Everyone I know — from teacher to solicitor to stay-at-home mum — has sex, and almost every one of them complains that their sex life is, well, lifeless. I’m lucky. I’m getting plenty, sometimes more than enough — and from more than enough men. Judging from the raised eyebrows I see when describing a typical weekend, some people feel I get more than my fair share.
I turned 44 last year, and I can honestly say that I’m the most content I’ve ever been. Because, unlike most single mums I know of my age, I’ve found a way to combine adult fun with raising a family. Every other Friday night, I drop off my two boys with their father, then drop in on a playmate. I have a rota of four or five men I see, mainly for sex. I’m not prepared to sit around waiting for Mr Right to come along. I learnt early on that when I see someone I like — whether young buck or mature man — I make sure they know it. Men move fast; why can’t a woman?
I have a boyfriend wish list pinned up on my kitchen bulletin board, with all the boxes a contender should tick — “job, house, car, single, looks” — and a little black book of men who make me laugh as well as come. It doesn’t matter if they don’t have the time for, or interest in, a full-on relationship. Variety has its own appeal. I’ve sampled the generations, from computer geeks in their twenties to opera fanatics in their fifties. Few of my divorced friends have managed such an arrangement, or would even care for it. Yet they all say they’d love, if not another full-time man, at least a quick shag now and then.
My journey of sexual discovery began the day I lost my virginity, at 17. I was a promiscuous teenager and carried on through my twenties. Friends called me “the girl least likely to” — girl least likely to get married, because I enjoyed sleeping around too much. I met my husband at a loft party in Brixton when I was 27. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Within six months, we were living together; a year later, we were married.
Two children followed soon after, then the sex tapered off. That was tough, but I told myself it didn’t matter. Then, a few years into our marriage, I looked in the mirror and saw that I’d become everything I said I’d never be. I was the frumpy, overweight, undersexed woman I’d seen in grocery stores, a mother with three careers -— baby-sitter, laundress, cleaning lady — and married to a man who was married to his job. I was living my life to ensure everyone else’s happiness, and had forgotten to nurture my own.
Then I discovered the internet, and everything changed. I posted a personal ad on an American website, specifying that I was looking for a pen pal, not a relationship. I wanted to talk to a man about my day-to-day life and emotions, something I was doing less and less with my husband. The next day, there were five messages in my inbox. I was as excited as I’d been when I received my first Jackson Five fan-club newsletter at the age of 10.
Thus began a correspondence with a New York lawyer who, like me, was married with two children. What started out as consolation and harmless fun quickly became a full-blown love affair. Three months after beginning our correspondence, and two stone lighter (with sex on the agenda, I found the incentive to lose weight), I found myself hailing a taxi at Kennedy airport, heading for the W Hotel on Times Square. In the course of our 18-month long-distance affair, we met up often, working our way through the spectrum of perversions, including exhibitionism, group sex and fetish clubs, and watching hours of porn for inspiration.
Though it didn’t last, the relationship not only led to my divorce, it rekindled my sexuality. I dived back into the dating scene and discovered that it had changed considerably since my youth. The internet opened the door to a smorgasbord of possibilities, and I wanted to discover them all.
Embarking on a prolific series of liaisons, I slept with a top London chef. A disastrous date with a men’s magazine editor followed. A television news cameraman was next, and soon he had me posing for erotic photos. Then I discovered a swingers’ website. Posting an ad, I received 200 replies within 24 hours, from all types of men — theatre directors, businessmen, taxi-drivers — representing the whole range of frisky interests. I began planning my kids-free weekends like a military operation, scheduling a date for Friday night, another for Saturday and a third for Sunday lunch. It was easy to meet men — but then I was easy too. Post 40 and post divorce, I had to be.
The bars and personal ads serve their purpose; the internet offers up a whole new universe of available partners; the sex clubs are enjoying a renaissance. I have tried them all. My hope is that other women will too. I want to deliver the message that, despite middle age and motherhood, sex and love affairs are still on the agenda.
Among the current crop of erotic memoirs, many are written by women in their twenties. I’m cheered that so many young women are scoring — and keeping score. But I question their perspective. If you’re not shagging around in your twenties, then maybe you have a problem. If you’re still shagging around in your forties, those who aren’t think you have a problem.
Naturally, I disagree. I think that experience brings insight. And what makes my diverse experiences relevant to women of all stages in life, is that, after a sexless marriage, I’ve emerged not only more mature and more savvy, but more sexual. And relieved to discover that “mature” is not a euphemism for “too old”.
Suzanne Portnoy’s book The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker: An Erotic Memoir (Virgin Books £7.99) is out now. Read her blog at www.suzanneportnoy.com
THE BOTOX-AND-BETTER-SEX-AFTER-40 BRIGADE
There has never been a better time to be a woman in your forties, and a new, voracious breed of post-divorce, post-kids women are reclaiming their sexuality and living life to the full.
Who are they? Think Kim Cattrall, Teri Hatcher, Kelly Hoppen, Sadie Frost. These are the ones in the limelight, but actually there are many others like them up and down the country. They used to be called the Invisible Women, but now they have revisited the sexual territory of their youth — and they’re out there hunting.
They look About a decade younger than they actually are. Divorce works wonders for the complexion — and regular Botox injections don’t hurt either. Mostly blonde (hair extensions, natch), although some have switched to brunette (see Teri Hatcher) because it’s kinder on the skin. As for their bikini lines, they’re waxed and ready for action 24/7 — you never know when you might get lucky.
They wear Earnest Sewn jeans, sleeveless tanks and cork wedges in summer; fur gilets and Ugg-a-likes in winter; anything from Joseph, any time. Frankly, all that yoga and Pilates means their bodies are so toned, they could make Primark look good. The glitter eye shadow is probably a mistake, though.
They date Anybody fit, tanned and athletic in the sack: the yoga teacher, the kids’ tennis coach, even those dishy fathers at the school gates if they get the chance. Some wouldn’t say no to their teenage son’s classmates at Marlborough, either. Or buff young Jake Gyllenhaal.
They go to Parties thrown by their rich friends’ husbands, who are “something high up in the record industry”. They don’t go clubbing any more — apart from at Boujis, of course, which they leave on the arm of an eager young second lieutenant from a Hussars regiment, down in London for the weekend and up for anything.
They drink Vodka and cranberry lite. Spirits are the only option — wine gives you a veiny nose, while champagne gives you poo breath.
They eat Men for breakfast. Sushi and salad the rest of the time.
