THE SEX DIARIES: I’m angry I didn’t orgasm, so I take the lead. Softer, slower, I tell him…

Eliot and I are lying in bed. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in almost three weeks, during which time he’s been to the gym every day and I’ve been eating pasta, drinking wine and lying on a beach in Italy.

Although we text each other constantly, now that we are naked together I feel shy all over again. In his twenties Eliot is at his physical peak; at almost 50 I am in serious decline.

In a way, this shyness is hot—it feels like a first. Even though I’ve been seeing Eliot for seven months now, it’s still surprising to have a man with this much muscle in my marriage bed. (I have an empty house because my three kids are on vacation with their dad.) It would take more than a lifetime to tire of the various flexes of Eliot’s pecs, triceps, biceps, and lats.

On the other hand, my shyness indicates a sense of inadequacy, and that is not attractive at all.

When I get out of bed, I am a strong and (mostly) confident woman. When Eliot starts touching me, I bury my face in his neck. He will feel the new roll of fat on my stomach and the wobbliness of my thighs. In middle age, I have grown a dress size, which has been made worse by the holiday eating.

Better to focus on him, especially when he’s so grateful when I do—which I love. He misses the way I touch him, he says, panting. He drops his hands to his sides and offers himself to me. I love turning him on, and when someone who wouldn’t look out of place in the Colosseum is lying on his back in my bed, turned on by my touch, I feel powerful.

But I’ve barely let him touch me by the time we start having sex, and he’s already close to orgasm. Even though it’s been three weeks, I already know I won’t follow him to climax, so I don’t really try. I do enjoy it, but I think more about him than myself.

In retrospect, I am angry with myself. Why didn’t I put my needs first, or at least equal? ​​How old do I have to be to prioritize my own orgasm?

Research published last month in the journal Sexual Medicine found that the orgasm gap doesn’t close with age. Nearly 25,000 adults ages 18 to 100 were surveyed, and the results are depressing: Men orgasm 30 percent more often than women during intercourse.

One reason is that as we age, orgasms get harder, due to menopause. Also, the study only looked at intercourse; the gap may be different for other types of sex. But the main reason, the authors say, is that, culturally, men’s pleasure is prioritized over women’s.

And I let that happen in my own bedroom. During the first few months of dating Eliot, I was often on the edge. He’s incredibly handsome, but that was part of the problem for me. With Simon, my ex-husband, I was bossy in bed, even at first. But later we fell into a comfortable routine that always ended with an orgasm for both of us.

Now that I’m older, a part of me feels less entitled to demand what I want from my young lover. It’s crazy, I know.

Eliot always tells me how sexy he finds me, and I can tell by his reaction that he means it. And I’m more confident in my bedroom skills at my age. But it still feels hard to put myself first.

Later that afternoon Eliot slaps my ass. “Do you want to do it again?” he asks.

Yes, and always yes, is my answer to him. But this time I didn’t let him take the lead. It was easier because it was the second time we had sex that day, and I was fueled by irritation with myself from the first time.

Annabel decided to mentor Eliot after realizing she was putting his needs above her own

I knew Eliot enjoyed pleasuring me, but if I didn’t guide his hand, or tell him what I wanted, how would he know? So for once I was direct.

Touch me softer, I told him. Slower. If I wanted to, I would sit on top. There’s a big mirror in my bedroom; I was pleased to see that the weight I’d gained made my breasts look great and my bottom big (thank goodness for the new beauty standards). In this position, I could control the action and make sure it went at the pace and angle I liked.

And even though it didn’t feel completely natural – somehow I still felt like I had to be swept up in (his) passion and at the same time reach a miraculous climax – I made sure I got there first.

• Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.