Elder Sex in a Heartbeat

These days we are in the rhythm of being separated during the week and reunited on Fridays after work. Husband leaves the cottage in the country on Tuesday morning for the 50 minute commute to his office. Why bother coming home he says, when I leave the office at 7 p.m., don’t get home til closer to 8, then we’re in bed by 9:30. Hardly seems worth it. I can’t disagree. So, now we have three nights of independence for both of us! Why? He says the obvious answer is the price of gas. He says he is saving about $250 month by sleeping on the sofa. I know for certain he’s not fooling around. I kinda like this arrangement though I miss him. It gives me a chance to live the single life once again. No worries about checking in. I can arrange an impromptu after work let’s get together for a glass of wine meeting with a girlfriend. Work late if I want to. Stay up all night or go to sleep early. No one to cook for or disagree with. A peaceful interlude.

One reason, I think, that he wanted to do this is that he anticipates that our sex life will improve in a heartbeat the moment he steps back across the threshold. So far, I am dubious. We’ve been running this experiment for the last two months, and instead of an up-tick in our sex life we’re on hold. It appears that “absence makes the heart grow fonder” is not as compelling for us, the 60-somethings, as it might have been when our hormones were raging full strength. I’m not sure if I should be hopeful or discouraged. Right now, I’m feeling more discouraged. True, we have this great Friday night date reunion. We meet up for dinner, review the events of the week (even the ones we shared by telephone or email in the intervening days), hold hands across the table, smile lovingly, sip a glass of wine or two, and then make our way home, one following the other (usually him behind me), hug or touch each other tenderly and fall asleep.  I’ve discovered that sex with a 60-something husband is better in the morning.  But it usually takes a hit of Viagara to get us going, and that means planning, popping the pill an hour before the intended consequence, and spontaneous love goes out the window.  It’s a bummer.   So, lately I’m thinking that perhaps I’m complacently content to have my best friend next to me, we nestle like spoons, and it’s good enough.  I hate it that my body and brain are totally not connected on what I want to do and what I can’t do.  It takes too much lubricant and intention to make love making happen.