Being Desired at Sixty

At the age of 59, I upended my life, ending a marriage of almost two decades and moving from the West Coast to the East Coast.

The parting was (relatively) amicable, a quality that had marked the relationship. My ex and I were (and remain) good friends, but we did not make good partners, and without both of us being willing to work on that, it was time to move on.

There were many components to the decision, but a major one was not being desired. Desire was something I had always been used to: I have a good smile and a sense of humor, and (IMO) magnificent cleavage. I’ve never been a girly-girl and I don’t wear make-up as a rule, but I know how to laugh in that deep-throated dirty way that sometimes perks a potential mate’s interest regarding what sounds I’d make in bed, and I give as good as I get when there. So it felt strange to not be desired, not to be perceived as attractive, for over a decade, and it affected my self image deeply. It still does, to be honest.

I am a creature who likes to touch and be touched, both affectionately and sexually. The pandemic brought home the lack of affection, made me confront whether or not I wanted to live out the rest of my days without it. So I raised the question of working on things or moving on, and in the end, the latter was…