Added: Brittan Squires - Date: 12.02.2022 23:35 - Views: 32892 - Clicks: 717
Single, menopausal and fed up with living without sex, Laurett Fenn downloaded several dating apps. I am the poster girl for the menopause, despite the fact that there is absolutely no good news about the menopause. But, after four years of sexless fidelity, I find myself a post-menopausal singleton in the throes of nymphomania.
I want sex more than ever and that fact shreds everything I know about this sad post-fertile state. In discussions about this surge with colleagues, I am encouraged to download Tinder, Bumble and Happn. I may be closer to 60 than 50 but a lifetime of care and good genes mean I can pass for 42 and I do. The menopause has caused me to lose weight and I have a leaner look than I did in my 20s. With gay and straight friends approving my photo profile, I go online expecting ridicule or silence.
I choose the widest male age range — and wait. The response is incredible. The photos have pulled men of 22 — and yes, I could almost be their grandmother — up to My timelines are packed with splendid males, creatures so beautiful that I gasp. Analogue life was never like this. I arrange drinks with younger men and some older. After so many Housewives wants real sex Miracle of having sex with myself, would the old girl downstairs remember what to do? More and more people in my age range are getting STIs and worse.
This alone makes me feel part of a vanguard of sexual vampires who refuse to die. Dryness is news to me. I go into hostess mode. I put out snacks. I remember doing this before the internet! He feels amazing, seems pleased enough and I almost snog the life out of him. Afterwards, he sleeps in completely clobbered stillness and leaves the next morning like a gentleman. But my parts have taken a hit. I must be OK. Getting back into the sex game post-menopause is a little trickier than first time around when the only prerequisites were wearing your best frock and getting drunk.
I actually have to be prepared and careful. For the first time in my life, I buy lubricant for myself and not for the car. Yes, I find a few more men and they are, every single one of them, sexy and gorgeous. I never thought I liked younger men, but I do — not just for their performance levels, although there is that. I love their hopefulness, kindness and interest. Mainly, they are confident and happy and they know a lot more about sex than they should. Are they all equipped with girlfriends at 12?
Do I have online porn to thank for this? But I stop myself. These are men, not therapists or girlfriends. As much as they seem to care, they are here for the same thing I want. She has her own money.
I actually mean this until I have drinks with a couple of men nearer my own age. Meeting with them is a downer. They look backwards, not forwards. Neither time do they offer to come back or even give me a goodnight snog. They are alarmed that I pay for drinks. I try several more clicks on older men, but the younger ones just present themselves better. Blokes my age need to get proper photos — and maybe see the dentist. Meanwhile, my GP is concerned for my sexual health.
With that, I up my game. I change my hair, wear better clothes and listen to new music like the X Ambassadors. I feel younger. I actually feel sexier than I did in my 30s and forget how old I really am. As I spend more time on the apps, I grow bolder. They tell me after three beers that they were always interested. Men at parties begin to ask me out on dates — real, actual dates.
I must smell different or something.
But I worry. I worry about diseases. I worry that my pelvic floor is going to cave in like a Chilean mine. I order a Kegel8, a miracle machine that brings my vagina back to life like a defibrillator. My growler is so strong I can almost climb trees with it. Naturally, I am thrilled. Back at the clinic, I have tests and all are clear. Just as the doctor is drawing blood, my ex calls and we argue. I start to cry and realise how much I really love and miss him.
So, again, I attempt to date someone of my own age. I meet a man who wants a relationship. This is a horrible mistake because I really do not want a permanent man, even if it would make things somewhat less hotel-like: I must be the only person who changes the sheets every time. Sadly, I have to block him on WhatsApp and blame Housewives wants real sex Miracle for hurting his feelings. How could I think I could snap back into a less embarrassing position of dating men half my age and loving it? I never expected danger here. This is about reclamation. I am fighting off the death that menopause automatically brings.
I refuse to be subsumed into its shadow. The weirdos, the beauties and the lonely, lonely men cannot remain the point of my life. I have no idea where this endless parade of unimaginable pleasure will take me. But I have to find out, as every woman does. Confessions of a menopausal nymphomaniac. Laurett Fenn. Sat 7 May Laurett Fenn is a pseudonym. Reuse this content.Housewives wants real sex Miracle
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