Are you having sex? What does that mean?

It's important for us to redefine what we mean by "having sex" and being "sexually active," especially with our changing bodies, relationships, and circumstances as we age.

In my view, "having sex" means doing whatever arouses and pleases us sexually, whether partnered (any gender) or solo, with or without sex toys, with or without orgasm, in any manner that turns us on. 

Did I leave out anything? 

It's annoying and it doesn't serve us when "having sex" or "sexually active" only refers to partnered sex, and especially when it only refers to PIV (penis in vagina) sex. Media, researchers, survey takers, doctors, please take note!

I'd like to invite a discussion here. Answer #1 and any of the others that interest you with as much information as you're willing to share:

• How old are you, and how would you define "having sex" or being "sexually active" at this age?
• Do you consider solo sex to be "real" sex? Why or why not?
• If you were surveyed about whether you are sexually active, how would you answer? What would you mean by that answer?
• Has your doctor or other medical professional asked you about whether you're sexually active? 
• If you asked your doctor or other medical professional about a sex-related concern? How did that go?

 

Please post your answers as comments here, or if you're confused about how to do that, email me with "post on blog for me" as your subject header, and I'll do it for you. (Include a first name of your choice -- it doesn't have to be your own.)

Thank you. I look forward to sharing views with you about this important topic.

#AdultSexEdMonth

Remembering Robert today

I'm missing Robert terribly today. Tomorrow is Father's Day. I'm reminded of the beautiful photo that his son, Mitch Rice, posted on his Facebook page last Father's Day.

I never knew Robert as the dashing 50-year-old dancer in the photo -- he was 64 when we met (still dashing and still a dancer!), and I was 57. Looking back, we were youngsters. I'm now 71; he would have been 78. How I wish we could have grown old together.

In case you're new to our story, Robert and I had exactly seven years together -- first kiss to last kiss -- before we lost him to cancer. Our love story catapulted me into this world I inhabit now, the world of writing and speaking about senior sex. This August, I will have had as many years without him as with him. 

Today I bought a new car. I sold Robert's 2006 Volvo, which I had been driving since he died. It felt like one more letting-go to sell his car. A few months ago, my 16-year-old cat Amo died. Robert had never liked a cat before, let alone loved one. He loved Amo.

I know that my memories of Robert won't fade just because my cat died and his car is gone, but it feels like some pages of our time together have been ripped out, or maybe I'm living chapters of a new book that doesn't include him. I don't know if I'm making sense, or even if it's a good idea to write this for my public blog instead of my private journal -- perhaps you'll tell me.

And yet, much as I still ache to hold my sweet Robert, to kiss his warm lips and hear his loving voice, I'm never truly without him. He's here in my house with his art adorning my walls. He sends me bird chirps and flowers and the occasional salamander. He rustles the trees and smiles at me on the dance floor. He tells me how proud he is when I finish a new book -- a book he'll never get to read.

Driving my new car home, I was nervous. I've been in two extremely serious automobile accidents. They were both the fault of other drivers, but still, I don't trust my driving skills, and driving a car I'm not used to makes me anxious. I was trying to relax, when suddenly I felt that Robert was sitting in the seat beside me. 

I don't mean I was hallucinating. No, I knew the seat was empty. Nevertheless, he was there, and he reassured me in a gentle voice. 

"Are you here to make sure I'm safe?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said.  

For the rest of the drive home, I played songs that he had loved, or that we had danced to together, or that reminded me of him for some other reason. 

Thank you, Robert, for loving me so deeply and teaching me to love fully. I take that with me on my path.