A menopausal friend called me this week to talk through something that had upset her. Well, ‘talk through’ isn’t quite the phase. She was steaming mad. Her husband had brought her an early morning cup of tea, climbed back into bed beside her, and told her calmly that sex was about choice; i.e. it was about time she chose a) to have sex more often, and b) to enjoy it again. ‘Be sexual’ he said, patting her on the arm.
‘ A bonk is one thing’, my friend spluttered down the phone line, ‘but being sexual is quite another. It takes up such a lot of time, and anyway, you can’t just turn the damn thing on like a bloody tap. What does he want me to do, call the sodding plumber?’
That could be a solution, I ventured, especially if the plumber had a more developed feminine side, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen. I understand she and her husband are just about talking, but I reckon he’s a lucky fellow not have had his head kicked in, or maybe something worse.
Not that I don’t sympathise with her husband. There is something hang-dog about a man who isn’t having much sex. I should know, I live with one. My husband says it’s the fault of evolution. It’s not fair for older men to continue to yearn for sex only to be slapped away like irritating gnats by wives who have other things occupying their minds…like doing an MA in creative writing, or preferring to sleep with the dog, or escaping with a girl friend to find peace and quiet – usually involving large quantities of wine and a good moan. He then proceeded to tell me that he thinks about sex at least 60 times a day. 60 times a day! I think about it once a month, and that’s a good month.
Thus continues the chronicles of sex, meaning and menopause.
