Can You Be Too Old For Sex?

Everybody is getting older. We are all in fact travelling through time at a rate of one second per second, in an inescapable journey into the future. In general I don’t worry about this particularly, most of the time my internal age is somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, and I’m happy like that.

My external age though, continues to increase, as does that of everyone I know. Still, that’s usually a fact of very little consequence to me. Until this week when I encountered a newspaper report which said ‘the porn industry treats sex over forty as a fetish’!
I stopped to think when I read that. Really? Is having sex over forty actually unusual?

I’m well aware that most people I’ve discussed it with believe that their parents don’t have sex, despite the clear evidence to the contrary. Unless of course, you know you were conceived entirely by medical science or a virgin birth. Feel free to let me know if you can prove the latter. Is this the same problem in another form? Do twenty-somethings really believe that when they get to forty that they won’t want to ‘do it’ any more?

Certainly porn does indeed often present sex as something for young attractive people only. I’ve also been disappointed by the way fantasy writings portray sex and ageing as well. The Gor novels (and there’s a whole load of controversy there I know), present the scenario of young desirable women being captured to be sex slaves and then promptly vaccinated to prevent them ageing. Heinlein started off in a better vein presenting sex as a continuing and enjoyable part of life, but rather spoiled it for me by rescuing his ageing heroine (Mama Maureen) and promptly rejuvenating her, so she need never be old again.
None of this ‘sex is for the young’ reflects reality as I see it. Certainly ageing brings about changes, and the sort of sex people have does tend to change in some ways as they get older. But wouldn’t it be nice just to say older people love having sex too.

Certainly when I’m forty, and fifty, and sixty, and…well you get the idea. I intend to carry on enjoying my sex life to the full, and I hope you all do too.


In our recently new found enthusiasm, Perrin and I decided to buy some new toys. We’d not looked very far before we came across a leather goods site which we simply couldn’t pass by without buying something. After much admiration we decided on impulse to buy a collar and some cuffs, and placed an order.

Perrin has never put a collar on me. Our bdsm play has always been implicitly negotiated, starting and ending in a fairly ad hoc manner.  It tends to the informal; playing punctuated by random side comments and discussion. Not that it can’t get quite focused, the whipping this weekend being an example of an impulsive moment which worked perfectly.

I have however worn a collar before. My ex, who we’ll call Sam, gave it to me.

My submissive fantasies have been with me all my life, but I had never given them expression. Sam and I were involved in a long distance vanilla relationship. Occasional weekends of intense sexual activity followed by long periods apart. On one of these weekends he loaned me the first Gor novel by John Norman. I read it, and wrote him a long letter (essay) discussing the story and it’s plausibility for real human relationships. The short version probably goes ‘It’s completely unrealistic but there are some great ideas in there’.

Sam clearly understood what I was saying, because he turned up to see me next with a collar and proceeded to collar me as his slave girl by candlelight getting me to sign (in retrospect) a slightly ridiculous contract. When he left he instructed me to wear my collar in bed every night; which of course I did.

Looking back I remember how seriously I took that collar. When it was on, I was totally focused on being submissive and obedient. I felt owned, and safe. For me to wear a collar is to be submissive. But a submissive without a Master is a sad thing. It was Sam’s attention that made it valuable, his exercising of control that made it meaningful. Later of course we lost all that, but that is another story.

I came home today to be greeted at the door by Perrin. Without warning, he fastened my newly arrived collar on me and proceeded to play with me, including walking me around the house on my leash (it matches the collar – it’s pretty) and fucking me on the dining table (for the first time in ages).

Then he chained me up by my collar and left me. I considered for a while and decided that I could move myself to a more comfortable spot within the confines allowed by the chain.

When he returned he was instantly angry and punished me for having moved, even though he hadn’t told me I wasn’t allowed to. It felt so unfair, and I’m pleased with myself for not talking back to him then; without the collar on, I would have objected loudly, I’m sure. Still it left me unsettled, and we ended up discussing it while he was rewarding me with my orgasm, which felt all wrong to me, still in my collar. I don’t think collared girls ought to criticise their Masters, even if they’re wrong! *grin*

So here I am, feeling we have some way to go to define what a collar means to us; but we have made a start.