?” She unbuttoned the trench coat she was wearing. She picked up a mud-color turtleneck, held it under her chin, and stepped back so I could get a good look.

I saw three things.

One: Not only was she just my coloring, she was just my build. The reason her looks had struck me was that she was a mirror reflecting my past: She was me at fifty-four or fifty-five, aglow—as I had been—in the menopausal meteor shower of hormones. Wow! I wondered if I struck her as a mirror of her future. I hoped she was happy with what she glimpsed.

Two: The mud-color turtleneck looked terrible on us—not that I could imagine it flattering any skin tone.

Three: Her stunning straight black skirt was bulging.

Bulging.

As in C-O-C-K.

Yes, gentle reader, beneath her skirt, where her long legs joined, what could only be an erect male member was saluting me.

My knees turned to jelly. I grabbed the counter.

“So what do you think?” She winked. “About the sweater?”

“I think . . . I have to say honestly . . . I’m not sure . . . the color . . . um . . .”

She cut me off with a little wave. “I know what you mean, but it may look better on. You know, you can’t always separate the color from the fit. Which way are the dressing rooms?”

Wordless, I pointed, finger trembling.

She nodded thanks, started away, and then looked over her shoulder. “Would you mind coming to give an assist?” Brilliantly matter-of-fact. “The sweater I’m wearing has one of those diabolical back zippers that you can’t quite reach yourself. My husband gave it to me with a card that said, ‘So you’ll never run away from home.’ Isn’t that charming?”

“Charming,” I muttered deliriously. I tried to keep my eyes above her waist, but it was no use. She had a cock, and I was under its spell.

I signaled the other clerk to mind my half of the department. I led my customer and her thing past the flannel nightgown display into what must be New York City’s least frequented suite of dressing rooms.

My mind was racing and empty at the same time. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this deep mystery. If you’re thinking the lady was the beneficiary of gender reassignment, fuggadeaboutit. Some of my best friends had done the deed or were in process. She was something else. I would have bet my ovaries on it.

This was a woman, a woman with a penis—a woman with size 34-C breasts and a penis, and I was about to be alone with her.

Maybe it was a shadow, I tried lying to myself, as I knocked on her dressing room door. Maybe I’m so cock-obsessed, I’ll start seeing them in trees.

Now she was chattering away about the crisp, clear weather and how she somehow always ended up inside windowless stores on the most beautiful days.

She took off her coat, hung it on the hook, and faced the mirror, her back to me. She’d been telling the truth about the diabolical little zipper, and I reached out and pulled it down, revealing the back of an ivory silk bra. Her perfume was intoxicatingly vanilla.

“I can wait outside,” I said politely.

As if.

“Look at us!” she said, pointing to the mirror. “We’re practically twins. The only difference is that you’re more beautiful.”

“No, madam, you’re more beautiful,” I said faintly. “Not to mention being way younger.”

“Well, you’re way more polite,” she said, with a delicious laugh. “I can’t remember the last time someone addressed me as ‘madam.’” Suddenly she reached behind her, grabbed my hand, and drew it around to the bulge. “But wouldn’t ‘sir’ be more appropriate?”

Her hard cock nudged me through the black skirt.

I staggered backwards onto the built-in bench.

“Don’t be frightened, sweetheart,” she said. “Every girl should have one.”

She released her skirt and stood before me, revealing her secret.

It was blue.

Bright blue.