Turn-Ons After Forty

*Previously pubslished at Club Mom by Edwina Caito

I have never been one to complain about my libido. As a matter of fact, I have always had the strange feeling that I was part rabbit. But since I’ve turned forty, I’ve realized that my hormones are beginning to play cruel tricks on me.

You see, when I should be turned on, I feel as sexual and exciting as a garden gnome. Yet, suddenly, I’ll be aroused by something completely mundane, like a margarine commercial, or something totally outrageous and unexplainable like Gene Simmons singing "God of Thunder" accompanied by the Australian Symphony Orchestra. (Don’t ask.)

Thinking back to when I was a young woman just beginning to explore my sexuality, I can’t help but wonder what the heck I was thinking. That starry-eyed young tart fantasized of sex on a secluded beach under a sky bursting with twinkling stars. Now, my forty year old brain has concluded that the fantasy is good in theory, however, I now have no desire to pick sand out of the nooks and crannies where sand shouldn’t be.

Elaborate sexual schemes involving painful bustiers, flowers, silk scarves and music used to be my forte’. I loved the risk of getting it on in the back seat of a Chevy Nova or the sweaty, exhausting passion of foreplay and intercourse for hours! This lady is now happy to slide between the sheets naked, discover that my husband hasn’t fallen asleep yet and pray the sex is fulfilling and fast. After all, I have laundry to do, carpets to shampoo, a pediatrician’s appointment and a PTA meeting to attend all before ten in the morning.

I used to be turned on by guys with hot cars, cute little butts and popularity. Now I’m hot and bothered by a man with a job, an SUV that seats 7 plus groceries and a cute butt. (Some things never change.) I used to purr like a kitten for men like Johnny Depp, rock stars with long flowing hair and buff, tan guys with washboard abs and rippling muscles everywhere. I was breathless while watching them racing their fast cars, pumping iron or playing a throbbing hard rock tune on their guitars.

Okay, so Johnny Depp is still extremely hot and there’s the Gene Simmons thing. (Again, don’t ask.) Now, my pulse races for the men with a little more around the middle to cuddle up to. Any amount of hair is wonderful so long as it is neat and smells nice. I’m turned on my firefighters risking their lives, businessmen in their crisp shirts and ties and men who work hard just to get the bills paid. Who needs a muscle head, all greased up and preening, when I now get turned on by seeing my husband play My Little Pony with our daughter?

Maybe my hormones are now better suited to shove razor sharp chin hairs out of my face, cause my bottom to slide down the backs of my legs and make me cry during soup commercials. Or maybe it’s my age, life style or years of experience that have changed the way my libido reacts to stimuli, I’m not sure. But I do know that when a good set of false teeth, the smell of muscle rub and a smoothly rolling walker rock my world, it may be time to hang it all up!