Reflections On Sex At Midlife
When I was young, I dreamed of meeting a woman in a small, secluded room cut off from the rest of the world, someplace where my acts had no consequences. She wasn’t necessarily someone I knew; our lives didn’t touch. She had a certain look — auburn hair that just touched her shoulders; deep brown eyes; small, firm breasts with perfect pink nipples — and she performed particular acts I had always dreamed of: sliding down my torso to take me in her mouth as she eyed me coyly; slinging her legs over my shoulders as I entered her. She wanted whatever I wanted, and was deeply satisfied by what we did, satisfied as she had never been. She thought I was the greatest lover in the world.