Women of a Certain Age, are You Wet and Wild, or Just Wild?
Oh, what some guys don’t get
Note: The following was originally published on Poopium. I hope you enjoy it.
In previous stories, I’ve been upfront about my experience on the premiere cheaters’ website, Ashley Madison.
A few years back, I created a false profile on AM to gather information for a script I was writing, a contemporary take on Looking For Mr. Goodbar, appropriately called Cheat.
My protagonist is a writer who is assigned a story entitled “The Psychology of the Married Cheater,” and she creates a fake profile on an AM-like website to conduct “research.”
Oh, the things I’ll do for my art.
Unfortunately, I sidelined the screenplay to spend my time working for pennies on Medium. That, however, is going to change as I am now repped again and ready for battle.
But, I digress. I found that AM is, by turns, sordid, sad, and hilarious. As soon as I set up my profile, the dudes crawled out of the woodwork like ravenous cockroaches. And it must be said that most of them were woefully unattractive, at least that’s how many looked in their profile shots.
I don’t know. Something about taking a selfie in front of a toilet doesn’t do it for me. Faces scrunched up like they’re holding back farts.
Of course, I didn’t post my pic. There was no way in hell I was going to do that so as you might assume, I had to be “adept at deflecting.” And, since some of these guys weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, this wasn’t very difficult.
Much of what I learned didn’t surprise me.
The spouse/partner was no longer interested in sex, had become fat and unappealing, or was suffering from an infirmity that made intercourse impossible.
Some guys just wanted a one-nighter in the sack, others who sought a long-term, FWB, and still others who were lonely and just wanted to be held. Those were the men who touched me the most.
After much scrolling and trashing of messages, I finally settled on a couple of dudes who I believed were sufficiently intelligent to carry on a decent conversation. Who knew the difference between “two” and “too.” You know. Like that. And more importantly, wouldn’t mind my asking questions. A lot of questions.
Naturally, if you know what I'm saying, I had to give a little to get a lot. No, not that. Nothing physical. Instead, I let these guys PM on the site, and/or sext me so that I could gain their confidence.
I know that sounds shitty, but hey, we’re talking Ashley Madison, not Christian Hookups or whatever the hell that particular dating site is called.
Did I find this type of interaction titillating? I sure did and again, being the sexual creature I am, it wasn’t off-putting when one of the selected few turned up the heat.
Sidenote: Should you be wondering, I believe I told my husband all about this, so you see, my motives were true. Like my aim, as Elvis Costello sang.
I should clarify that these guys were around my age as I refused to engage with the punks who reached out to me in an imbecilic attempt to hook up with a MILF, a GILF, or simply, an older broad with an attitude.
These youngsters were swiftly sent packing with a few sharp-tongued declarations that I trust took the lead out of their barely sharpened pencils.
Without fail, the men I did engage with were adamant about their not wanting to “change their situation, or mine.”
Duly noted.
As I said, some of the messages I received were pretty hot, and on several occasions, I was watching a movie with my husband when one of the two dudes I was talking to decided he was up for a little fun.
Yes. I should have turned off my phone. Not doing so was a dick move. But I didn’t want to miss anything. Talk about dedicated, huh? I always had a notebook and pen beside me to jot down anything I thought would be helpful to the script. Moreover, authentic.
There I’d be, sprawled on the loveseat in our family room, with my husband on his recliner, rapt in whatever we’d chosen to view that evening and I’d get that strangely urgent-sounding notification alert that I’d received a text.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” sexted “Tom.” With the appropriate emojis, naturally. Flames. Hearts. Winks. All the standard bullshit.
I’d respond with a “Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure,” type of thing and go back to the movie. Nothing noteworthy there.
And then, after a few, equally uninspiring back and forths, I snuck a peep at my phone and saw:
“Are you wet?”
What the fuck! Am I WET?
Now, I was in my early-to-mid sixties during this lapse in good judgment on my part. I’m in my late sixties, now.
I couldn't wrap my head around this. Am. I. Wet.
This guy knew how old I was but knew bubkis about a woman’s body. Like the fact that our natural lubrication flips us the bird and takes a hike as we women approach menopause. And hell, I’d already been there, done that.
As many of you already know, and as the venerable Mayo Clinic states, during menopause, our body’s production of estrogen — the main female hormone — ebbs and flows and eventually decreases permanently.
You’d think a guy would know this, right? Especially a married, older dude with a spouse who’s probably experiencing the same changes in her body?
My friend, writer friend, James Knight (who was ushered off Poopium for having the cojones to speak his mind), is hip to this stuff. As a reproductive physiologist, Jim knows everything about a woman’s body. If you doubt me, read his stories, many of which are smokin’ hot.
Now, you can’t win, as we gals know. Too much estrogen can dramatically increase our risk of developing breast cancer, which is what happened to me. Too little, or none, and you can be dry as a corn husk down south, making intercourse painful AF. (I will address this specific issue in an upcoming story.)
This kick-in-the-ass condition is known as vaginal atrophy, folks. Just one more indignity that comes with aging.
Vaginal moisturizers and lubricants such as Astroglide (rhymes with “slip and slide”) can go a long way in making sex more comfortable. Or even, coconut oil, a natural alternative that doesn’t suck, taste-wise. If Pena coladas are your jam, this is the one to go down on. Plus, coconut oil is ideal for women with allergies or sensitive skin. And what vag isn’t sensitive?
With all that said, I found it hilarious that this dude imagined me getting “wet” because he tossed off a couple of over-heated texts.
“Hey, give me five minutes to hop in the shower. Then I’ll be wet.”
If that sounds harsh, I don’t apologize. This isn’t kindergarten here, guys. If you weren’t paying attention in your Biology class, that’s on you. If you want a more mature woman to ooze in her undies, you have to work at it. It will be worth it, promise.
Right then, I should have tossed the phone aside and called it a night on my studies, but one more text came through that gobsmacked me.
“Do you squirt?”
Oy.
Regardless of the inference, there is nothing remotely sexy about the word “squirt,” do you get me? It will never make my nips hard. There are way too many images that pop into my head that have nothing to do with getting steamed up and everything to do with an iconic chocolate candy bar.
As to my answer to Dumbo’s squirt question, yes, I did, maybe ten, twenty years ago. And, hey, I wouldn’t be averse to giving it a go, just to see if I’m capable of being wet and wild, or just wild. But, for now?
“Only with a bottle opener, baby.”
© Sherry McGuinn, 2023. All Rights Reserved.
Yeah, that question is so incredibly dumb. I'm smart enough not to reveal the secret behind my ability to get "wet" but the fact that these morons think they're talking to a 20 year old leaves a whole lot to be desired, let alone wet.
But to answer your question, I'm both...