Wednesdays

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.

Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.