Time plays a ‘swings and roundabouts’ game with women. With maturity come wrinkles and sagging, fading and withering, scraggy neck or double chin and a definite loss of pertness in the pertinent parts. I am increasingly horrified at the amount of loose ‘curtain material’ I have to gather and draw back with one hand while enjoying my wake-up wank of a morning.
I am considering having a couple of piercings and a short chain added so that my folds could be pulled back and hooked up with some sort of tie-back. However, enough about me. Women in general (yes I know the ladies hate a generalisation because they are, each and everyone, their own special ZsaZsa) improve vastly with maturity. The games-playing and the faux coyness tend to go, along with the demanding and the with-holding, the self-obsession and the emotional dishonesty. And they get much more adventurous, much more generous and much more fun at sex.
I have a friend who, at fifty, after a lifetime of mediocre, middle-class sexuality, has suddenly become a “mad, sexual, multi-orgasmic, squirting goddess”. Older women are a veritable prepositional thesaurus of sex : out there, where it’s at, in the zone, up for it, over themselves, into you, and beyond fun. Try one, and you’ll see I am right. Especially if you are young, get yourself an older woman to learn on. You will never regret it. We are the dual control cars of the sex world – you get a shot at driving, but if anything starts to go wrong we just take over, so nothing bad can happen. How much better can it get ?
Sex in General
There is much to be said for sex with the young – the elasticity of the skin and the Duracell Bunny-like energy of callow youth , to say nothing of the kind of erection that could withstand a nuclear blast. But there is something in the adage ‘practice makes perfect’. And never is practice this much fun.
I remember at the beginning of an affair with a chap who liked his girls on top and,more, to be tongued enthusiastically during sex. It took several attempts before my pelvis found the perfect angle and thrust trajectory to keep both of us happy. And once you have mastered a technique it becomes like riding a bike (especially for anyone having sex with my nymphomaniac friend Hilary) – you never forget.
Oral sex undoubtedly improves with age – assuming that the passing years are spent well, of course. A gag reflex doesn’t control itself, girls. And the sangfroid and technique to keep a lady entertained while Looking for Ms Goodbean only develops with maturity. Plus any silly squeamishness passes with the years – the most enthusiastic and cunning of linguists have generally said goodbye to their membership of Club 18-30 and the lustiest licking fellatelists bear the stamp of time.
Only the mature can truly be depraved – the young don’t even know what all of their options are. All the most refined and appalling depravities require a breadth of knowledge and experience that takes time to aquire. De Sade’s magnum opus, 120 days of Sodom was written when he was in his mid to late forties – it is simply not possible that such writing could have been produced earlier.
No one is born depraved and few have depravity thrust upon them – most attain depravity and that takes years, if the depravity is quality depravity and not simple dirty-mindedness and bad behaviour masquerading as such. Think of all the most engagingly and impressively depraved characters you know … the memory of their youth is now mere fodder for the depravities of their maturity. As it should be.
As the memory goes the way of the muscles of the pelvic floor, somehow memories become better. Seen through the veil of the years,past pleasures becomemoreintense in the remembering, past lovers more loveable and past sex more arousing. Fings probably are, despite what the man sang, wot they used to be, it is just that we remember them as better than they were. And why not ?
Wine and Cheese and Places in which to enjoy them
I like cheeses that run across the table to meet me and exude a perfume that is almost three dimensional. I like cheeses that bite my tongue back and make the hairs stand upon the backof my neck. I likecheeses that hint at death and decay, musty as a tomb and redolent with tastes for which we do not have words. These cheeses are mature cheese. These are cheeses for which to set aside an evening. These are cheeses to ponder over, wonder at and discuss. And they don’t get that way overnight.
Although not necessarily always the perfect partner for the above, I likemy wines too with a passing aquaintance with Father Time. My glass is never half empty when it contains something that hung on the vine while the Queen Mother still had her own hips – dense and powerful, layered and lovely, its tannins softened by age and its fruits and its spices ripe. Give me Barolo, Brunello, Amarone and I am transported to a world of glorious sensation.
I like to eat and drink where the floors are stone-flagged or well worn wood, the ceilings are low and dark and the walls are marinaded in decades, eons, eras of eating and quaffing. New, young restaurants are not the place to eat well. They might be the place to eat to impress, to eat experimentally, to eat over business or discussion or gossip, to eat quickly, clinically, to eat little, but not to eat well. They are not the place for an oral odessy. The scents and flavours developed by such treasures as I have described above dissipate and die in the young, untempered atmosphere of a place which is all glass and banquette. Take me somewhere venerable, feed me something gooey or crumbling with age and let me drink something autumnal and I’ll be yours. (see No 1 above, just in case you think I might not be worth it …)