Cosmo Landesman has narrated this article for you to listen to.
When I turned 70 in September, I had a panic attack. I was certain that my romantic life was over. I’d finally crossed over from middle-age into old age and had joined that sad tribe of the unshaggable. My time as a fun-loving lothario was at an end. Goodbye hot wild monkey sex – hello hot cocoa.
These days, thanks to my chronic arthritis of the knee, I can’t raise my leg, much less get it over
Concerned female friends told me I was guilty – once again – of premature self-pity. They assured me that there was sex – and plenty of it – after 70. And just as smokers and boozers love to tell the story of the aunt or uncle who smoked and drank all the time and still lived till 100, so friends told me the story of some aunt or uncle who was still having affairs at 85.
I understand their motives: they wanted to give me hope. But I can’t help feeling that these tales are just urban legends. I’ve never met one of these 100-year-old booze and fag guzzlers – or one of these old geezers still getting their leg over. These days, thanks to my chronic arthritis of the knee, I can’t raise my leg, much less get it over.
I know some readers, especially younger ones, might find this whole topic rather yucky. (But if the polls are to be believed, Gen Z aren’t too keen on sex.) The subject of sex and older people – and I mean those in their seventies and beyond – is shrouded in silence. Why? Because society is disgusted at the very idea of old people having sex.
Old people and sex is fine when it’s all about cuddles and emotional connection, hugs and tenderness. Just look at the old couples featured in surveys on ‘Sex and the old’ – they’re always clean and smiling septuagenarians with shining eyes and shining dentures, and you think: ‘Ah, how sweet!’ But when it comes to the dark, dirty stuff of erotic life – that’s a bonk too far.
I get it. Who wants to think of their kind, good-hearted grandpa in a gimp mask with sweet granny in her dominatrix kit wielding her whip? No one. Frankly, the thought of me having sex is off-putting even to me.
When my 70th birthday arrived, all my friends kept telling me that age is just a number. Well, I’ve been 70 for seven months and I can tell you that 70 is just a number – unfortunately, it’s the wrong number. At least as far as women are concerned.
I could be enjoying a fun bit of flirtation with a woman, but when she discovers that I’m 70 everything changes. I can see in her eyes that tiny flicker of attraction disappear. All flirtation ceases immediately. Her body language, once so playful and inviting, now says: ‘No chance, grandad!’
Fair enough. The curious thing is that if I had lied and said I was 69, there would have been no problem. But 70? It sounds seriously old.
To make matters worse, I often read articles about how women adore older men. Recently there was a piece in the Times with the headline: ‘What women want – a hot older guy.’ And there were pictures of Mark Carney, Jason Isaacs in The White Lotus, George Clooney, Idris Elba and Barack Obama.
There are plenty of men out there for whom such articles are verbal Viagra. All is not lost, they reason. Seventy is the new 60, 50 or 40 – take your pick. But on closer examination, none of these so-called sexy older guys is actually 70. The only one over 70 is Charles Dance (78) who is always described in these pieces as ‘one hell of a flirt’. Bless.
I could be enjoying a flirtation with a woman but when she discovers that I’m 70 everything changes
It’s true that older men are hot – but only when you’re an older man with fame, power, success or money. When I tell female friends I have none of these, they reply: ‘But you’ve still got your own hair and teeth.’ Yeah, but who cares? ‘Hello, beautiful, fancy a drink? I’ve got my own hair and teeth.’
In my sixties I could pass as a silver fox, but now women – especially younger women – regard me like a kind, sweet, sexless gay uncle. I’m a shoulder to cry on, a pair of ears to confess to. They ask my advice about their outfits and displays of cleavage – too little, too much? They cuddle me, they caress me, they sit on my lap and place chaste kisses on my face, certain there could not be one squeak of sexuality still alive in this ancient frame of mine.
The worst part is I’ve started to play up to the role of everyone’s favourite gay uncle. ‘You go, girl,’ I say, with a little swish of my head. I know my time is up. I had a good innings and I want to give up gracefully. But I confess, I haven’t given up the dream of one last romantic fling before the curtain falls.
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