It’s amazing how three little letters can encompass something so big. From sexual identity to sexual pleasure, sex can mean so many things. But what about sexual wellness? And what does sexual wellness, in the context of menopause, even mean?
Wildly open to interpretation, I’d say my sexual wellness anchors around three things: the mind (as in desire or lack of), the body (relating to both comfort and discomfort), and the soul (should I really be enjoying/pursuing sex given the broader stereotypical view when it comes to older women and sex?).
Let’s start with the mind; kicking off with desire. You may need to pour yourselves a large glass of something cold …
Growing up, no matter how enlightened or educated – or in my case, enamoured with the first vocal feminist in my life, my English teacher Ms Dyer – it was impossible to avoid absorbing the social cues pumped out by 1980s magazines and adverts. Around the age of 14, I began to self-objectify big time – believing my body was there to be judged and critiqued, ultimately for the pleasure of men.
A few decades on, as most of us (thankfully) grow to discover, I understand (thanks to therapy, and having kids) that my body does not exist for the mere titillation of others. This radically new way of being has allowed me to take control not only of my sense of self-worth but also my feelings around self-pleasure. This, let’s call it “sexual awakening”, has resulted in having the best sex of my life … but therein lies the rub (pun intended). By the time the veil of self-objectification fell, and in its place sauntered in a more sexually confident moi, I was pushing 50. Pah! Ancient.
Feeling desirable for the first time, aged 47, freshly divorced, a river of perimenopausal hormones raging through every cell of my body, I shagged a man 20 years younger. TMI, but I loved every hour of it.
This sexual awakening, otherwise known as “no longer giving a *bleep* about the three rolls of fat that have seemingly taken up permanent residency beneath my boobs”, was nothing short of a miracle. Then, guess what happened? Perimenopause (bless her horny little ass) exited stage left – and, with her, the short-lived hormonal river of dewiness dried up like a Sahara riverbed. I never wanted a you-know-what near my you-know-where ever again. For the first time in my life, I experienced the discomfort of vaginal dryness – as the saying goes, “time is a cruel mistress”. Thankfully, there are gels and potions to put things right, as no woman, whether menopausal or not, should exist in a state of scorched earth in her nether regions. And speaking of nether regions, if you haven’t already tried one, I highly recommend investing in a kegel machine.
If perimenopause turned me into a horny cat – one that rubbed its bum up and down lamp-posts while purring at passersby – when it came to sex, menopause made me “meh”. Well, it did until together with my NHS doctor, I found the correct balance of HRT, plus the aforementioned silken gel (that can be easily applied vaginally before sex).
Although society may believe that older women should be basket-weaving away in the corner (because of course the broader culture should have an opinion of what goes on behind the closed doors of a middle-aged woman’s home), many of us are breaking societal stereotypes and bonking whomever we damn well please (sometimes, even our husbands!).
I may have given up on younger men – an exhilarating three-year, post-divorce phase I thoroughly enjoyed – yet I continue to challenge the notion still too often trotted out in Hollywood and beyond, that older women are “non-sexual” beings. Thanks to modern medicine, the rapid decline in oestrogen – the effect of which can alter our mind, body and soul in all manner of precarious ways – can now be quickly dealt with, meaning we’ll be bonking way into our 80s. Stick that in your sexist pipe and smoke it, patriarchy!
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