Entry Ten: Sexpectations vs. Reality: Dating in your 40s- Part Deux

What ever happened to a great make-out session and good fingering??

Remember middle school? Teetering on the edge of high school hormones, testing every boundary your body could survive–without actually doing anything more than heavy petting, dry humping, giggling, and praying to God your parents didn’t show up?

The pre-sex era was feral.

Pre-pubescent chaos.

We here horny little fucks with limited motor skills and zero understanding of boundaries–but damn it if it wasn’t thrilling. The butterflies were real, the stakes were low, and the bar for pleasure was a single-graze over your training bra while watching The Sandlot. 

Can I get that feeling again?

Back when the butterflies didn’t come with red flags and trauma bonding wasn’t baked into every swipe right?

When we broke up with someone in our town we called it “cutting”—to be cut was a devastating ordeal.

“You’re cut!” one smug little asshole yelled at me in the middle of the parking lot in jr. high school, surrounded by a posse of kids. He had that Jonathan Taylor Thomas haircut and the smugness of a kid who peaked at twelve. Breaking up with me in front of everyone like he was announcing the Grammys. 

Was I gutted? Probably.

Can’t remember the heartbreak, but I do remember spinning around and saying, “I don’t give a fuck,” like I had Mariah Carey-level self-respect in my dad’s oversized, New York Knicks John Stark’s basketball jersey.

My friends? Probably snickering behind my back. 

One of them definitely wanted his baby-faced ass anyway and was thrilled to see me publicly dumped so she could pounce.

Middle school girlfriends are the most conniving cunts. Girlhood is brutal.

Even back then, we were learning the lesson: Men don’t always care. And women-some women-will happily watch you burn before showing support in any type of fashion. Sad really.

I let that JTT–wannabe break my heart for four entire minutes before I was off chasing another boy. Probably one of my cousin’s hot older friends that wouldn’t turn a blind fucking eye my way.

Because nothing heals a wound like a new fantasy with greasy hair, oversized wide-leg jeans, and bad intentions. 

I’ve always given too much.

Even as a kid.

In friendships. In marriages. In situationships. In family dynamics that should’ve come with warning labels.

I was a fixer. A pleaser. A try-hard who chased people who needed help–or, more accurately, people who drained me while pretending they didn’t ask for anything. 

Meanwhile, I was writing whole-ass fantasy love stories in my head based on men who couldn’t spell emotional intimacy, let alone offer it.

And now, in my 40s, the pattern is still trying to repeat itself–but this time it comes with bad sex instead of humiliation in the quad where my whole middle school class heard my breakup. Shit communication, and narcissistic tendencies on both sides. Because let’s be honest: live with a narcissist long enough and you learn to play the game. 

Gaslighting becomes second language.

And those anxious grumbles in your solar plexus? You just breathe through them. Until they explode into a panic attack in a Trader Joe’s parking lot questioning every single life decision you made up until this point.

I digress–back to my original question:

What. The fuck. Happened. To great make-out sessions and a decent fingering?

And while we’re at it–what happened to all that talk?

All that big dick energy… whispering how you’r gonna ruin me. Have me begging you to stop, screaming your name like I’m audition for a bad porno with a shit plot?

Righhhht.

You weren’t even fully inside me before you started talking about how close you were to finishing. Get a grip. A tight one. 

Dating in your 40s if the equivalent of anal with no lube a zero warning. Painful. Confusing. And someone always ends up needs a wet wipe and a good cry.

Isn’t this the era where we’re supposed to crave pleasure?

Not just orgasms–but intentional, mutual, mind-melting intimacy?

We’ve got more years behind us than ahead of us.

Shouldn’t everything–especially sex–be performed with purpose and grace?

Shouldn’t it be sacred?

Shouldn’t you want to make someone feel wanted, not just used?

Instead, we’re left confused, unsatiate, and trying to figure out if the sex even happened or if I just imagined it as a coping mechanism. 

The first kiss is a sign.

I know if I’m about to get demolished–in the delicious, call-out-of-work, can’t-walk-straight kind of day– or if I’m about to leave that bed searching for my panties and the last shred of my dignity. 

I want long, slow make-out sessions that ruin my day in the best kind of way.

Lazy Sunday mornings where I wake up to your mouth on my skin, your hands tracing the curves of my body. I want you to want to make me feel good. Again and again. Until my knees forget how to function.

And don’t tell me that only happens in the movies.

Because I’ve had it.

And I crave it.

Nobody – man, woman, or anyone in between – should be settling for mediocre orgasms and “did-I-do-that-right?” thrusting.

You deserve to be worshipped.

To be craved.

To be undone.

So here’s my unsolicited PSA:

The next time you have sex – do it like it fucking matters. Do it with intention.

Fawn over the vagina.

Kiss the nipples.

Suck them. Bite them. Speak in tongues if necessary.

Fuck with a purpose.

Make your partner beg for it in a way that turns you on just as much as it wrecks them.

Try new things. Bring toys. Explore your edges. 

Tip over them.

Because when sex is good–with the right person–it’s a goddamn religious experience.

And that blowjob you used to dread giving?

It won’t feel so much like a chore anymore. 

It’ll feel like a gift.

One your mouth is happy to deliver. With grace and a little bit of vengeance. 

Til Next Time…