I can remember days of being in no particular hurry, when staying home with a lover was all the luxury I could imagine. My son would be farmed off to his grandparents and sex with my lover would ease the pain of my failed marriage.
Back then I was a sorry excuse for a hedonist. I was too busy, in my head, rationalizing my fornication. My ex-wife’s adultery could give me some justification. I could tell myself I was “in love”, and might just marry this woman I was schtupping, but by God’s rule book I was still violating one of the Big Ten.
Fast forward about forty four years and I’m still mystified by the Judaeo-Christian rules of sex. The simple desire for orgasm trumps an awful lot of ethical treatises. Then again the ethicists keep harkening back to the children. And the children are pretty damned important.
But now, my breeding years are over. There’s no ovulation going on around here on my wife’s part. Somehow everything else we do is a priority. Everything. Lube is going to waste.
I’m going to have to take some risks, to break this cycle.
Dispatches From Dystopia 
I’ve talked to my husband about getting older. About things like “menopause”, and what that might mean. I should be at least a decade away from it, but you never know? We always have some KY jelly in our nightstand drawer, for “special” occasions. It’s a hard thing, as a woman, to imagine a time when my body won’t cooperate. Worse yet, my MIND. I always want my husband. I get teased about being a “nympho”. Only with my husband, though. I never want him to feel unwanted, unloved. I also so fear the thought of one day arriving, when I no longer have any desire for the excitement we share between our sheets. It’s scary, to think of myself no longer being the same me. Getting older is both terrifying, and something I hope for. The alternative isn’t great. I’m not ready to be done with this life yet. I guess it’s change that I fear the most.