Ageless Erotica Read online

  AGELESS EROTICA

  EDITED BY JOAN PRICE

  Ageless Erotica

  Copyright © 2013 Joan Price

  Seal Press

  A Member of the Perseus Books Group

  1700 Fourth Street

  Berkeley, California 94710

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ageless Erotica / [edited] by Joan Price.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-58005-460-7

  1. Older people--Sexual behavior--Fiction. 2. Erotic stories, American.

  I. Price, Joan, 1943- editor of compilation.

  PS648.E7A37 2013

  813’.01083538--dc23

  2012041938

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design by Elke Barter

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  Joan Price

  TO BED

  Erobintica

  SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMETHING BLUE

  Nancy Weber

  DOLORES PARK

  Dale Chase

  INVITATION TO LUNCH

  Donna George Storey

  OTHER PEOPLE’S STUFF

  Susan St. Aubin

  LADY BELLA

  I.G. Frederick

  HAND JOBS

  Kate Dominic

  SMOOTH AND SLIPPERY

  Doug Harrison

  TONY TEMPO

  Tsaurah Litzky

  BETTER THAN VIBRATORS

  Cheri Crystal

  AFTER TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS

  Dorothy Freed

  MY NEW VAGINA

  Audrienne Roberts Womack

  TRAIN RIDE

  Harris Tweed

  AT THE WANE OF THE MOON

  Bill Noble

  PEAS IN A POD

  Maryn Blackburn

  ENDLESS PRAISE, TIMELESS LOVE

  Linda Poelzl

  THE HOTEL LOUNGE

  Skyler Karadan

  COMING FULL CIRCLE

  Cela Winter

  GEORGE

  Lorna Lee

  IN THE MEANTIME

  Miriam Kura

  MR. SMITH, MS. JONES WILL SEE YOU NOW

  D.L. King

  JAGUAR DREAMS

  Evvy Lynn

  TOAST FOR BREAKFAST

  Cheyenne Blue

  BY THE BOOK

  Rae Padilla Francoeur

  BLIND, NOT DEAD

  Johnny Dragona

  AFTER DINNER EUPHORIA

  Peter Baltensperger

  THE WACKY IRAQI, THE SHAMAN LOVER, AND ME

  Erica Manfred

  BEYOND THE DOUBLE DOORS

  Sue Katz

  MORNING

  Belle Burroughs Shepherd

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  INTRODUCTION

  Joan Price

  Older folks still enjoy sex—boy, do they!—and you might be startled by the diversity of plot, characters, theme, and imaginative sex acts in this anthology of erotica by, for, and about women and men ages fifty to eighty-plus.

  How did this collection of senior erotica come about?

  Since 2005, I have been on a mission to talk out loud about senior sex, and I’ve become known as a spokesperson and activist for older-age sexuality. I’ve written award-winning books and a popular blog about sex and aging, I give talks and workshops, and I’m pulling senior sex out from under the covers and showing people of my age, as well as those older and younger, that we don’t need to give up our sexuality just because our bodies are older. Yes, there are age- and health-related challenges that we need to face, but with knowledge and creativity (a sense of humor helps, too), we can dance to our sensual music and leap over every barrier—even with arthritic knees.

  But where is the erotica for and about our age group? Personally, I don’t respond to erotica that’s all about sopping-wet panties, rock-hard erections, and instant orgasms. I know the brain is our primary sex organ, but my aging brain wants to be stimulated by sexy stories that reflect my experience and the realities of my age group in a way that’s both truthful and racy. I neither wish nor need to go back in time to spark my fire, even in my fantasies.

  With much encouragement whenever I shared this idea with readers and audiences, I began envisioning an erotica anthology by senior writers featuring sexy senior characters. The stories could be fiction or memoir, but they had to reflect the sexual experience of our age group with some accuracy—not just slapping wrinkles and an arbitrary age on the same old, youth-oriented erotica.

  I put out the call for submissions on my blog, on Facebook, and on sites that attracted writers of erotica, and I encouraged others to pass it along. I knew that erotica writers over fifty, sixty, seventy were out there, but would they be willing to write for our older audience specifically?

  They were not only willing—they were enthusiastic. I received 106 completed submissions by the deadline, and close to a hundred additional inquiries. The variety of characters, sexual events, interactions, and attitudes thrilled me. Skilled writers—many widely published, some new to this genre—sent me erotica about sizzling sex in long-term relationships, new encounters, and solo pleasure. Some were tender, some were rough, some were lyrical, some were raunchy. They wrote about women with men, women with women, men with men, and women pleasuring themselves. You’ll even meet a woman with a jaguar. The writers in this anthology bare the challenges of sex, relationships, love, and living in an aging body with accuracy and compassion, and sometimes with humor. Many of these stories are based on true experiences; others are fiction; many are a combination. All are sexy and proud.

  I know my vision of senior erotica will be challenged. You may not want to know the realistic details of sex at our age—that we may need pillows under our creaky knees, that we’re sometimes embarrassed about how our aging bodies look, that our medications may affect our libido, that sometimes we can’t reach orgasm without a vibrator or have erections without a pill. You may question the eroticism of comparing HIV medications or enjoying a sexual encounter that does not end in orgasm.

  You may, in fact, question the whole premise of this anthology, that “senior erotica” needs to be different than the traditional genre, as erotica writer Tsaurah Litzky did in an open letter to me:

  I am a senior, a proud sixty-eight-year-old senior who still responds to and is excited by rock hard erections, be they real, virtual, or imagined. I don’t consider my golden years a time to abandon faithful and fulfilling fantasies but rather a time to cherish them and acquire new ones. As for the “sopping wet panties,” while it is true that my panties now rarely get wet enough to be considered “sopping” or even damp, my mind is as wet and wild as ever, maybe even more so.

  I don’t challenge anyone else’s view of erotica—I applaud every way that your imagination stimulates you. I do think it’s time to embrace a new notion of erotica or to expand the old one, so that we includes details of what actual sex is like at our age, and how we don’t just accept it—we celebrate and eroticize it. That’s what our Ageless Erotica writers did here.

  I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I do. Please email me at [email protected] and let me know.

  TO BED

  Erobintica

  We undress. You stand, unbuttoning your heavy flannel shirt while I sit on the edge of the bed, unzipping my black suede boots. We talk about the movie we just watched, sitting together on the sofa, sharin
g a lap blanket to ward off the January chill. Every now and then I reach over and take your hand, wishing our sofa were more snuggle-worthy. Mission-style furniture, for all its aesthetic appeal, is not at all encouraging of eroticism. Straight, hard lines don’t allow for loose wrapping of limbs.

  I watch from the corner of my eye as you undo your belt and slide your jeans down to reveal oh-so-sexy army surplus long underwear. Swedish blue, and seen better days. You’ve never been a snappy dresser. Clothes are just practical coverings that have to somewhat match the activity. You unbutton your shirt, remove it, then slip your T-shirt over a mostly gray beard and receding hairline. Still so handsome to me. I watch you slip your wool socks off. We both know we’re going to have sex. It’s been almost a week, and there is a subtle charge to the air.

  But there is no overt suggestiveness. Often I want that, longing for the enticement of candlelight and the slow progression from small touches to all-out ecstasy. But not tonight. Never good at seductive disrobing, I slip out of my jeans and pull my sweater over my head. As I undress, thoughts of unattractiveness creep in. My body has seen births and weight fluctuations. It is not the body of the young woman you married. My large breasts hang close to my rippled belly, which is streaked with stretch marks. But your familiarity with the skin I’m in helps me overcome my self-consciousness.

  The bare wood floor is cold, and by the time we both climb under the covers of our waterbed, my feet are cold, my toes icy. Yours are too, but not like mine. We laugh about our “popsicle toes” and tuck them all together, seeking warmth. We spoon, my back to your belly, and you wrap an arm around me and gently knead the softness of my stomach. I recognize the affection of this little gesture. In the past, I might have taken it as critical, me never having a flat stomach, even before children, and always wishing for one. But you have loved me in my body through thick and never-ever-thin, and I’m finally able to appreciate that. I snuggle closer as we talk a bit more.

  It is dark, only hours from a new moon. Often I like some light. The gentle flicker of candles or the bluish glow of moonlight, especially reflected from snow, something we’ve had little of this winter. Despite the stereotypes, I am the more visual of the two of us. We’ve talked about this. Especially as I explored my sexuality, unbridling myself from residual shame as I’ve aged. For years I took your preference for dark as your preference for not seeing. But you said you most enjoy focusing on touch, and sound, the changes in breath. They are your turn-ons. I like the dark as much as the light now, and tonight I don’t even think of setting match to flame.

  As we talk, we both comment on how quiet the house seems. I even wonder if the power has gone out, it’s that quiet. Tonight is the first time we’ve had the house to ourselves in over a month. Though our two oldest moved out years ago, our youngest, still in college, was home for winter break. There is a subtle inhibition I feel when others are in the house. Even though we made love often through all the years our kids were growing, I hadn’t realized until now how much I like having our privacy back.

  Our conversation slowly drops off, and I feel your fingers on my belly, more deliberate as they make small stroking movements, then brush against the curls of my pubic hair. I smile in the dark. This small gesture lets me know that you, too, want sex. Since we sleep in the nude and are cuddly and affectionate most of the time, we have subtle signals to communicate desire.

  There was a time when just the slightest touch from you—on my lower abdomen, the side of my breast, or along the line from the nape of my neck to my lower back—would turn me on instantly. And sometimes, if I’ve been reading or writing erotica, priming the pump, so to speak, it still does.

  But we’re both at that age: We’re slowing down, and our reactions are slowing down. Our desires are no longer hair-trigger, and I’m thankful we’ve learned to give ourselves time to warm up, to let our bodies catch up. When I went through menopause and arousal began to take longer, I often would get discouraged and give up. I think of this as your fingers find a nipple and give it a slight pinch and I can feel my response, not quite as electric as before. But I love sex and could not imagine living without it. Neither can you. With time, we found that if we just kept going, eventually our bodies would get the hint, and the end result would be worth the effort.

  You play with my breasts, and I can feel your cock begin to stir against me. I reach a hand back, stroke the outside of your hip and down your thigh to let you know I know. By this time we’ve stopped talking. I often wonder what is going through your head, and I have asked you, wanting to hear your fantasies, but you tell me you’re just concentrating on what you feel—my nipple hardening under your fingers—and what you hear—the small catch in my breath as you touch me somewhere unexpected.

  These days my mind is often a jumble as we begin our love-making. I remember the load of laundry I forgot to move from the washer to the dryer, or I think about the erotica story that I’ve been working on. I’ve found that, just like my physical erotic response, my creative erotic mind has slowed down too, and the erotica does not flow so easily from my imagination to my keyboard. My hope is that, just like with our perseverance between the covers, if I work past the it’s-not-happening stage, the sex will also happen on the page as it does in our bed.

  It helps that you support and enjoy my erotic writings. I remember when we sat in bed, you snuggled against me, and I read to you the first erotic piece of mine to appear in print. I was nervous, worried you wouldn’t like it, even though you’d read it several times. But you liked listening, and it turned you on. I smile and roll over, turning towards you.

  With my head resting on the pillow next to yours, I stroke your chest and brush against one of your nipples as I press my crotch against your upper thigh. We often take turns, you doing to me, me doing to you, though I realize that as of late, I’ve not been as bold as I’ve been in the past. While part of my brain wants to examine that more closely, your hand tracing my curves draws my attention back to the here and now. It is time to concentrate.

  Your cock is still not fully hard, so I play my fingers around it, through the curls around it, along the crease of thigh, over your hip, and around to the small of your back. As I hear your breathing quicken, I feel my arousal. I press against you, move my hips, and then take you in my hand and stroke the underside of your now rapidly hardening penis. I cup your balls and press several fingers against your perineum, rubbing and listening to your breath get raspy. This turns me on even more, and I grind against you, find myself aching for you to be inside me.

  Sometimes I roll onto my back and you reach down between my legs. There is a sound you make when you first feel my wetness that sends me to a joyous place. It does not seem to matter to you if it is my own natural lube or if it’s from a bottle. You slip a finger inside, two, even three, and you stroke and press and I begin to lose the thoughts and just experience. Sometimes we play with our arousal, bringing each other close and then backing off, a zigzag path up the mountain that can seem to go on for hours since we know each other’s bodies so well.

  But tonight is different. You have yet to place your hand between my legs. Have yet to finger my soft folds, tickle my clit. And while I love all that, tonight I want the immediate sensation of your cock in my cunt. I raise myself and straddle you, not an easy move anymore on our waterbed. With my hand, I guide you to the entrance and slowly sink onto you. You make that sound, the one you make when you find me wet, but it’s more intensified, and I sense that if I wanted to, I could just come right then and there, just from hearing that. But I love the feel of you inside me, so I refocus and start moving my body with yours.

  As I ride you, moving up and down, sliding back and forth, or the stirring motion I like so well, you grip my ass, my hips. You reach up and take hold of each nipple, and I lean back and reach behind me and caress your balls. We both sense that orgasm won’t take long, and we give in to the animal in us, and just fuck. I can feel my peak approaching. I do this thing with my hi
ps, a press into you that makes my clit and g-spot happy at the same time. I feel a little surge of fluid escape me as we press and press into each other. It’s almost as if we’re trying to fuse with each other, and then, I’m there.

  I try to hold still, just feel the rush, but you are bucking and soon you grab my hips and hold me to you as you orgasm, too. Suddenly I am aware of the noise we’ve been making, the moans and cries and gasps that haven’t been stifled, because suddenly they cease and we’re both just panting. I feel the pulsations of you inside me, and I twitch a few times, the aftershocks of my orgasm. Then I climb off you and drop onto my back as we both catch our breath.

  I have a fleeting regret that it’s over so soon. I’ve grown to love the long, drawn-out lovemaking that we do. But these “quickies” are a rare treat and remind me that we are not machines with an obsolescence date. It is in these moments after we’ve done the work to arouse each other and ourselves, after we’ve copulated like the best of animals, after that moment of “little death,” that I feel most thankful.

  SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMETHING BLUE

  Nancy Weber

  If the name Victoria Delvaux rings a bell, you probably read about me in Avid and Ribald Pensioners Monthly: “Oldest Living Tantric Goddess Says, ‘Skip the Gym if You Must, but Wiggle Your Kegels Every Day.’” The story—which was published on my seventieth birthday—drew twice as many emails as the Jane Fonda cover. The server crashed for two hours! How’s that for celebrating with a bang? An ob-gyn said I should get a Nobel Prize in Medicine.

  Instead I got a summons to divorce court. My lawfully bedded Lewis, “the luckiest man in America,” had found another woman. No matter that seventy suited me fine. I was triumphantly lithe and lubricious; let the numbers fall where they might. But Lewis, on the verge of seventy-five, couldn’t deal with having an “old” wife. My big round number shrunk his psyche. And his penis wasn’t far behind.

  For whom, you ask, does a bald, white, commodity trader leave a Tantric goddess, albeit one with some mileage? A teen with tip-tilted tits and smart-phone savvy? Hold onto your hats, my darlings; it was worse. He ditched me for a fiftyish frump who didn’t know kundalini from Kandinsky. Here’s what she had: season tickets to the New York Giants. Her uber-connected husband had died and gone to the Skybox, bequeathing her a pair of premium seats on the fifty-yard line. Plus parking in the players’ lot.