Men in their forties are the best. I’ve thought so ever since I fell in love with one when I was thirty-one. Still strong and also better at it, not so precipitous, if you know what I mean. Not so insistent, not so needy.

I’ll be sixty on my next birthday, and I’ve come to grips with being alone. In fact, I like it most of the time. When I redid the bedroom a couple years ago, I replaced my queen bed with a double. That’s plenty of space for me, and it made the room bigger. I know my chances of finding something lasting at this point are about nil, mostly because I don’t want something lasting. I’m too particular now. Some people, if they were honest, would even say eccentric.

But I miss sex. I really liked it, and I was good at it, if I do say so myself. At least I was enthusiastic. It’s been years without it now—a long time even before Ed died. So as a treat for the beginning of my new decade coming up, I put an ad online in the personals. More private than asking friends, plus I don’t want to hear what they have to say on the subject.

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