Monica Zwolsman, 58, says she never wants to have sex again

As far as taboos go, I realize it’s huge. And yet I think we have to break it. So let me go first: I’m 58 and I don’t want to have sex again.

Not once a month, not on a wedding anniversary, not to celebrate a birthday. Not on vacation or after a few drinks or with a hot new man. No. I never want to do it again.

And I’m sure I’m not alone. In fact, I think there are millions of older women like me, women who are pretty sick of playing to other people’s wobbly parts and who go through the motions simply to keep their husband or partner happy in the long run. or because it is expected of us in a new relationship.

But maybe, radical thinking, it’s time to consider our happiness as well. Because how many women, in their 50s and finally free of a woman’s biological cycles and functions, are still truly gripped by the lust that once so eagerly drove us to bed?

How many postmenopausal women dress or tie themselves up (or have vainer sex, for that matter) not out of a sense of duty or to keep him from looking elsewhere or even in exchange for companionship, but because they really want it? ?

In a world of so-called sex positivity, where women’s sexual needs are considered equal to men’s, to suggest that this is, of course, heresy.

You will be greeted with simple disbelief. The possibility that our libido dies once we’ve lost the ability to have children, because that’s what nature intended, is simply dismissed as misogyny.

And yet, to co-opt millennial parlance, I’m just recounting my ‘lived experience’ here.

Now I shudder to think of sex, how disgusting it is, how silly it is, mutual embarrassment if they’re new to each other, boring repetition if they’re not.

Am I really alone? It is very difficult to know because this taboo is sustained by a conspiracy of silence. Nobody talks about it.

Yes, some women may say with a laugh that they’re glad they don’t have to have sex as often as they used to, but admitting that you never want to have sex is another matter.

In truth, I’ve never been insanely sexual, and even as an older teenager, I only pretended to sexually desire so-called “hot” celebrities of the day, men like Robert Redford, David Cassidy, and Mark Hamill.

When I was in my early 20s, Johnny Depp and Rob Lowe failed to arouse a tingling feeling, and I was always taken aback when women talked about being ‘horny’. To be honest, even typing that ugly word makes me feel uncomfortable.

I was married three times, almost everyone I slept with, barring a couple awkward one-night stands after the divorce.

It sounds hopelessly conservative now, but I just never saw the point of sharing bodies without something in return, be it children or marriage. (I have had three children with two of my husbands.)

Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed the sex. When I was loved and in love, it was good and passionate and I felt fulfilled by it.

Maybe I was what today’s youth call ‘demisexual’, where you can only form a sexual bond or be sexually attracted to someone with whom you share a deep emotional connection. I think that’s as good a description as any of how many women feel about sex.

But now I’m single again and even the ‘demi’ part of my sexuality has frankly disappeared. I am repulsed by the idea of ​​having to join again. I could make love, but the real push and shove? I will not do it.

Of course, when women admit their lack of interest in this activity that seemingly makes the world go round, the world tells us we are wrong.

Our disgust with sex is seen as a problem to be solved. A woman my age who doesn’t want sex must surely have something wrong with her body. She Takes These Hormones! Talk to a therapist! Visit a gynecologist to cure dryness and atrophy and other so-called bleak-sounding problems that I don’t want or need to cure.

The assumption behind all those restrictions and dictates is that all healthy, natural women want sex, no matter their age. Nobody listens when I say: Me. No. Wish. It’s.

Or they listen to me and then tell me that my life must be boring and empty. I must be anxious or tense. But I’m not stressed, I’m happy. I have a lot of time. I am in perfect health.

Call me frigid”—I nod and agree that this cap fits me—but it’s still a hideous, loaded term, implying coldness, harshness, even cruelty. And I am not those things.

Recently, after a man I was happy to call a dear friend ruined our relationship by suggesting we turn it into a “friends with benefits” arrangement, I posted a call on a public Facebook forum to other women, prepared to bust the most difficult taboos In truth I felt saddened, even violated, by his suggestion and wanted to know if he was exaggerating.

My howl of outrage was met with a tsunami of sympathetic responses from women my age who felt the same way. Some cursed the day Viagra was invented and others felt real angst at the prospect of physical intimacy.

Those who were single were relieved to be exempt from all the fuss, even if it meant giving up male companionship and affection. Still others bemoaned the fact that online dating sites for women my age look more like recruitment ads for free housekeeping, nursing care, and financial assistance. And then they expect us to have sex with them too.

I admit that the response was not entirely positive. Some, both women and men, turned on me, as if I had offended them personally.

His meanness was a revelation: why does a woman who says this attract so much venom? ‘You just haven’t had good sex’ said many, and ‘You must be fat and ugly’ added others.

‘You must be a lesbian,’ said a super-sophisticated correspondent. There were other, nastier responses. Some questioned the masculinity of my ex-husbands. I have been widowed twice and divorced once, and I loved two of those husbands dearly.

Sharing our bodies was an enormously satisfying addition to the joining of our minds.

But for me, while the act itself was very pleasurable, nothing was quite as good as sleeping together afterwards, snuggling and talking late into the night.

Holding hands and hugging is my so-called love language, and romance would consist of sitting on the couch or lying in bed together with our limbs tangled together while reading, watching TV, or just talking.

I have always felt that way: it had nothing to do with the men in question.

My third husband was different. A decade younger than me, and a typical tall blond Dutchman with a beautifully toned body, he was thought to be a handsome and sexy man.

Although I came with luggage. My first husband was my first love, a photographer shot dead in the crossfire of a township war in South Africa.

The second husband was a true soul mate, but he died of a heart attack, and then I had to survive the tragic death of our son Benjamin.

He was two years old when he had surgery to fix a hernia and died in his sleep after a bad reaction to the medication.

Soon after, I met and married the Dutchman, and in two years had two children, and after that I had no interest in my wifely duties.

He could have been super hot, but for me there was no real emotional connection, and this for me destroyed the sex appeal that others clearly thought he possessed.

By the time I had my two children and he refused to have a third, I wasn’t even willing to pretend anymore. Unsurprisingly, she ended up a single mom at 40.

The truth is that I am tired of people being so offended by my opinion.

Sorry if it makes people uncomfortable and goes against the narrative they want to hear, ie. that we are still happy swinging from the chandeliers. But I won’t apologize for how I feel, and I won’t slip away quietly either. Women deserve to know that it’s perfectly okay not to feel ‘enough’ in old age.

Of course, there are older women who also enjoy a resurgence in libido.

At least, that’s what they tell me, I know some. In one case, she says that she is having the best sex of her life, albeit with the help of HRT and lube, and congratulates her.

I must take your word for it that you have not confused your love to be loved with a sexual desire.

And I would ask you to believe me when I tell you that the idea of ​​sex now, at this stage of my life, is deeply repugnant to me. I can imagine the falling in love part, but the passion? My skin starts to sweat just thinking about it.

Pride demands that I refute insults thrown at me on the subject of my appearance. No, I’m not ‘fat and ugly’ and therefore jealous of other women’s sex lives.

I’m not out of shape for ‘a woman my age’. In fact, even though my face shows some of the signs of a long life, I still really like my body. They often ask me out.

At the simplest level, I love jumping into my clean bed with ironed sheets that smell of lavender, stretching out like a starfish, and reveling in my self-made sanctuary.

I don’t miss the pressure of getting into bed, tired and ready for bed, and having a hopeful face next to me, or being woken in the morning by someone eager for more than a hug. I don’t feel nostalgic for it at all.

Yes, sometimes I miss hugging someone and picking at their chest. I loved that skin-to-skin contact.

Above all, I would like to have someone of my own as an anchor in life. But if it means losing my intimate privacy, then, well, that’s too big of a condition for me to meet.

I have a dog for company and unconditional love. I have children, sisters and brothers for the family.

And when I am older I plan to live in a commune with all my friends where we will take care of each other in old age, share company and enjoy our retirement years with adventures and good times.

But no sex, thanks. I feel genuine relief that this part of my life is over.