Do I Tell Her She's Passed Her LFD?

It's been a good life and a satisfying marriage. Gemma and I enjoyed threesomes, foursomes, separate room swaps, solo nights away with new partners and massage practitioners who went further than planned (but no complaints).

But menopause and unexpected side effects from HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) brought on the belly fat that goes with andropause. One needs to stay aware of unintended consequences. A family trait of women losing height as they age compounds the problem as the waist compresses and that belly mushrooms more.

And yet she still turned me on, totally.

I feasted on looking at her just as I did the first time I saw her in the pool 45 years ago. And by that, I do mean turned on, with as good a hard-on as any virile 63-year-old gets. Plus she'll distract me from any plans I held, to now wanting to get her in the sack.

But relations had fallen into a schedule trap of 10:15 each Saturday morning. Only. Unless other conflicts get in the way. 10:15 when there would almost always be an interrupting telephone call at the worst possible time. No, it seems to unplug was not an option she would agree to.

Saturday breakfast was always the same; coffee and newspaper at 7:00, bacon & eggs with one piece of toast and a bit of fruit at 7:30. Debate the news content, complete the crossword and check emails. Then brush our teeth and head to the bedroom after 10:00...AM.

Fellatio had stopped 18 months ago, it had indeed become a rarity already with the need to suggest (ok, beg) for it. Fortunately, I really enjoyed, and that was what I was delighted to get down to after the five to eight minutes of kissing, then a varying amount of breast play. Finally, my finding the sweet joy that resided between her sometimes shaved legs.

Of late, any of my fingering seemed unwelcome, and it was up to my tongue to provide the entertainment. Usually about 18 minutes later Gemma would orgasm, or say she did, followed by four minutes of intercourse. On our sides. Longer was less fun, and she pointed to recent articles in The Guardian and in Medium as proof that longer just wasn't necessary for a woman to enjoy the act more. But, uhm, what about my joy?

Each night I'd raise my eyebrows in appreciation or lechery at seeing her naked body as she prepared for bed. Increasingly she was running down her appearance and attractiveness. Maybe I was a lousy judge. Perhaps my tastes were off.

Getting away with the boys for the annual golf game I realized that we'd been busy or had conflicts the previous three Saturdays, and had gone without sex. No longer did I get "send off" & "welcome home" from the trip sex. I mulled about this both during golf and in the first few days back.

Maybe she was right, and my viewpoint was off. Her age, weight, sore knee, sore wrist and grumpiness about life did add up to her...being past her LFD (Last Fuckable Day).

So I found other things to do each Saturday morning after the bacon & eggs, leaving before she was done the crossword puzzle.

A month later she challenged me as to where I went each Saturday morning, "was I getting carnal relations elsewhere?"

"No," I replied, "my golf games and who I played with are in the club record and easily reviewed as proof to my being good."

"Is there something wrong with me? Do you no longer find me desirable?" she asked.

Though I had anticipated this question for a month, replying was going to take a fair amount of tact and reassurance. I paused. No, froze is more like it.

"Gemma, I love you. Completely and even more so than in any of our days gone by. Please let me gather a few thoughts and don't say anything until I'm done. Nod your head if you agree".

She gave me a puzzled look and nodded slowly.

"We have done some amazing things together and stayed strong through some unusual sexual exploration."

She nodded.

"Life is about stages, and we are entering some final chapters. Sex has come to an end as you have reached your LFD."

My bad, a term she didn't know. Now I have to be blunt in explaining it to her.

"You know, like milk has a best before date, then it goes sour." was my abysmal choice of words as an explanation.

Her face dropped, and tears started, "Is that what you think of me now? An old, shrivelled cow?" She stormed off to her room and slammed the door.

Next morning I was down first and (unusual) made the coffee, I had hers waiting for her with the paper when she came to the table. She was in a good mood, the conversation was breezy and never went near last night's argument.

"I've got lunch plans, and I might not be back before dinner. Think of making something nice for us." She said. "Oh, and keep your cell phone charged and with you this afternoon." Dismissing me, she turned on her heel and went back to her room. Separate bedrooms three years earlier had been good for sleep but really hindered reconnecting when we would be mad at each other, like now. Or was she disappointed in me?

Leaving for her lunch I noticed that she was dressed nicely, but nothing too special. Wearing a bit of makeup was not unusual, and her hair was its usual well-kept coif. With a wave and confident smile, she was gone.

At 2:00 I received a text from her, telling me to go check the printer, and instructed me to not text back but to wait for her next message.

This was strange as I'd been on the computer just before and hadn't noticed anything in the printer. Gemma wasn't very tech savvy and had never figured out how to use HP's ePrint no matter how many times I patiently showed her. But there were four pages in the tray and a fifth spilled onto the floor.

Tinder profiles. Of men. Aged late 30s, I guessed, to older than me. Five of them.

The printer started again, and a note was emerging:

"Dear Scott, your words really hurt me. Thank you for the iPad you gave me at Christmas, it was handy to join Tinder last night and put out a profile. The photo of me in Hawaii last year seemed to be very well received, even if I was passed my Sell By Date...LFD how vulgar!

By morning, there was a number that matched after I swiped right. I had lunch with one of the five, and another choice invited me for a drink at The Four Seasons. The other three can wait.

I will see you at dinner, please remember to make something nice for us.

Love,

Gemma"

I was steamed, there was no hint of my returning to my old wandering ways and seeking an alternative relationship or sex elsewhere. How could she? Who with? And these young guys, how old did the Cougar category extend to anyways?

Most hurtful was that she'd shut my ideas of a Stag & Vixen HotWife lifestyle down 10 years ago. I'd get to pick the guy and see if she agreed with my choice. She said she didn't want any more "new" sex and started us down the road to no sex.

With a deep sigh, I headed to the market and found some Cornish game hens, a beautiful cheese plate, an assortment of vegetables to make a salad and an expensive bottle of wine. If this were to be our last night and meal together, I would deliver on her request of something nice.

A new text came in at 5:30 "met one of the other three, running behind, will be home for that dinner at 7:30."

I poured myself a couple of fingers of my special single malt and sat brooding in the living room, watching the driveway. When the day's light faded to dark and I put the hens under the broiler. "If she's late, they'll be toast, just like our relationship!"

At 7:25 she bounced in, all cheery, "Hi! Just need to run to the bathroom, and I'll be right back." Was she wearing a different blouse? I wished I'd paid more attention to her clothes on the way out.

The table was set with candles, the wine was poured, the cheese plate in the center. The hens would settle for 15 minutes until we finished our salad or conversation, whichever happened first.

I took a long look at her as she just sat there, enjoying the wine with a sparkle in her eye. An extra button was undone, letting me enjoy a bit more cleavage than usual.

She had a "Mona Lisa" kind of smile that prevented me from discerning anything about what she had just done or how I should feel about it.

My pulse raced, my chest tightened, my cock hardened. "I love you!" I blurted and raced to take her in my arms. We kissed deeply. "I need you right now" and took her to the couch, running my hands past her stockings to remove her panties.

"I don't need to know any details of what you did today, I deserve it all for being an asshole." I offered. "I love you and have missed being with you so very much."

"Fuck me now, and I will tell you about my afternoon...I am so wet for you!" She breathed heavily.

And I plunged in, reclaiming my woman, trying to be more virile than any of the young men who'd been with her today. We hadn't had sex on a couch in more than 20 years and the quirky support, bounce and smells added to my being turned on.

We came together for the first time since I cannot recall and lay in each other's arms catching our breath.

"Scott, I do have a confession to make" she started. I shushed her, saying I loved her and didn't need to hear anything.

"No, you need to hear this, I sent you the Tinder profiles to get you angry, I met up with the girls, and we've been golfing all afternoon! I would never cheat on you."

"Just remember, I will tell YOU when my LDF is!"