WARNING: THIS POST IS NOT FOR THE UPTIGHT, CONSERVATIVE, PRUDE OR ANY OF MY FAMILY MEMBERS (#AWKWARD….).
Now that I got that out the way, I need to talk. I turned 40. I don’t think there’s anything special about turning 40. Um… well as of recently, I don’t think there’s anything special about turning 40. What I believe is that my body has a knowledge of how old it is because, well, I’ve had it since 1975. So IT knows it’s 40 on a cellular level. And apparently on a sexual level. If you’ve been through this, you probably know where this is going. If not, come back when you can focus on other things than wondering when you’ll have your next orgasm and how it’s going down.
I’ve finally reached a point where I’m happy with my body. Yeah, I have a small donut stomach and gravity has hit my boobs (although it’s been kind). I already birthed two kids and retired my uterus for reproductive purposes. However, the act of reproducing weighs heavily on my mind all the time.
Like. All. The. Time.
I’ll blame the desire to want to straddle The Hero until the sun comes up (it’s currently 12:13 a.m.) on God because I can’t imagine that Brown Baby Jesus would be so cruel. Nothing inside of me wants to believe that he thought it would be cool for me at 18 to have a banging body, but no desire while all the boys are trying to hump anything that moves and at 40 to have a seasoned body and all the desire in the universe while men are more interested in sports, cars, cigars and a properly aged bottle of liquor.
But, alas, here I am trying to cope with this overwhelming desire to practice procreation while The Hero snores softly upstairs.
It’s a cruel world.
I thought about cougarism, but the idea of sex with a young man around The Kid’s age makes me feel like a perv. No offense to any cougars, pumas, tigresses or lionesses out there. But I can see killing the vibe by having to instruct Junior. I’ll leave that to the pros.
On the other hand, there are the father figures who still kinda look at me like I’m a spring chicken. Problem is, I see my dad. Every. Single. Time. And a Cadillac hat. Dress socks with sandals. An ensemble. And I hear lines like ‘don’t let the snow on top distract you from the fire below.’ or ‘girl, you finer than frog hair.’ Okay, Google: Do frogs have hair?
But, seriously, this is kinda frustrating.
Maybe I need therapy. Or… maybe I need to go wake up The Hero so I can put him back to sleep again. Hmm….