November 2021

by Rudy Ravindra

At sixty, fit and feisty, I am often mistaken for a forty year old. I color my graying hair and thanks to my great genes and healthy life-style, my skin is flawless. Whenever possible, I jog or swim or bike. I keep tabs on my abs, make sure my tush is tight, and train my boobs to defy gravity.

However, I deeply lament the loss of libido. I, who until not too long ago, would eagerly rush into my husband’s arms as soon as we both got home from work, now am refractory to his advances. Now that both of us are retired, we blithely assumed that there will be more time for prolonged carnal pleasures. However, if only one partner is interested, how can there be any close encounters of the carnal kind?

When I join him in the bedroom, I simply let him have my body while my mind wanders all over the place. However much he tries to arouse me and put me in the mood, my body remains recalcitrant. However, after a few weeks, when it dawns on him that I am just trying to give him pleasure, he is perturbed. I really am sad that he is not one of those men who greedily grab their pleasure, completely indifferent to their partner’s feelings. So much so, he is hesitant to bed me. I tell him my orgasm is not as important as his touch and his love. He understands my point of view, but still feels guilty to couple with me. He is too observant and sensitive and bothered that he can’t take me to the peaks of paradise. Alas, I never the learned the art of faking an orgasm.

To say that we had a terrific sex-life is an understatement. We made love in every room of the house. On moonlit nights, we stood on the stairway landing and kissed and fondled and simply laid down on the landing and lost ourselves to the ecstasy of the moment. We made love in the bathroom, with me sitting on the vanity, my thighs wide open. I lost count of the number of times we made out in the living room and kitchen. We worked well together, he, my loyal sous chef and me the Great Chef. He would be in briefs and I in a lacy thong and a skimpy tank top, and we kissed and fondled in between cooking and baking, and most often, ignored the steaming dishes to douse the fire in our loins. With sunlight on our naked, sweating and rutting bodies, we kissed each other’s salty lips and skin. I gripped him with my legs as he thrust deeply into me.

Even when we went out to eat, we had fun. When I sat across him in a booth, I would stretch my long leg to caress his crotch. Sometimes, when we sat next to each other, he would reach under the table to probe my pubes.

Very early into our relationship he expressed his preference for a bald pussy. Not a fan of waxing, I asked him to shave me. So, every few weeks he would, like a dentist (except that a dentist is hardly suited for this delicate process at this end), wear his magnifiers and shine a bright light on my brown bush and proceed, with smooth strokes of his high-tech razor, to get rid of my short and curlies. When he used to gently stretch my labia, it would to send shivers up to my spine, and when he playfully flicked my clit I would scream with pleasure.

I always embraced him willingly and wantonly. Those were the days, I would parade in stilettoes, wearing nothing but a skimpy thong, and a lacy bra and wiggle my round, firm butt and tease him and arouse him with my sultry sashays and sexy salsa. Those were the days, I would shiver and scream when he rolled my nutmeg nipples between his fingers. Those were the days, I would shake and shriek when his fingers made my warm pussy wet with wanton desire. Those were the days, I would shudder with unspeakable pleasure when he lapped red wine off my pussy. And then I would dip his cock into a glass of wine and lick, a prelude to a long, loud, love making. Those were the days, he would kiss, nibble and lick my plump pussy for as long I could take. I would hold his head in a vise-like grip between my fleshy thighs, uttering guttural groans and moans. Finally when my thighs quiver and my entire body writhes with paroxysms of pleasure, and my screams reach a crescendo, raging with desire, I would pull him up to penetrate my throbbing portal.

Now, my passion is on a long vacation, my nipples are on strike, and my pussy is as dry as the Mojave desert. While a lubricant makes it easy for him to penetrate, my loins are no longer on fire and my brain cells adamantly refuse to fire up.

I am only left with memories of a life time, of those days gone by when we both were horny and happy.



Rudy Ravindra lives in Wilmington, NC. His fiction has appeared in Canyon Voices, New Mexico Review, Lunch Ticket, and others.

More at: http://rudyravindra.wix.com/rudy