From 2007: I’ve read that men think about sex on average fairly often, some say every few minutes. I don’t know about the rest of them, but it’s true for me. Lust no longer seems to get in the way of other things so much, or maybe I just don’t notice it anymore.

A twenty-something friend of mine says he used to think old guys didn’t think about sex. He figured we were all out of it, and he was looking forward to a well-deserved rest from the relentless pressure to mount somebody.

The pressure is at least no longer relentless, for which I’m grateful—I’m a lot more productive than I used to be. On the other hand, I know a lot more about mounting, some of it illegal in the Deep South, always a good sign.

When I was a young man, I considered sexual congress with every woman I ran across. Most of the time I thought about such a connection for no longer than it took to get a better look at her, but for that split second I seriously thought about what the woman in question might look like naked and whether, given the chance, I would do her.

I’m not likely to act on my favorable judgments, but I do think about it. And that’s not just the first time I see a woman—for a few, it’s whenever I see her. Nowadays my short-term memory is such that I’m continually evaluating the women I run across because I often don’t remember what I decided the last time I looked her over. I try to stay open-minded and in the moment, and now and then I reconsider. Maybe those scabs aren’t so bad after all. It’s how I think about the scabs.

As much as I still love sweet young things, I’m much less attracted to them than I once was, which is just as well because they don’t even see me. Young women—who are not exempt from my review—tend to treat me like a tree stump, something that you don’t want to bump into but can otherwise ignore.

I like older women now, because I know that eventually we would have to talk about something other than a-little-more-to-the-left, and when we got to that part I would want to keep the blank stares to a minimum. Miss December might be great eye candy, but I’m not much on candy these days. Now I want to see some grey hair and wrinkles.

When I consider a woman, I think, “Do I want her? Does she inspire one approach more than another? How about a feather? Whipped cream? Gentle restraints? Chocolate sauce? Curry? Sometimes I have a lot on my mind.

I bet the women in my life—some of them, anyway—would be surprised to learn that every time I see them, I run through the possibilities, and I’d appreciate your keeping this to yourself. Thank you for your cooperation.

Posted Thursday, December 10th, 2009 under aging, lust, sex, Uncategorized.

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  1. You candidly cover my suspicions about men, while mirroring my own development from constantly to more intermittently lustful, as chronos changes us all into tree stumps. I often think my lusty nature is more masculine than my birth gender predicts. My problem is the mental undressing of the aging male—the lust subsides somewhere under the weight of the gut. I admit, the young male body still turns me on more. However, because I am now a tree stump, I no longer branch out on those impulses. Enjoyed your article. Thanks. (Who wrote this piece? I like your candour.)

  2. Oliver Steinberg says:

    Well, Anthony damn well wrote it. Best writer in the opinion business, in my opinion.

    I don t know of any heterosexual male past puberty who wouldn t affirm the truth of every sentence in this column. On the other hand, not many . . . if any at all . . . would say so in plain English. Unless they were bragging about their “conquests,” which in most cases would mean they were lying.

    I think APP may have used the tree stump simile before, but it bears repeating.

    There was a job posting on the electronic want-ads recently, advertising for sperm donors. Those lads can make a lot of money per spurt . . . but they must be young and clean-cut enough to qualify. Gosh, if I had just known back then . . .

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