Unless you’ve been living under a rock, by now you’ve heard the term gray divorce, likely in conjunction with the news that Al and Tipper Gore are splitting up after 40 years.

Of course, the original announcement was followed by a claim that Al Gore’s marital defection was in fact the result of an affair, with denials coming fast and furious. As I continue to read related articles, I find myself shaking my head at those who are (foolishly) leaving marriages at 55 or 60 or older, whatever the reason.

Did I really say foolishly?

You bet I did. Whether you believe that leaving a 40-year marriage is necessary following infidelity or for any number of other motivations, Al and Tipper Gore hardly represent the norm when it comes to calling it quits on wedded non-bliss.

Or are they like the rest of us in more ways than we realize?

Love in ruins?

Is it all about boredom? The grinding of teeth? Never putting down the toilet seat?

Whatever the reason, dismantling a long-term marriage is no small thing, and if the husband leaves, often the female partner finds herself ill-equipped for re-entry in the single world. Depending on age and finances, making her way in her 50s, 60s, or beyond may prove daunting, especially if divorce is long, expensive, and contentious.

So what about those habits that drive you nuts? If you stuck it out for 30 years, should you – for 20 more?

Call me crazy, but I’m particularly surprised when couples mutually agree to split at 50 or older. I wonder why they don’t stay married and do as they please, especially if children are no longer in the picture. Why go through the drama of divorce at all?

The desire for fire

For women – if you have money for “maintenance,” you may be fine. If another relationship is of no interest, likewise. But if you’d like a compatible partner after 50 or 60 or older, think again. You’ve got a tough road ahead.

And gentlemen – if you believe women don’t still want sex at that age, consider this: Freed from the worries of pregnancy, some of us want it more as we mature. We’ve got plenty of desire to go around. What we don’t have plenty of is partners.

Trending?

The Village Voice is now crediting the Al and Tipper Gore split for a rash of recent “old people divorces” – citing such causes as general unhappiness, emotional distance, and the typical irritations of, well. . . decades of irritations.

According to the article, it’s the women who are predominantly initiating divorce, a position which is backed up by yet more references elaborating the benefits of marriage for men, and how “marriage sucks for women.”

Stay? Go? One last chance?

So what do we conclude? Have Al and Tipper started a trend, or are they the graying poster children for the Baby Boomers doing what they do – chasing impossible dreams – still?

While I don’t believe that anyone should “settle” for unhappiness, I have my doubts about contradictory data – women as more financially stable than ever before (in what demographics?), men marrying wealthier women (I have the same question), all the while anecdotal evidence persists that men shy away when women are too self-sufficient.*

So I repeat: Where does that leave men and women in our dotage? Better off single, married, or divorced?

Revisiting data

I wonder what the statistics will reveal in five years time. Will older divorcing couples be more content? More accomplished? Or disappointed? Will they be adding to the burdens of their adult children? The health care system? Or will “all of us old people” be happily hooking up on Craig’s List?

Maybe if you’re Al or Tipper Gore, or Helen Mirren (also mentioned in the Village Voice article), then go for it. In Mirren’s case, you’ve got talent and beauty on your side. As for the Gores, you’ve got resources and celebrity, which means access to whatever you might desire to enhance your marketability.

And the rest of us?

I’m all for freedom and chasing the dream, but this doesn’t strike me as a promising trend, if indeed it is one. If we still believe in Make Love Not War, then why bother with the legalities?

*More Men Marrying Wealthier Women, NYTimes, (01/19/10)

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

He was also smart and funny as hell. He could chat on any subject, was upbeat by nature, and found fascination in everything – all of which carried over to the bedroom, where laughter, curiosity, and playfulness were the hallmarks of his sexual style.

Chemistry? Shhhhh… Don’t tell, but we had it in spades. He was a remarkable and inventive lover, and we dated for a couple of months.

Sexy men, Jon Hamm, sexy-in-process

Some men are just sexy. Melt-my-loins, knock-me-in-the-gut, pass-me-a-fan hot-hottie-hot. Take, for example, Jon Hamm.

Yes,  I am speaking of our talented and complex protagonist on AMC TV’s Mad Men. While I don’t generally go for classically handsome, Jon Hamm fits the bill. But I can actually say I find him sexy in spite of his classic looks. It’s in the eyes, the carriage, the voice, and the enormous talent in playing that role. And yes, I get it – it’s in the script! But the man is hot, in or out of character, and in or out of the crisp white shirt and skinny tie. 

There are plenty of celebrities who don’t wield typical criteria for “hotness.” But watch them perform and you’re hooked. Sex appeal has much to do with  humor, competence and passion in professional and creative pursuits. And let’s face it – smart is sexy.

But what about sexy-in-process? What about my Hardy look-alike who was wildly fun in bed? Is a fabulous encounter as simple as looking beyond the superficial, and taking the time to get to know each other?

Sometimes sexy-in-process blossoms before your eyes – and often with the proverbial “nice guy.”  Shouldn’t we be giving these men a shot, beyond first impressions? What have we got to lose?

Sexy women, Brigitte Bardot, sexy-in-process

Do women suffer from the same challenges and possibilities, the sense of being invisible in the crowd if there is no lust at first sight? Of course. Our culture fosters equal opportunity ignorance and impatience.

Some women are drop-dead gorgeous, and sizzling hot. Although a matter of taste, among contemporary celebrities I’d put Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz in that category. Part of their magic? Not only beauty, but tremendous talent, and an aura of sensuality that is irresistible.

And then there are the classics. The originals. The women I grew up wanting to emulate. It should come as no surprise that Brigitte Bardot was among them – for me, the epitome of sex kitten. What’s not to love about beautiful eyes, tousled tresses, and the perfect pout? But it’s more – a combination of sultry sexuality, childlike vulnerability, and a dash of je ne sais quoi Parisian-style.

As for women who are not conventionally beautiful, but have the sexy-in-process factor going for them? The studious ones, the quirky ones, the girl next door whose innocent face masks desire? How many good women are being dismissed, because they don’t appear packaged in the latest market-ready format?

New year, new you, new-you-in-process

Whether we make resolutions or not, those of us who aren’t in relationships would like to be, though we may not admit it. And we think about it frequently during the holidays, and at the beginning of a new year.

Am I about to say that I’ve resolved to practice my pout, dye and tease my hair, then restyle my ample assets à la Brigitte Bardot? Uh – non, non, et non.

But what I will suggest for the new year is this: what if the “new you” or the “new me” had to do with keeping an open mind when we meet someone? What if the new-you-in-process took your time, and possibly discovered a gem beneath a wrinkled shirt, an imperfect smile, a shy demeanor, or a non-Hamm, non-Hayek or non-Bardot physique?

I know that devilish delights may lurk where you least expect. Take the time to read a person’s energy, to hear their voice, their stories, and their capacity for welcoming yours. And don’t judge the book you’ll discover in the bedroom, by the jacket cover you’ll be anxious to leave at the door.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Or should I say, did you score? Did you hook up? Or are you more comfortable if I ask if you made love?

Whatever you call it, great sex is great sex, right? Not exactly? Then do our distinctions in terminology serve us, or complicate matters?

When it comes to sex and love, these days – everyone seems confused. I can’t help but wonder if the problem is an issue of language, at least in part, and an implicitly assigned value system we ascribe to the words we use. Are we living by a hierarchy of intimate encounters that we judge in their aftermath?

Rules, no matter what

When we’re young, any sexual contact is a “score” – and may also be a credential, an obstacle to overcome, a source of embarrassment, or an accomplishment. Good, bad or indifferent, sex is a constant preoccupation, and not just for the young.

The caveats and exceptions to the rules of engagement? They are many, including socially acceptable age ranges, mutual consent, guidelines about power relationships (like boss-employee or teacher-student). There are cultural and religious boundaries that reserve intimacy for marriage, the taboos against incest, and the impossible-to-unravel stigmas and myths around older man-younger woman, and older woman-younger man.

All that aside, “doing it” is considered a rite of passage. And once beyond that barrier, a vast area of self and other opens, and the real exploration unfolds.

Scorecard or report card?

So returning to the essence of my original question – did you have sex this week, or did you make love?  And why is it that at age 30, “making love” may rate an A on the report card, but “having sex” – even if it was fantastic – only earns a B? What about relations after a long marriage, then divorce at 40 or 50? Will sex of any sort garner high marks from the friends, without further qualification? Do these assessments vary by gender?

It seems we all swim (consciously or not) in a constantly shifting pool of approval (or not), a sort of system of standards tied to demographics, personal history, life stage, or all of the above. Must we really assign judgment to our assorted encounters – or authority to the judgment of others?

Great sex is great sex

Some say yes to the carnal side of life. Period. The sexual aspects of any relationship – one night or a lifetime – are fundamental.

Some don’t ask these questions. Or they pose them later in life, when they sense something is missing.

Others qualify their musings on this topic; perhaps the diversity of sexual encounters before, during and after long-term relationships enable them to do so. Their journeys have taught many shades of sexual expression, something beyond a simplistic mention of compatibility, or a tally of partners, positions and orgasms.

Some experience sex without investment in emotion as good and part of the many ways sexuality plays out. Tenderness, intimacy, and shared comforts needn’t be banished from the bedroom because the word “love” isn’t spoken.

Lovemaking

The distinction between sex and lovemaking is vital to some men and women. They seek lovemaking – a fusion of body and spirit; they assume, or ascribe love to acts of lovemaking.

When we introduce truly splendid sex into the mix, do some of us confuse it with love? Do we then call it lovemaking, grade it with the long-awaited “A,” and hang on too tightly?

Must you be “in love” to “make love?”

Men, women and sexual energy

I suspect that men and women grow similar in our inclinations as we gain experience, capable of recognizing the differences between sex with emotion and sex without. But then we’re back to individual perception. To history. To personal needs. Yes, we love great sex – but great lovemaking? Does that remain the fine bottle of wine worth the wait? The holy grail, for some more than others?

• What about sex as fun, or joyful exercise?
• What about the fact that sex is a natural anti-depressant?
• What about the way it energizes and fills us with a sense of being alive?

“Just sex”

“Just sex” is often the phrase reserved for the contrite cheating lover; it is dismissive and impersonal, rationalizing infidelity where fidelity is assumed. Sex is slotted into a compartment as a physical act, a bodily function. We place boundaries around it, separating it from lovemaking.

When we are honest with ourselves, isn’t “just sex” - sex? Enjoyable, mediocre, fabulous, empty, affirming, or whatever else any coupling might entail on a given day? Don’t we understand “just sex” quite well, especially if we’ve ever been married for a long period of time?

Eroticism

Where does eroticism slide into our sticky spectrum of sex to lovemaking? Does it fit somewhere along the scale we’ve devised – deserving of an A+ or extra credit? Does it exist in some other dimension altogether, veiled or tucked away beyond closed doors and discussion?

If eroticism involves the forbidden, the “little bit naughty” or something more, might it be as simple as sexy stilettos in bed? Is it the twists and turns of a supple body and a Tantric consciousness?

Is it role play for all participants, unusual locales, experimentation, games and toys, a provocative sharing of consensual attitudes and activities? Is it always about the thrill of pushing boundaries, even just a little?

When you move into realms of the erotic, the sexual magnetism of our partners may be heightened; encounters reverberate and replay in our minds, in our fantasies, and in our expectations and needs. We’ve journeyed to a new place in ourselves; we don’t want to lose sight of that landscape.

When the sex is extraordinary, must we convince ourselves it’s love? And why is love always tied to the A or the A+ in our assessment? Are we back to a socially-sanctioned hierarchy of sexual experience, in which the pinnacle is love?

Good is good, whatever you call it

Great sex may be soulful, imaginative, lighthearted, tender, unexpected, intense in sensation, and overflowing with emotion. It may also serve as a bridge to a deep place of self that longs for solace or celebration; we’ve experienced a loss or a win, and the connective tissue of shared emotion deepens the experience, even if only briefly. After all, our vulnerable selves are inside each other, joined, and we are quite literally not alone.

Why do we feel compelled to package, label, and channel sexual experiences into compartments? Do we manufacture love where it doesn’t exist in order to feel comfortable with splendid sex?

And if our hearts and lives are tenderly intertwined, whatever the assessment of our physical encounters,  are we not making love?

In this fusion, will there always be confusion?


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Let’s make things easier from the beginning, shall we? I enjoy a boatload of “stuff” – you know – good, touchy, playful, devilish, wild, tender… stuff. But don’t stick your tongue in my ear. Please.

Gross

I’ve been giving this considerable thought. For years. And I’ve reached the stage in life where I must speak out on this critical matter, this particular sexual practice. It’s uncomfortable. It’s odd. It’s slurpy. In fact, it’s gross.

So, here’s the gist: either millions of women are tolerating this bizarre flicker of foreplay and keeping mum, or I’m missing the tongue-in-ear erogenous gene. Tongue in cheek? No problem. Tongue in ear? Non merci.

Wench wax

Honestly, I don’t get it. What is the appeal of an upper orifice with no erotic receptivity? It’s just a container for a dainty deposit of wax. Rather like a honeycomb. So if you aren’t a bee, why would you want to visit?

As for other amorous arenas, oh Torso-to-Drive-Me-Mad, it would be my privilege to offer you a treasure trove – with or without map. And my only interdiction is my very un-erogenous outer-inner ears, though I suspect I wouldn’t like you to lap my eyelids or my nostrils. So perhaps we might dispense with that as well.

Terrain remains

Ah, Regal-Receptacle-of-My-Insatiable-Desire, much still remains at your disposition: lick my lobes, nuzzle my nipples, sample my scent along the back of my neck, linger on my lips, my hips, in my valleys and grottos with all manner of marvelous manipulations. Just keep the damn tongue out of my ears.

Now, a matter of reciprocity. Let’s talk about your particular points of pleasure. Might you suggest one or two areas of squirely sensitivity? I am happy to meander and explore without cues, or you may offer maps, signposts, or other participatory indications in a two-way communication. You know I am nothing if not a proponent of communication.

Humming and thrumming

Should you permit, I might mention that I have found a wide range of uniquely receptive regions on the male physique, some of which are off the beaten path, as it were. You’d be surprised. Discoveries may await – a little humming here, a little thrumming there; we have much mutual music to make together.

So, Landed-Lover-of-All-Things-Tactile, allow me to concoct my own capricious causeway to your stars, or do tell – any acts to avoid? And enlighten me: what might you crave, what sweetness and succor of your daring dreams may we give and receive? After all, ’tis the season – for snuggling, and sharing confidences.

Kisses,

BLW

…

…
…

…

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

…

Yes. Come closer.

I have poured myself a drink and spread myself out, on top of the bed covers, propped against red pillows in all this turbulence. Sleeplessness tangles sheets and twists blankets. As for the rest of the room, it is chaotic and I have only my excuses, surveying each table and dresser, each chair and the floor. Everything is spilling over with too much, and not enough of what is essential.

Outside, the wind asserts its dominance. It howls and releases. Limbs bend and leaves are ripped off their stems, whirling then scattering as branches scrape against my windows. Sunlight holds its own against shadow, flaunting its impermanence and renewal. Nature in all her hubris is glorious. And she knows it.

Yes. Come closer.

* * *

I take another sip. So we may drift together in the black brew of fire and permissiveness, its jolts and fingertips, only a little dangerous, only moderately electric, only the crackle and buzz as I stretch my legs out and point, reminding myself there is still movement and control. There are still parts that sustain their beauty.

And now, what is not mine: I am waiting and my eyes are closed, my pulse points perfumed, my blindness, a willing companion so I may persist in the life I do not lead, though these memories are real. Perhaps some are real and others, only the splint of this alcohol that distorts recollection. But there are objects, and I can touch them, even in this life I do not lead.

I wear the little black slip, the one found near rue des Archives, and the light jacket that covers the arms with a gossamer fabric, chocolaty, its draping following the curves of my breasts and my waist and my hips. I am covered and uncovered. We are never required to bare all. We only need our minds, ready to spin sugar into burning.

Yes. These aromas are infused with spice and heat.

* * *

I have the trappings for the life I do not lead, the life imagined, the life once tasted, the life in another time and another place – and I suspect it is Paris. Paris where I own my certainties and my illusions and know the difference, Paris where I have been content, opened, cultivated, jostled, reduced, polished, reconstructed, and shuffled into a fitting and unfitting mosaic in the making, always in the making, atoms and molecules, reconfiguring.

Now there is this fiery drink, and it is atoms and molecules, reconfiguring. It is dark and sweet and more dangerous than it lets on.

Your voice is lavish and will not leave me. There are remnants of luxury, an entirety of us, nine pages in a loose-leaf binder, hardly a beginning, still no ending. Perhaps, the telling of an imagined tale, an image that refuses to shatter. You are glass, a hard confection to be melted on my palate.

* * *

I have the trappings of another life: dresses and shoes, scarves and gloves, earrings and bracelets, paintings and books, yes books more than anything a richesse of books.

I have the trappings of another life: manners and mannerisms, the transformation of speech that turns on with the flick of a switch, that flows from my adaptive self, my chameleon self, the survivor, the dreamer, the woman who will live elsewhere without knowing the exact address, without names although those, too, I possess, and more than a few. Here, here in the depths of imagination, here in the life I do not lead, here where hunger swells and rarely diminishes, here you enchant me. You are smoke and invention.

It is hotter now, and I could blame it on drink but know it for what it is: desire. You opened the window. Your arm is heavy on my small frame as you sleep, but I will not wake you or ask you to move it. I want the moment, though its weight may numb my body. There are other rooms to furnish in another flat. But I have only this clarity. Only this heat.

* * *

I sip fire and want more. There is no more.

I need another source, a stronger source, an infinite source, shared, so I may pour out a sweet excess and offer you a home: the avid, famished, insolent, impudent, insistent, tender, docile, remote, proximate tip of flesh and spirit. And then another. Each dipped into the glass of drink, born of thirst.

This is the life I do not lead.

* * *

In this life I do not lead I nonetheless take inventory – un stockage de tout – china and crystal in the armoire, silver from my grandmother, etched florals on cordial glasses for after dinner port. These are trappings and mementos, objects that honor memory and I am the designated caretaker. But there is so much that it oppresses, and pins me down.

There are books, and I allow their continuing entry. If only I could sprawl on this bed and read them all, as you keep me company, memorizing my lines with your eyes on me and your palm on me as we abandon everything but this: words, and the undocumented spirit, birthed and swaddled, trussed and unleashed, here for intimate gatherings of poets and writers, here for painters and photographers, here for artisans and shamans, here wherever “here” may find us; it was the dream for each of us once, separately, and rekindled.

It is the dream, to navigate currents in the vein of healers and angels, recipients of gaping, braided, holy, uniquely winged hearts.

In this life I do not lead I am the conservator for volumes on shelves and in stacks; they lend their structure to each corner in each room where they stand, teeter, tower, and proud in their imperfect bodies, so human in their lean pillars and spirals, books and more books for opening and pointing to passages, for the volupté of their papers and inks and ideas, their sparks of possibility. And now we are deep into the drink together, deep into my truest faith where you will find my sweetest sex: this, the life I do not lead, this cerebral and sensory script, this word-sex that punctuates our pauses, your lapses in speech as now our breathing hitches and stops, alternates its patterns of scratching and teasing and easing off.

I feel you pressing on me again too heavily, your voice undermining my resolve and dancing in me at the same time, yes, to the moon that darts from behind the clouds, yes to the moan that cannot be stifled, yes to the shudder that lingers in our newest alphabet, yes to the unidentifiable letters strung along a glittering line, yes as you begin again, and again I sip, and you whisper, and you press your salty mouth to my wrist, its kiss seeded and flourishing and on to my forearm, to my shoulder, to the nape of my neck, to my lips, dipping and meandering with your own famished tongue, ribbons loosening their satin, time evaporating in this sumptuous sinking into interiors, long circles of sound and silence, opening and tightening, closer now, closer, here in this crisp and crackling splendor, in this permeating flood of heat, here…  here in this life I do not lead.

* * *

I offer you this: the lair, the echo, the unread passage. I do not want a palace and you know it, only space enough for a selection of objects with which we may entertain. There are friends to welcome into conversation, so perhaps it is a palace after all but not of square footage, and not of pretension. Here, you offer variation on the drink, red and more than red, the texture of your skin, your long limbs, your fur-covered chest where I may bury my face for hours and I cannot tell where lovemaking begins and stories end because lovemaking forgets its table of contents and burns its coda, and lovemaking is not sex. But this is sex and lovemaking, storytelling and lovemaking, and something else that requires no parts of speech.

Here there are no answers and no questions.

Here there is the plenitude of nine pages with scribbled notes that came before, and occasional notes that come after.

Here I would entice you to come again but I wait for another; he has possessions of his own, sorcery and syllables and no need of confession because together and apart we have nothing to confess and no shred of regret; we spill into each other in the life I lead and the life you lead, and I know myself for who I am: the vessel that yields and expands, receptacle for wine and slumber, once drenched in the work of everything, in the torpor of mid-summer and the window opened as you sleep, appropriating strength again to wake, to smile, and begin again.

You roll onto your back. You sit up. You offer me another sip of dark drink on your morning tongue and I will not say no to any of your flavors.

Here, even as you know I am waiting, here in the jumble of mess and books, here you extend one last reading and I am reminded that my fingers are crafted for Braille, my tongue for Braille, my breasts and my sex for Braille to read you over and over and one last time. You remind me that Braille was French and I laugh and say of course, and recognize you again – sorcerer, playmate, scholar, instructor, friend, lover, friend perhaps most of all; lover who graces nine pages, lover who must say goodbye, lover who whispers come closer and we burrow inside our hard, bright blindness, each a bride for the other, a bride to face the rising sun, a bride to worship yes and accept goodbye.

* * *

In this life I do not lead there are poppies.

In this life I do not lead I refashion landscapes.

In this life I do not lead, we bathe together and drink together and shed disguises. We abandon inventories and brave the hand without its pen. Instead, we store sensation in the barrels of the body, in cells and singing.

I close my eyes and sip, my eyes bound to the lover’s blindfold of belief, your words lapping me, assembled to recreate me in your turn, here as I imagine you, here pooling and breathless, here as I stumble to architect whatever is necessary to persevere, here in the trappings of a life I do not lead, here in the selves I hasten to pin and nail together into something that functions: a backbone erected to stand and fight, vertebrae fused to retain a form that bends to survive, bends like the limbs assaulted by the howling wind, bends because I am a supple form, bends because I pray to trial by fire, and fire by drink, and the fire of your mouth, my limbs losing force and cradled only by the secrets of these red pillows as I recreate the life I lead from the life I do not lead.

And still, I whisper.

Yes, come closer.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Well men sure do!

Sexual attraction is inexplicable, elusive, magical, and for some, it’s embarrassing to talk about. Difficult to put into words what attracts you – what you’d like more of.

But not to worry! Here’s your chance, and it’s just you and me. No one’s listening. No one at all. Really. And you can even whisper if you like. Just type very, very gently. Come on, you can do it. Let’s talk...

Understanding sexual attraction

How do you explain what draws you to a man or woman? Is understanding sexual attraction really as simple as pheromones?

Sorry, but I just don’t buy it. That may be a partial answer, but I think sexual attraction demands a complex formula to draw more than a passing look. Is it a tone of voice, a glint in his eye, the graceful way she crosses her legs or runs a fingertip across the surface of her lips when she’s deep in thought? Is it his humming when he’s happy, or just the sight of his hands, then imagining what they can do to you, for you, with you, and later that night, gathering up your child and tucking her in?

Common sources of attraction, comical sources of attraction

Hot for a clown costume on your beloved? Probably not. Then again – if it incites a roiling riot in your most passionate heart, it may indeed bring on a festive and impromptu joining of more than the minds. Does laughter get your juices going?

Might you succumb to moody and mysterious surprises? Perhaps of the romantic sort – complete with a late supper served in bed? Or are you more for the exotic erotic episodes, like Hot Mama in her thigh-high boots, a corset (from Dorset), a hint of spicy fragrance, and that little smile that reminds you of anything but the Mona Lisa?

What are your top 10 sexual fantasies?

Thought about that lately? Worthy of a few drunken scribbles or two, if not as part of a writing challenge, perhaps to place under the pillow of your personal partner, um… to assist with research?

In fact, men and women share more sexual fantasies than you might think, and here are some of the elements that  often come into play in sexual attraction, sexual play, and sexual fantasy:

• humor
• trust
• flirty dirty talk
• role play
• costumes
• unusual locations
• the unexpected
• objets d’art

And surprise, surprise… some men have an affinity for women with nerdy glasses! So, could that special sparkle you can’t quite define be anything? A mole on his cheek? Her laugh lines? The way he looks in his old jeans on a lazy Sunday morning?

What convergence of character, context, and sensory suggestiveness gets your motor revving?

Sex toys – no not yet

Sorry, no. The sex toy study is taking a tad longer… long distance… with properly researched references, of course. I am nothing if not a stickler for facts, like any good journalist. But I’d welcome a lively discussion of the delicious fantasies hidden in your virtual (or actual) goody closet, some that you may have dared to enact as part of connubial bliss, or in other relationships.

And if you’re post marriage, do you feel freer to explore, to have fun with sexuality? (I will confess, to get things rolling, that I certainly do… )

As for favorite fantasies and spectacle spectacles

I’ve encountered the glasses sexual fantasy more than a few times. Hugh Grant in those goggles? It was so silly that humor alone made me want to give him a tumble.

And yes, I’m happy to report that many men attest to a distinct affinity for a woman with nerdy glasses – and imagining what happens when they come off. If only I’d known that years ago to mitigate the childhood teasing and 25 years of wearing contacts. Now, I simply tuck my glasses into my cleavage when I don’t need them. Any volunteers to help me find them, when they’re lost?

So spill on the glasses fantasy already! Is it a recollection of a second grade crush on a sweet teacher? The secretary-morphs-into-vixen scenario, circa 1955? Are chignon and hairpins a requirement? (I’ve got them. Will it help my love life??)

Does anyone else remember “How to Marry a Millionaire” when blind-as-a-bat Marilyn Monroe finally puts on her glasses, and the man who adores her says she looks beautiful?

Strange sources of attraction

I don’t kiss and tell, but you can bet that lingerie and great shoes are part of my grownup playtime, when I’m fortunate enough to enjoy some. I also adore unexpected locales (within reason). But believe it or not, there’s nothing quite so hot as a tall man in comfortable jeans with a big smile of appreciation for my antics. Um, well, except if I were writing 3/4 drunk (upcoming experiment), in which case I might admit to a few other sources of entertainment. Not involving glasses, other than those containing a bold red wine.

So tell me -

• What draws you to your lover or spouse?
• Do you believe the old adage that opposites attract?
• What fantasy foibles do you still imagine in your ideal partner?
• For those who wear glasses, are you getting passes?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

What’s impossible – for me – is to read or hear those words and not think of the Rolling Stones!

I can’t get no… satisfaction…

As long as we’ve moved to Rolling Stones lyrics, let’s go with the flow for a minute. Somehow, in our culture, we seem to think we can – and should – get everything we want. Or most of it. Satisfaction of our desires, whatever they may be. Financial hardship has chipped away at that for many recently, but recession aside, let’s think about personal wants and personal satisfaction.

Theoretically, it’s possible, isn’t it? Is the problem what we want? Patience? Priorities?

And what about needs? Should we be shifting focus to what we need, rather than what we want? Are we confusing wants and needs?

Can you distinguish wants versus needs?

How often do you say “I need” and “I want” interchangeably? Can you distinguish between what you require and what you desire?

You know when you’re deprived of something truly necessary to your physiological well-being – food, water, shelter, heat – and to your sense of safety or security. Then there is the gray area (for me) of needs and wants that deal in both personal and social contexts, like recognition for your accomplishments, and the drive to achieve. For those who took Psychology in college, this is Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. I’m glossing over these principles (forgive me), but Maslow deals with human motivations – survival, socialization, and self actualization (self fulfillment). 

Needs fall into the realm of psychology; it’s interesting that the issue of wants in the context of needs generally leads to a debate over economics or consumer behaviors. If handed a $100 bill, can you determine what you need (food, a coat) versus what you want (an iPod, sexy shoes)? Similarly, in a gym full of hotties, can you distinguish between the need to continue to work out (for your health) and the desire to chat up the cute blonde who just hopped off the stair master, or the weight lifter toweling off next to you?

Wants are what we desire, not what we must have so as not to expire. (Sounds like another lyric, doesn’t it?) So where does sex fit in? And what about romantic love?

Then you just might find you get what you need

In our witless world of internet dating, relationships that plunge off the edge of the earth, dismissive disappearances through texting and email, human beings still form attachments to others. Do we need those attachments, those feelings of belonging and love? I say yes, though I could also argue that we won’t die without them, which would indicate they are wants.

Categories aside – most of us want to be needed, and need to be wanted. That applies to sexual desire, as well as to who we are – the need or want to be seen, accepted, valued, loved. So, we arrive at the much sought after sex + love connection.  Are these the most natural (and necessary) of the wants? Certainly, the love biz (along with centuries of literary masterworks) reflects our human preoccupation with both.

Love hurts

Flash forward to contemporary life: you may find someone you love, and those three little words are not returned. Or you hear those words, and you wish you hadn’t. Your heart isn’t in the same place; timing, chemistry, or logistics may be off. Whatever the elusive elixir of desire and commitment, it can’t be forced. You can’t always get what you want.

Let’s face it. Love hurts, much of the time, particularly when you can’t get what you want. But perhaps it’s for the best. Friendship may take root where love wasn’t meant to be, or you realize your heart has expanded through the experience of loving, and you know yourself better as a result. Perhaps the future will offer something different that fits in a healthier way. Perhaps the future holds reconnection.

And so, after all, as the Rolling Stones remind us, you just might find… you get what you need.

When you look at yourself, what do you see?

• Do you know your wants from your needs?
• How has the equation changed with time?
• What about your personal achievement goals – needs or wants?
• Were there times when you didn’t get what you wanted, and were better off?
• Must love hurt? Is it worth it, even if you can’t always get what you want?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I make the distinction between divorced dads and single dads of other types because, let’s be honest, divorce is often a long and contentious process. Approaching a new relationship – sexual or otherwise – carries mixed emotions. After all, I’m a divorced woman who’s been through it – from separation to the first year or two in a new “status,” to re-entering those tumultuous dating waters. And having written about sex and the single mom, I wanted to hear from divorced dads.

The data

While I don’t claim to have representative data, I do have input from both sides of the Mississippi and – you guessed it – France.

And my, my, but you dads are discreet! I am impressed. It’s nice to see that most of you do not kiss-and-tell. But you did lend a bit of your experience to my informal queries, which may help some of our single moms know what’s up as we try to decipher your behaviors. So thanks to the dads who provided a few tales and tidbits, which was enough to share what follows.

Booze and booty

• No surprise here, but booty calls are alive and well, including among men in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. And yes,  alcohol is often involved.

• Internet booty calls are very popular as an initial method of meet-and-greet, leading to a cocktail or two, and you-know-what.

• When it comes to Internet dating – the visual still rules! That initial photo makes a big difference – for both sides of the gender divide.

• Men do lie about age, height and relationship status; some figure it’s irrelevant, particularly if booty is the objective. (Women do this, too, from the stories I’ve heard from men.)

• Men don’t care so much about a woman’s lies – if they’re just looking for a hook-up.

• If a man likes a woman, honesty is important, right from the start.

“No thanks” is rare, but not unheard of

• Divorced dads can score pretty easily, if they choose to. Not all do.

• Some men seek emotional attachment, or at least a “liking” for the lady before bedding her, and that may take more than a few dates.

• Sex on the first date often means no seconds – date, that is. And generally, it’s a relationship killer.

• Those initial impressions are indelible – resemblance to a photo (if Internet-introduced), scent, voice, smile.

• Getting back in the game isn’t a given; it takes time for re-entry, both to socialize comfortably, or to score.

Hot in bed, luke warm in life

• For many who are newly divorced, it’s all about the sex; for some, it’s an attempt to heal through relationship. (Guys, the same is true for the women I know.)

• Great sex doesn’t require emotional connection, and a great relationship doesn’t guarantee great sex. No scoop here! But we are reminded that sex and love are not one and the same.

• That aside, many intrepid divorced dads are looking for both!

Kids and privacy

• Separation of church and state seems to be the rule. Divorced dads don’t bring someone around to meet their kids unless there’s a relationship. It needn’t have run-off-to-Vegas in the future, but it’s more than a fling.

• Otherwise, sexual adventures are kept out of sight and out of earshot.

• Age of children and custodial arrangements are significant factors in sleepovers and meetings.

Hearts and parts

• For some, experimentation takes priority – sampling many flowers in a variety of gardens may be the norm, for some time after divorce.

• When a man really likes a woman, he takes his time. Or at least, more time, before making a move.

• Long-term divorced dads have left their share of broken hearts, and had theirs shredded a time or two.

• Repeaters abound (to my surprise) – those who continue to fall for women who are guaranteed to break their hearts. (This is not confined to men, or those who are divorced.)

• Preferred parts of the female form are, of course, a matter of personal preference. There are as many ass men as leg men as boob men and small-of-the-back men… well, you get the picture. And dating younger (women), or wanting to, is still verrrrry common.

• Single dads interested in a relationship, if they’re actively involved with their kids, want to date women who are moms; there’s common ground of the most fundamental sort.

• In the population I sampled – late 30s to mid 60s – when the heart is involved, the rest is secondary. Parts are parts, and hearts rule. Maybe we get better with age in more ways than one!

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

France. That fine, flourishing, familiar place where I have friends – and lovers. The country that is home to my heart, where the streets energize me, the wine transports me, the art – even more so. And where I may indulge in the tongue of my choice.

Surely in a past life I was a flirty French shoe designer, or the inspiration for one while penning poetry!

Cultural… touch points

As for the lovers – for now, they’re part of another self, and other stories. Still, I’m happy that those with whom I’ve enjoyed delicious times remain in touch, and friends. It was one of those gentlemen on the phone yesterday, as though he could read my mood, my restlessness, even across thousands of miles of ocean.

“Viens me voir,” he said. His deep, gravely voice; I recognized it immediately though it’s been a while. Just the sound of it subtly shifts the interior temperatures in my rooms. I take off my scarf. I unbutton my sweater. “Come to see me. It’s been too long. You need the break, and we could work on some projects together.”

Projects, I think to myself, smiling. Actually, we had discussed certain collaborations…

Paris, burning

When France calls, if I can – I answer. But I no longer have anyone to take my 16-year old so I can go out of town, anywhere. Then there’s the money situation, which makes a trip impossible. As if anticipating my thought process, he says:  “I’ll get the ticket. Things are going fine. And you know you can stay with me.”

He has a two bedroom apartment, and the offer was genuine. He’s a real friend, and we’ve been through much together – some in Paris. Some long distance.

I was imagining the worn wooden floors that creak beneath my bare feet, the tiny kitchen where he taught me to make a mayonnaise, the lovely little salon with its view of the city, our picnics on the Moroccan rug. His bedroom. What goes on in his bedroom.

I plucked myself out of that reverie. My son is not mature enough to leave alone, and going off for a week is out of the question right now.

Parenthood, presenting

“I can’t,” I said. Silence. Then: “I’ll come there. You’ll still relax, and we’ll put our heads together, on… whatever.”

I smiled again. For a moment, scenes from French Kiss flickered through my mind. And others. What a dreamy prospect, having him here, even for a few days. Then again, I’d have to clean my house and that would be a nightmare. Of course, with the right motivation…

Then I thought of my 16-year old. Overnight guests have been rare, despite 8 years of being single. I’ve kept to my own rule: only if it’s a relationship, plenty of time has passed, and my kids are comfortable with the man. That has never included a purely sexual relationship, nor one that is sexual + friendship. There would be no explaining this man arriving from Paris, seemingly out of nowhere.

“It won’t work,” I said.

He took a long breath, and said he’d call again soon. I heard the regret in his tone, and though he isn’t a parent, he respects my priorities. So we’ll talk next week, perhaps visit online. Meanwhile, I’ve got images of the Eiffel Tower in my head, and others, to soothe my restlessness. For a little while.


© D A Wolf

version française / French version / © D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Oh, there’s nothing like a great roll in the hay. Or on a nice mattress, if you prefer not plucking straw (or splinters) out of your hair and derrière, respectively.  Mmm…  images of an open field, a soft breeze, a sensual afternoon… all the more delicious if love is in the air.

Anyone have private recollections of passionate encounters that makes you smile to yourself?

Was it while you were married, and if so, was it with your spouse?

It’s not really such a strange question when you look at statistics on marriage and sex, as well as statistics on divorce and infidelity.

Incidentally, according to one much cited source (Durex), in 2003 people were having sex an average of 127 times a year.

Hmm. In 2003 I was having no sex, which leaves me trying to figure out who offset my “zero” in order for the average to settle at 127 tantalizing times.

More statistics on marriage and sex

Those statistics came from About.com’s marriage pages. You will also note that Bulgarians, Hungarians and Russians were reported as most sexually active (150 times/year). I attribute this to brutally cold temperatures and fiery vodka, combining to stimulate all manner of heat-producing activity.

Perhaps a change in continents would lead to a livelier sex life?

So, how often do married couples have sex?

That same 2003 Durex survey stated that Americans (specifically) had sex 118 times/year, which doesn’t leave me feeling any better about my less than rousing performance. As for married couples, data from 2001 offers a still enthusiastic 98 times a year, which is roughly twice a week.

I say again, hmmm.

Data, thy name is manipulation

Let us probe further, shall we? I find myself wondering about:

• the voracity of the data
• the nature of the “representative” sample
• ages of the participants, how long married; if remarried
• if they have children, how old and how many
• income and employment levels (money worries or lack thereof, availability of domestic assistance)

Then there’s the fudge factor, a.k.a. exaggeration to avoid embarrassment. Don’t forget the European study on sexual satisfaction, and wine as the secret to a flourishing sex life…  Might there be factual fabrications whenever sexuality is involved?

Call me crazy, but I can imagine twice a week during the first months of marriage. Maybe even a year. But I’d be shocked to find more than once a month by year 5 (with children), much less by year 10 – with or without kiddos around the house.

Random musings, a few factoids

Personally, I believe that most marriages start out with a bang, and dwindle to a fizzle in the carnal pleasure department. And it happens fast.

According to a detailed study on sexuality and long-term marriage, what goes on outside the bedroom has a huge influence. That makes sense (to me). Nonetheless, I give you this chilling quote from the aforementioned research:

“Using data from the National Survey of Families and Households, Call, Sprecher, and Schwartz (1995) find that sexual frequency declines precipitously during the first year of marriage with a slow but steady decline thereafter. They speculate that the dramatic decline in frequency of marital sexual intercourse over the first year of marriage reflects “a reduction in the novelty of the physical pleasure provided by sex with a particular partner and a reduction in the perceived need to maintain high levels of sexual behavior.”

Kids, work, money, fatigue, routine – the one-two (three-four?) punch for libido? Love may survive, but sexual excitement and engagement? Apparently, it’s common for all things sexy and spicy to lose their staying power.

Does that explain infidelity? 

Furtive phone calls

The purposeful or “accidental” use of infidelity to spice up the boudoir is another matter.

Is infidelity in marriage inevitable? Does it always mean the end of a marriage?

As for infidelity statistics, they’re eye-opening – not only the numbers but the ways.

It’s a topic deserving of its own in-depth exploration, for another morning. But let’s just say, any furtive phone calls you can remember in your pre-divorce days? Any going on now?

While we’ve all heard our share of tales where sexy texting leads to divorce, the phone has long been the tie that binds lovers, and facilitates sextracurricular activities.

Marriage continues to thrive

When you look into the frequency of tying the knot, there’s no question that marriage continues to thrive despite evolving views on sexuality.

But then what? What about the quality of sex life that follows? Is it simply unrealistic to think that people who love each other can sustain an active and engaging sex life as the years go on?

Why this topic?

I  haven’t tallied up the occurrences, but I do write about love and sex (as well as parenting and shoes). They’re all big in my world. Yet I haven’t written about love and sex (particularly sex) in the context of marriage. In fact, there’s been no discussion of “married sex” – in part because there’s little to say that’s exotic or erotic, at least, in my experience. And, according to what most of my friends (male and female) have shared with me.

That led me to ponder:

Married sex – is it an oxymoron? Good married sex – is that the real issue?

Getting off on a cheerier note

I have one or two friends who tell me they’ve experienced terrific married sex, for a number of years. That cheers me immeasurably!

• Are they the exception?
• Have they done something the rest of us haven’t?
• Or have they used extracurricular activity to spice things up?
• Playful forays into role playing?
• Other sexy secrets for battling boredom?

Anyone care to weigh in?

• What do you think about married sex? An oxymoron?
• It wears out, like a favorite pair of heels?
• New heels required?
• Do all marriages dissolve into loving roommates at best, or just dissolve?

…

© D A Wolf