I started fucking young. It wasn’t a conscious, considered decision. I was a free spirit, in a way that most people I know are not. My husband was not. My siblings were not. I was a creature of impulse, and I fucked the boys I liked, to find out what it was like, to make them like me, to prove I wasn’t a boring good girl, just because I could. I liked it, but I liked more that I could.

I stopped fucking relatively young. I got married, and I got tired, and I got rejected. I had children, and I changed my focus. I missed fucking, but assumed I’d had all the sex I was going to have.

My children grew. My marriage stagnated. I became middle-aged. I looked at myself in the mirror one day, and thought about fucking. I wondered what fucking again would feel like. I wondered if I’d have the chance to find out. I looked harder. Were my breasts holding up to wear and age? Would someone want to take them in his hands, in his mouth? Would anyone admire their fullness and overlook the slight sag the years had brought? What about my legs? They looked okay to me, but I was rather used to seeing them. They did their job, certainly, getting me where I wanted to go. They were even known to move at a bit of a jog on the occasional energetic morning. Would some man want them wrapped tightly and passionately around him, or resting on his shoulders? I checked out the area between my legs. Would I be willing to shave myself smooth, as is the current fashion in pussies? Was my ass firm enough? It was certainly abundant enough. Would I be rejected for my slightly rounded and stretch-marked tummy? What about my face? My skin was still good, and my dark eyes and hair still belied my years, but I no longer looked 21, certainly.

Appraisal complete, I dipped my toe into the dangerous waters of fucking. My motivation was to see whether I still had what it takes and whether sex could be everything I remembered. I found out that I did, and it was. No, it was more that I remembered. More and better. I was more and better.

Then, I wanted to find out what else was part of fucking. I knew that it felt good, and I knew I was good at it. That was gratifying, and it was much fun. I was ready to explore a relationship based on fucking. I was ready for a man to want to explore me because I’m me. I was ready to think of him when he wasn’t with me. I was ready for fucking to be better because I loved. It was. It was intense, it filled me. I wanted more of it, I wanted more of him. I agonized. I suffered. I fucked through the pain and the final rejection.

I walked away from fucking, then. I wondered if my middle-aged heart was really as flexible and resilient as my middle-aged body had proved to be. I wait now for fucking to come back naturally, or not at all. I don’t know in what form or for what purpose it might return. The meaningless variety of fucking seems somehow less… meaningful. While I wait, I think about fucking, and I write about fucking, and I fuck online, and on the phone, and in stories, and on video, and vicariously. I think maybe I need a fucking guru to tell me what to do next.