Some things really should not be written, because they cannot be unread.
Some information should not be disseminated, because it can’t be gathered back safely to the cloud.
Some things are simply too inappropriate, unseemly and tasteless to merit publishing.
And this is the place you can find all of those things. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
It begins like this:
I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. I’d gone into my college boyfriend’s parents’ bedroom in search of Kleenex, when I noticed something on their night table that shocked and embarrassed me so much it sent me pelting for the exit.
Was it a the entire Penthouse backlog circa 1976?
Was it an intimidating dildo, modeled after Joe Namath?
Was it Michael Jackson’s sparkling white, inexplicable glove?
It was KY Jelly. KY ack Jelly!
The first thing that occurred to me, was that my boyfriend’s elderly parents (they were 47) must still be having sex! And maybe even when I was visiting! (more ack-ing)
The second thing that occurred to me, was that my boyfriend’s mom must not be producing enough of her own – how shall we put it delicately? — moisture to enjoy sexual congress.
From that moment forward, I couldn’t look at my boyfriend’s mom without imagining the bone-dry, parched, arid, possibly desiccated Mojave Desert residing beneath her Calvin Kleins.
But oh, how life has a mischievous way of circling back around to bite us in our own droughty nether regions!
My darlings, the time is here, in my 49th year, for the lubricant to come forth and multiply.
At first, I was in denial, thinking that perhaps my marital sex life was just in a bit of a rut, but as the months went by and Aunt Flo stayed on vacation, I realized my body had entered a new phase and there was no turning back.
At first, I was a little bit embarrassed to tell my husband that I needed lubricant intervention; as if this was my vajayjay’s first inevitable step toward needing its own walker, and one of those electric chair lifts to get it upstairs.
But Henry didn’t bat an eyelash.
Instead, he returned from the store with a wide array of lubricant choices; there was one that heated with friction, another that causes “tingling,” and some that tasted like peaches and cotton candy had a love child.
In fact, Henry seemed positively energized by the notion of taking them all for a test drive.
Which is why I really love that guy.
My first time using a lubricant was kind of like the first time I put glasses on my myopic eyes.
The transformation was instant, I realized how beautiful the world could be, and kicked myself for not trying them sooner.
All of a sudden, things in bed seemed more, well, fluid.
And somehow the addition of lubricant opened the door for other additions; which I’m sure I will detail to your horrification (it should be a word) in future posts to come. (so to speak)
All of this to say, in midlife Henry and I have nothing left to prove and are embracing anything — short of swinging and polyamory – that will keep our sex life yummy.
And we’re always open to more suggestions. What do you do to keep your sex life hopping? Keep it mostly safe for work. xo S
If you liked this article you are going to love Shannon’s book, “Married Sex: Fact & Fiction.” You can order it HERE.