Sex after fifty (and gasp) sixty, is tricky. First it must be done in the dark. I'm talking bat-cave dark. This is imperative. After all, who wants to look at sagging breasts and double stomachs? (And these are just my husband's). I have not fared any better, given my cottage cheese thighs, dimpled buttocks, and ... well, you get the picture. Then there are my crow's eyes, with wrinkles deep enough in which to lay pipe.
The dark makes it difficult to distinguish one body part from another. Is that a tushie or a breast? Once body parts are covered in multiple layers of fat, everything feels the same.
Finding a proper position is no easy matter either. Given my recent hip surgery, my right side is tender and must be accommodated. Then there's the problem of my breasts hanging in my mate's face. With the texture and weight of two bags of wet sand, they are in danger of cutting off his breathing if I am on top.
Once we've settled in to a mutually comfortable position, we heave a sigh of relief. "We've done it again," I whisper.
I needn't have bothered. My beloved is fast asleep.