Episode 16: Sexercise

Episode 16: Sexercise

Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"

Posted to Hot Flashes by Mimi Schmir on Wed, 09/09/2009 - 2:22pm

Having sex is like exercising a muscle. (Discussion re: what it takes to still have muscles at the age of forty-five—irrelevant.) If you don't exercise, your muscles disappear. If you don't have sex, well, apparently your vagina shrivels like a prune.

Having sex is like exercising a muscle. (Discussion re: what it takes to still have muscles at the age of forty-five—irrelevant.) If you don't exercise, your muscles disappear. If you don't have sex, well, apparently your vagina shrivels like a prune.

Having sex is like exercising a muscle. (Discussion re: what it takes to still have muscles at the age of forty-five—irrelevant.) If you don't exercise, your muscles disappear. If you don't have sex, well, apparently your vagina shrivels like a prune. I mean, we've all been fed that phallo-centric myth that estrogen cream is the new, "female Viagra". But take it from the walking wounded...fuck estrogen cream. The real issue is just not doing it anymore. (By the by, have you ever noticed that unlike big words like "phallo-centric," there are no fancy names for "vagina"?)

Seriously, who are you supposed to have sex with when your husband leaves you for a Concubine? (Not a rhetorical question here.) Mess around with the handyman and your re-model is at risk. Drool over Hot School Dad and your integrity, not to mention your reputation (such as it is, no comment), could go waltzing out the door. Suddenly, the days turn into weeks, the weeks to months and for lack of a cuter, testosterone-fueled alternative, you're shopping for Crème de la Femme and a vibrator. I'll be the first to admit (and Annabelle will confirm because she's the one who turned me on to Crème de la Femme in the first place) this was starting to be an eency problem.

And then you get a tattoo. Or, in this case, I do. Tattoos are kind of empowering, when you're over forty. (Something else I learned on La Brea at midnight. Seriously, I'm starting to think La Brea Avenue is like some warped form of adult education, minus the homework and the guys who never came to class in high school because they were always so stoned.) Tattoos empower you, or at least, they make you sexy, maybe more to yourself than to anyone else, like suddenly you're thinking, hey, I did this radical thing and now I have a new, "fuckability," as it were. In any case, that's what I intuited when the "fuckable" twenty-five year old tattoo artist that did my "Venus on the Half Shell" followed me out to the car.

For the record if you're keeping one (and I certainly am) this is How It Happened. I'd paid him plus tip (his name was Rat, remember? And because of that weird, slightly scary moniker, I may have tipped him even more) then I thanked him and headed jauntily out the door. I mean, I don't think it was the hundred bucks in cash I slipped the Rat that gave him the added incentive, there was also La Annabelle who said, "You look glam fierce, E," and that seemed to strike a chord. It may also have been because once my back tat was done I let him get a peek at my boobs, then left my Beguelin handbag behind on the counter. Who knows?

Anyway, I was getting into the car, gliding like a Bond girl (I felt the Venus gave me added incentive to find my inner "Pussy Galore") and then before I knew it, there he was, the Beguelin dangling from his snowflake tatted hand. "You forgot something," he said and he smiled at me, like maybe he knew I hadn't (I'm not admitting to this, just mentioning the possibility) and I was all, "Thanks, you saved me, my life is in that bag," (this was not a lie, I am a pathetic hoarder) and he grinned and said, "This shit is heavy," and I nodded sagely, "I know."

"See you ‘round, I guess," he said and I was all, "Thanks! The Venus looks awesome, you did such a great job!" Then, doing my best imitation of Pussy I slid into the car and before I knew what was happening really (or maybe I did, because I suddenly seemed to be in this kind of giddy, tattoo inspired haze) he was in the Beemer next to me moving his hands through my hair. (I remember thinking at the time, "Rip off the blouse, if you want to," and then quickly, "Oh, bad idea, Pucci purchase Not On Sale.") But all that thinking was pretty much irrelevant because by the time I had run through the options, my full-price Pucci was on the floor.

Okay, at this point, I'm doing an inventory in my head. (Jeffrey was always bitching that I think too much.) Deodorant? Check. Shaved armpits? Can't remember. Underwear? Hope to God not Jeffrey's old boxers that I still sometimes wear...and I might add, if you're wondering, that Annabelle had taken this opportunity to get a new tattoo of her own. (She had decided on some kind of elaborate configuration of a panther with its paws wrapped around a bird which had something to do with life and death although I'm pretty sure it had even more relevance to Gary and Larry, the identical twin tattoo artists—did I mention them?—who said they could do it even though they were closing soon and it would probably take a couple of hours.)

So I'm realizing I'm in the Beemer on La Brea and there's this totally hot kid, really, messing around my pants (Whoa, I'm thinking, if not boxers, possible I'm wearing no underwear at all...huh, maybe not a bad thing) and I am sort of getting into it and Rat kind of looks at me, like he's actually looking at me (when was the last time Jeffrey did that?) and he says, "Hey, Esme, right?" "Uh-huh" I gurgle, and he smiles and says, "Esme, you're totally hot."

"I could be your mother," I manage to get out (again, I'm thinking, "Shit!" what did I say that for?!") and he just laughs and says, "My mother never looked like you," and I'm all, "This is crazy," but at this point I don't care.

Now, you have to believe me, I'm not the kind of girl who usually has sex with strangers, (or at least strangers to me—Annabelle has known the Rat for years) especially when her two small children are asleep at home. (I guarantee the babysitter was asleep too, and I realize that, fuck, even as the hot Rat guy is pushing me against the Beemer's leather seats (now I understand what all that expensive leather is for) that it was well after two a.m. and I was going to have to pay her overtime.) Still, in this particular instance, it seemed as though I should take advantage of the opportunity. I mean, how often do twenty-five year-olds who have a certain Brad Pittness about them climb on top of me in a car?

I mean, really, it was months since I'd had any sex to speak of (Crème de la Femme notwithstanding) and I was anxious to see if I was still in working order. "Fuck him," said Annabelle, out of the side of her mouth when she had seen him eyeing me earlier (did I forget to mention that part?) "You're horny, he's adorable."

"You're horny," I hiss back (always true) and she rolls her eyes. "You turn him on," she says in this sing-song way that makes me laugh. "I'm old enough to be his mother," I remind her. "Not his mother, his teacher," purrs Annabelle. "His really, really hot teacher who he has sweet, porno dreams about at night." (By the way, why men fantasize about teachers is beyond me. Most are underpaid, exhausted and rarely date because all the guys they meet are prepubescent.) Anyhoo, the next thing you know I'm in the Beemer.

So let me tell you. These kids today, they may know a thing or two in the sex department but trust me, I can damn well hold my own. I thought about grunting something like, "Come here, hot stuff," but that seemed kind of dated so I just moaned a little which I guess he took as a good sign because he asked me around then if he could see me again, which I decided to pretend I didn't hear because even in the heat of the moment I knew I could never come back to this place, and frankly, even though the sex was pretty fantastic, I really wouldn't want to, you know, ruin the moment and all.

"Good thing the lights are off," I say, referring, of course, to my c-section scars (ack, bet he's never seen that before) and the fact that my body isn't as young as he's used to, and then he says, "You talk too much," (Huh, I think, has he been conferring with Jeffrey?) But then he does something that quickly makes me realize he has nothing in common with my ex-husband and I don't remember much else, other than he calls me "Baby" at some point and that oddly, the seat cushions in the Beemer (which I had turned on by accident when my foot hit the dashboard) are getting really warm.

Little tip—having sex after a long absence just makes you want more. Which probably explains what happened the next morning. I mean, the Rat really knew what he was doing, if you know what I mean, and I was pretty satiated for all of a few hours. But then I woke up in the a.m., at home (thank God I had the temerity to finally get the hell out of there, even after the Rat and I lay next to each other in the car listening to the Foo Fighters "I'll Stick Around" on the radio) and I realized that I was kind of ready for another round. Well, given that I had taken a vow of celibacy when it came to people I would actually have to speak to, and there were no tattoo artists that I could think of in my suburban vicinity, I threw on my sweats and decided that the next best thing was Pilates penance, and lots of it.

So I'm on the floor doing the "one hundred," (just one of many torturous attempts made by Joe Pilates, the founder, to defy gravity when it comes to a woman's tummy and actually try and make the belly flat) and I'm really working at it because next to porn, the "one hundred" seems to be only thing I can come up with. And then, luckily (or not) Roo and Mr. Handsome wander into the room. It's really early, you understand, like five-thirty or so, it's still pitch dark out and they're both in their pj's looking all cute and sleepy and they light up when they see me.

"Mommy!" yells Roo and runs over to me, while Mr. Handsome, ever the skeptic, raises his eyebrows. "What are you doing?" he asks and Roo grins and throws himself on the floor. "Are you taking your sexercise?" he giggles and I look at him and I'm like, "What did you say, Roo?" "Taking your sexercise," he insists and starts waving his arms and legs around in the air.

"He means, are you doing your exercises," says Mr. Handsome, with great patience. "He just doesn't know how to say it." I look at Roo, still flailing his little body in an attempt to imitate my "sexercising" self. "Well, yes, Roo" I say, after a moment. "That's what I'm doing, I guess."

"It's fun," he giggles, and now he's wiggling his little tush in the air. "I'm getting my cereal," says Mr. Handsome, as though he couldn't be less interested in this whole discussion. And then he turns and his eyes light up and he says, "Hi!"

I look up from my position on the floor. "Hi?" I think to myself. Who could he be "hi-ing" at six in the morning? "Nice abs," says Raoul, as his face starts to register in my peripheral vision. I instinctively pull in my tummy. I don't even wonder what the hell Raoul is doing here so early, before I think to do that. "What are you doing?" asks Raoul, curiously. "It looks like it hurts." (To my horror I suddenly remember that Raoul had taken my key so he could start the dining room early, not that I believed for one moment that he would ever show up before noon.)

"Mommy's taking her sexercise!!" yells Roo, as loudly as humanly possible. "Her...sexercise?" says Raoul. "Excellent idea, Esme." I can see that he's trying not to smile. "Yeah, my sexercise," I grumble. "You have a problem with that?" He grins. "Nope, no problem. Can I watch?"

I roll over on my Pilates stretched stomach, the better to do the Sun Salutation, which I am suddenly positive is called for in this particular situation. I realize that this has not been a normal few hours and that now, three sets of eyes are fixed on me.

"What's that, Mama?" says Roo, staring curiously at my back. "Shoot me now," I whisper, to no one in particular.

"Holy Shit! Did you get a tattoo?" says Raoul (the handy man.) "Holy Shit," I hear the parrot mutter in the background. "Don't you have work to do?" I say to Raoul (the handy man again), a little petulantly. "Not anymore," he answers, grinning from ear to ear. "Sexercise!" screeches Raoul (the parrot) with gleeful abandon.

I assess my life. For a moment I pretty much want to disappear into the black hole of menopausal mommydom. But then luckily, I reconsider. I mean, hey—I got a Venus tattoo and had hot boy sexercise all in a matter of hours. La Annabelle was right about one thing. So I turn around. "Mommy's glam fierce," I say with conviction. And then, realizing that I can have my own version of post-coital bliss sans the Rat, I grab the two most important men in my life (not Raoul) and hold on tight. Who needs a cigarette? I've got two guys who smell like cheerios and soymilk. I'll take that over a sweaty Rat any day.