Ageless Erotica Read online

  “Come inside me, my love,” she whispers, and he does, with a ghostly tenor cry.

  She collapses onto him. “That was amazing,” “Wow.” The words tumble out from both of them, as if this were the first time, a new revelation of how good they can be together, which, in a way, it always is. She rises up on her elbows, reaches for the tissues. Their eyes lock. He looks especially handsome after they make love, green eyes glowing, cheeks flushed.

  After wiping up, they weave their limbs together and float, deeply satisfied.

  No eyes watch them now.

  SPEAKING

  I have a confession to make. The erotic scene you just read is lifted straight from a recent “lunch” on a day my husband worked from home. By admitting this is memoir and not a fanciful fiction, I know I’ve broken an erotic taboo in our culture, where media expressions of sexual behavior are limited to people in their twenties with perfect bodies. Everyone knows if you are over fifty, you’re allowed to pine wistfully for the sexual gymnastics of your youth or stumble through an arthritic imitation of coupling with the help of pharmaceuticals, but if you happen to have enjoyable sex in real life, heaven forbid with your own spouse, the least you can do for propriety’s sake is keep this information to yourself, thank you very much.

  Mature sex is silenced and erased from view in our society, but the truth is that I am happier and more comfortable with my sensual life now than ever before. A good part of this has to do with the fact I no longer much care what anyone else thinks. I care about how I feel and my partner’s pleasure. By stark contrast, in my younger, officially “fuckable” days, I was rarely alone with my lovers. Unwelcome eyes of judgment and endlessly critical voices were always right there in bed with me.

  Those voices told me my body was never as perfect as a supermodel’s, I never came as fast as porn stars, and my curiosity about sex and acting out fantasies might please my boyfriend at night, but threaten him the next day. Even after I met my husband—perhaps especially because I wanted to be “good” in his eyes—I played it safe and let him take the lead with any new techniques or positions. Only when I started writing and publishing erotica in my mid-thirties did I find the perfect way to explore and express my own new desires. Thus I discovered my greatest turn-on of all: to arouse him with the stories I create from my limitless imagination.

  After twenty-five years of practice in bed—and why can’t we admit practice makes perfect with sex as with any other skill?—my husband and I are not only attuned to each other’s physical responses, but we also have a new awareness of the spiritual connection sex brings. Each time we make love is like a renewal of our vows.

  I wouldn’t have had the courage to tell the truth about my sexual experiences back when I was seen as a sex object. But now that I am a subject, it’s a story I very much want to share.

  BEING

  As an erotica writer, I’ve come to believe that our sexual fantasies have a valuable subtext that may not always be obvious at first blush. The scene that opens this memoir might suggest I harbor a desire to have sex in front of strangers. Nothing would dampen my libido more quickly in real life. Ever since I can remember, however, I have yearned to have my sexuality accepted and appreciated by others. Saying dirty words in bed is titillating, but it also satisfies a deeper need to speak honestly about my desire, something I was forbidden to do as a “nice girl.” Older sex is very sexy. In fact, enriched as it is by experience, wisdom, and spirituality, it is the apotheosis of the human erotic spirit. Wouldn’t we all, both young and old, gain by celebrating the possibility of enjoying sexual intimacy for as long as we live?

  I don’t know what the future will bring, but today, as my husband and I embark on our sixth decade, I’m happy to say that the only voices in our bedroom are ours, whispering encouragement. Now the only eyes watching are his and mine and occasionally a team of horny hockey players—strictly by invitation only.

  OTHER PEOPLE’S STUFF

  Susan St. Aubin

  I’m wearing her fancy underthings, a “her” I’ve never met, though I’ve been through her dresser. That’s where I found these black panties edged in pink lace with a hole where the crotch should be, and a real silk black camisole small enough to cling to my breasts, which sag slightly now in a way that makes them seem fuller.

  I kneel over my husband’s mouth and let his soft gums suck my clit, which thickens until it feels as big as a cock. Now he always removes his dentures for me. I imagine I can fill his soft-as-a-cunt mouth as I slide my swollen little man in and out, pounding until I come. Then he flips me onto my back, my cunt soft and smooth as only an older woman’s can be, slick with the juices of his cunt-mouth, and he rocks his cock gently back and forth until he erupts inside me.

  How did we get here? One day a year ago, when our sex life had declined to rare Saturday mornings, he rolled off me and got out of bed.

  “We make love like zombies,” he said. “Always the same, as if we’re staggering through it.”

  “But it works, Jaz,” I protested. “We both come.”

  “Blind mechanics, Marge,” he said. “We’re sleepwalking. If you’re going through the motions without any emotion, what’s the point?”

  My heart contracted. Hell, my cunt contracted. “Bastard,” I muttered at his retreating backside as he walked out of the bedroom. We’re both fairly fit for being in our late sixties, but even so, his skinny butt drooped.

  Jaz was right. He used to live up to his nickname, but now his rhythm was irregular, and I admit I did nothing to shock it back to what it had been. Our lives seemed frozen. The luxury of Saturday morning sex was exciting when the kids first left home, but soon it became routine. He was always too tired at night, and even after we retired, when we could have fucked anytime, we seemed stuck on the occasional Saturday morning. My creativity went into the yard, where I grew prize-winning roses, instead of cultivating our personal garden.

  “I’m more bored than you are,” I called after him. “Mornings aren’t my best time. What’s the matter with Wednesday afternoons? Or evenings instead of the news?”

  But he couldn’t hear me from the bathroom with the shower already on.

  Jaz brought a pile of advertisements to the breakfast table.

  “Two estate sales in San Francisco,” he said, “then we could go up to Santa Rosa for more, hitting one in Novato and another in Petaluma on the way.”

  That’s what excites him now, I thought. Estate sales.

  We’re the post-modern hunter-gatherers. Every weekend we head out to sales all over the Bay Area. What have these people who’ve died or moved to small apartments left behind that we can use for the few years of relative health and freedom remaining to us? It’s other people’s stuff we want, as well as a taste of other people’s lives. We grab kitchen implements we’ve never heard of (mushroom slicers! nutmeg graters!) and books we regret having given away. We go through closets for clothes we could never have afforded, and garages for nearly new tools we’ll use no more than their original owners did. We leave with stacks of cashmere and tweed, as well as brand-new skill saws and shop benches, all sold for a fraction of their value.

  Later that Saturday I wandered through a four-bedroom home that was stripped almost bare, with sheer white curtains covering dusty windows. There were no books, no clothes in the closets, no dishes in the kitchen, nothing but empty shelves and bulky antique chests I had no use for. The place was picked clean, as if the sale had been going on for weeks. Jaz went to the garage to see what might be left.

  I found a small notebook stuffed in the back of a drawer in an oak highboy in the dining room, with nothing written in it except for one line on the first page: “If it were legal to suck my own boobs, I would.” The handwriting was round and young, the ink faded, the pages yellowed. Through the windows, I saw weeds five feet high and several cactuses—all that remained in a neglected backyard. The swimming pool was covered in algae.

  I wondered about the girl who had wanted to
suck her own breasts and then kept this otherwise empty diary for decades. I was intrigued to imagine the possibility, or impossibility. What had stopped her from trying? Certainly there’d never been a law against it. I popped the notebook into my cloth shopping bag, but there was nothing else for me here.

  I stepped into the hall, opening a door to find a staircase blocked by a single black and yellow plastic strip. I ducked under it and went down the stairs, which curved to reveal, standing at the bottom, a tall, white-haired man with a white goatee, his arms folded, who glared as if he were policing forbidden sections of the house.

  “Oh,” I said with feigned innocence, “are we not supposed to go downstairs?”

  His dark eyes, black turtleneck, and stern face didn’t seem particularly friendly, and yet he held out one hand, motioning me forward. When I reached the bottom, he seemed less threatening. “Those who need to come down are always welcome,” he said with a smile.

  He took my hand and led me into a corridor filled with closed doors, which reminded me of the funeral home where Jaz’s mother had been laid out. I shivered although the basement was warm.

  He opened one door and switched on a light to reveal a bed covered with a white and green bedspread. Immaculate white curtains embroidered with green shamrocks draped the windows, which looked out on a painted backdrop of a cottage garden in early spring, with crocuses and primroses just starting to bloom. One of the walls had white wallpaper covered in shamrocks to match the curtains, while the rest were the pale green of early leaves.

  “In here, we can be on the verge of spring,” he whispered.

  When I didn’t respond, he closed that door and continued down the hall. Behind the next door was the Valentine room, all pink and red with white ruffled curtains and, behind the windows, long stemmed red and pink tulips and white roses. “A bit clichéd, don’t you think?” he asked with a laugh. “And yet, this was her favorite room.” He sighed as he turned off the light, gently shut the door, and took my hand again.

  The next room was Christmas, red and white striped drapes, bare trees covered in snow outside the windows, and red and green cushions on the bed. In one corner a blow-up Santa smiled, plastic arms outstretched.

  “Dirty old man,” my companion laughed. The bed was invitingly turned down, revealing red flannel sheets. “No?” he asked, then switched off the light when I shrugged.

  In the next room, the light was dim, revealing a shadowy scene of walls painted black with zombies lurking outside the windows. On a bed canopied in decaying gray lace, a vampire doll lay on top of a blond doll in a long white dress, his mouth on her neck.

  “Unappetizing, yet strangely exciting. As you know, this is what we come to, some sooner than others.” He shut that door.

  The last room was decorated for a party, with strings of blue and silver crepe paper draped across the ceiling and a bucket of ice holding a champagne bottle on a table near the bed, with two glasses waiting to be filled. The silver shades at the windows were pulled down.

  “The perfect room for marking a new beginning,” he announced as he walked inside.

  I entered for a closer look. The champagne bottle was an empty prop, resting on plastic ice cubes, and the glasses looked a bit dim. When he sat on the bed, a cloud of dust rose.

  I sneezed.

  “I’ve been waiting for the right woman for this room,” he explained.

  When he turned off the light, it was so dark I couldn’t see a thing.

  “We always kept these bedrooms ready, like private theaters for our own play.” His voice seemed to echo in the darkness. “Let the curtain rise.”

  He turned on the light. I found he’d removed the bedspread and most of his clothes, leaving on a pair of shiny black underpants. He lay down on the bed and patted the place beside him.

  I hesitated.

  “You can take your clothes off,” he said. “No one is allowed downstairs unless I invite them.”

  Did he stay down here all day seducing women? I ought to have been offended, but instead I felt myself swell inside, I felt my clit twitch. He didn’t even know my name, and I had no desire to know his.

  “Anyone could walk under that tape, just like I did,” I retorted.

  “No,” he said. “Obedient people never do. Only women who need me come down while their men haunt the garage.”

  I hesitated. Since I hadn’t expected anything like this to happen, my underwear wasn’t the best—plain white waist-high cotton undies beneath my jeans, and a yellowish bra held together with a safety pin under my white cotton T-shirt and sweater.

  “Help yourself to whatever is in her dresser,” the man offered. “You look about the right size.”

  I opened the top drawer and found a pile of brightly colored silk underthings: panties, camisoles, vests edged in lace. The next drawer held cheaper underwear of creative design: crotchless panties, tank tops with holes so your tits could hang out, a low-cut pushup bra in black and white stripes, the tips decorated with red bows. Under that was a drawer devoted to black leather: underwear, vests, armbands, and a pair of suede leggings. The last drawer held a variety of men’s underpants of leather or silk, tank tops in all colors, and leather vests.

  I chose red silk panties and a matching bra, which I felt would go well with my shoulder-length silver hair. Nothing ages a woman faster than short, dyed hair, no matter what stylists tell you.

  The man looked me up and down as I took off my clothes and removed my sad underpinnings.

  “Your skin, your hair,” he murmured, “look finer than any silk. Come here, just as you are.”

  Again I hesitated. No fear of pregnancy, of course, but what about the diseases this seducer might have picked up? I didn’t want to die any sooner that I had to, or have any more discomfort than my knees and back were already starting to give me. And lube! I couldn’t function anymore without plenty of lube.

  He slipped off his underpants, opened the drawer of the bedside table, and produced several condoms and sample packages of various lubricants. I slid the red silk things into my shopping bag, lay down beside him, and closed my eyes, my heart pounding with fear and desire. I felt his hands going over my skin, his fingers reading the braille of roughness along the backs of my arms.

  “You are amazingly well constructed,” he said. “There’s evidence of too much sun on exposed areas, leaving a coarseness to the skin, but,” he added, stroking my ass, “the hidden parts are the silkiest I’ve ever felt.”

  Something in his tone made me wonder if he was a retired physician.

  I could feel his cock hardening between my thighs as we lay on our sides, his fingers drumming on my behind. There was a pause, then his moistened hand slipped across to my cunt, massaging it with lubricant, gently poking a finger inside, then two, a pause for more lube, then three, sliding around, tapping, until I caught my breath.

  He blew my hair off one ear, tracing his tongue along the lobe. He had his wet thumb on my clit by then, rubbing to match the rhythm of his fingers inside.

  He wasn’t hurried like Jaz often was. He seemed to know when I was aroused and when he needed to change the pace. It was almost as if he were inside my body, reading cues only I could feel. His hand might have been mine, and when I felt my cunt throb and clamp on his fingers, they were part of me.

  “Your turn,” I said after we’d rested a minute, his softening cock pressed to my ass while he stroked my hair. I sat up, took that thing in my hand, lifting it to my mouth, glistening it with my spit, then rolling it between my hands like a bread dough that magically grew firmer. When he handed me a rubber, I opened the package with my teeth, sliding it onto his smooth wood. Jaz had been less firm lately, his cock falling sideways like a floppy zombie. Maybe there was more I should have done, like I was doing to this man now as I played his instrument with my mouth as if it were a flute.

  He put his hands on my head, pushing me gently away. “I need your silky insides,” he said.

  He squished the contents
of one of the lube samples into me, then slid his cock inside. I didn’t have to stuff him in, like I often did with Jaz. He moved carefully back and forth, pressing against the underside of my clit, until, unbelievably, I felt a pulsation so faint I hardly knew what it was. I concentrated until it grew solid enough to make my cunt clamp down on him. He shouted as his fluid shot into me, so hot it burned, a sensation that faded as he pulled out.

  “The smoothest yet,” he said, his hand on my breast.

  I reached into my bag beside the bed and pulled out the notebook. He took it eagerly, reading the girl’s note about sucking her boobs, and then laughed out loud. “Even then, she knew what she wanted.”

  He turned the book over in his hand and paged through it, but there was nothing more. “She never kept diaries; she was too busy living. I never saw this one.”

  “Is that her handwriting?” I guessed she was his wife.

  “Childish, of course, but similar. Yes, I’d say it’s hers. She always did have a taste for the unusual. Legal,” he snorted. “Funny, what kids think. They discover sex and it feels so good they figure there must be laws against it.”

  He sat up and began to lick one of my breasts. I sighed. “Did she ever suck her own?”

  “Hers were smaller than these,” he said, fondling my tits with both hands. “I don’t know if she could have done it. We never talked about it.”

  “Mine were smaller when I was young, before I had three kids.”

  “She was just forty when she passed. We had no children.”

  “Boobs do seem to sag with age,” I explained.

  “‘Grow’ would be a nicer term.” He lifted one breast toward my mouth. I stretched out my tongue until I could just reach my nipple, which to my surprise tasted almost as salty as a cock.