Ruminations on approaching sixty!


This is me portraying Witch 1 (shown, in the photo, with Stephen Cole, who played the eponymous villain of the piece) during Shadow of the Tor/His and Hers Theatre production of ‘Macbeth’.

I think it apt – as the months, and then weeks, roll up the carpet of fifty-nine and, very soon, propel me into the new weave of my sixties – that I was able to enact on stage something of my own beliefs concerning Crones, age, witches and women – and, indeed, that I got the part in the first place.

My birth sign of Capricorn starts in ten days’ time – and my sixtieth birthday will occur two weeks after Christmas. I love this time of year, and always have. My spirit often blooms with life and colour and joy, and I adore Yule, Christmas, the Solstice. I love wintery weather and the fragile beauty of days like this one. I cherish holly, the red and the rarer golden, and thrill to the sound of carols, both ancient and more modern.

I feel, at present, lively, spritely and inquisitive about reaching sixty. It is a number I have not attached to myself before and I am curious to see what it feels like and how it fits the bundle of youth and age I have always been!

Thinking of the Triple Goddess, I love all the stages therein – and do not think we ever stop being Maiden entirely, nor does the Mother aspect leave us. Crone I have been, in many ways, for several years now – and it does not frighten or disgust or worry me. It just seems like the logical next step upon Womanhood’s rich and diverse Path.

I think I have strong roots and, though my bark is a little bit bald and grey in places, and some mossy clumps have infiltrated the clean lines of youth, the early morning December sun still shines gloriously upon my trunk and leaves and, as the solar orb climbs and radiates, gives a russet glow to the mistletoe at the top.

There seems to be a deep-seated, and widespread, fear of darkness, Winter and age, especially amongst women. I attribute this to the common assumption that Cronehood confers ugliness and takes away sexuality and the power to attract – and, of course, death’s ability to terrorise. And yet, for this, I think my extended Winter-based metaphor works very well. A morning like this one is every bit as beautiful, as inspiring and as conducive to inner fluids flowing and loins stiffening as is its Spring counterpart. Increasing age is the same!

So, I look forward to reaching sixty! I hope to celebrate it with family and friends – and I am determined that this sixtieth anniversary of my birth year will finally see the publication of ‘Heneghan’!

My garden, caught in these images this very merry morning, is every bit as lovely now as it was during the burgeoning of Spring, the heights of Summer and the colourful glories of Autumn.

Female power and loveliness does not depend upon the smoothness of skin, the lustre of hair or brimming fertility. Beauty, to my mind, is bred deep in the bone – and the power to attract both survives youth and goes far beyond the sex act!

With thanks to John. G. Moore for the ‘Macbeth’ image.

Auntie Booby Fellatio’s Solutions…


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/age/

Well, darlings!

I nibbled the most scrummy little morsel the other day.  Mind you, and between ourselves, I am not convinced that he was, in the strictest sense, legal. I did ask  -before you leap upon me and threaten me with the Ducking Stool – but you know how very taciturn youth can be, and, when I queried his provenance, this particular one – Gary, for those who really wish to know – muttered into his bum-fluff an indistinct number which ended in the syllable ‘teen‘!

The wonderful thing about young men is their utter and unashamed rampancy! Delectable! Irresistible! They go at it, my dears, like stoats rampaging through the hottest stoatesses – but, of course, it being just little old me, well, need I say more?!

However – and, obviously, this must remain confidential – there are a couple of teensy-weensy little obstacles to overcome when it comes to the sub-twenties. The first is their laughable, and completely mysterious, identification of myself with their mothers (and, in some speedily ejected little toads, their grandmothers) and a correspondingly lamentable need to confide in me as if I were some kind of Agony Aunt (which I quite clearly am not).

Gary, for example – having performed the Splayed Stallion, the Grandfather Clock and that one on Page 448 which most men over thirty claim to be impossible and highly injurious – settled down for a post-bonk fag (as he so indelicately put it) and, I kid you not, a thorough-going whinge about his mother’s overly zealous attempts to control him via a curfew (about which, frankly, I gave not a toss).  I booted the little blighter out pretty damn sharpish when he started to complain about his Chemistry teacher!

Really! I ask you! Do I look like a counsellor?

But do feel free to hold that thought because it leads me very nicely into my second small problem with the inexperienced and dewily young. Their Inter-vaginal Ballistic Missiles (IVBMs), though splendidly wrought and firm to the nth degree, tend to go Boom in mere seconds…

And – let us be brutally frank here, ladies – that last can be a real turn-off: The tendency of the mechanism to go off half-cocked at the first sight of minge can, for any woman anticipating a sexual triathlon, be a bitter disappointment. Gnashing of teeth and rending of Basque are both to be expected at such a moment. As is defenestration of wilting swain from nearest available window!

Many a woman has come to me in absolute despair concerning this little matter, and my tried-and-tested suggestions have, I hope, provided relief in all but the most obdurate cases.

So here, fresh from the lips of Miss Fellatio herself, I give you BOOBY’S TIPS!

The first, and most obvious, ploy is the immediate adoption of the Corpse Pose: Cease all movement up to – and including if necessary – respiration until the missile has stabilized and is, once more, in Long Range Mode.

Secondly, go for Literary or Biblical attack: An ecclesiastically droning voice, allied with a few yards of The Old Testament or, far worse, a chapter of Dickens, tends to discourage most cases of Premature Rocket Launch.

However, there are always those few young blades for whom sterner measures are needed – and, for these, I find the adoption of the Motherly Tone of Voice effective, especially if it is allied with the well-trodden paths of Parental Complaint: Hours of allowed egress and re-entry, state of bedroom, homework completion, rankness of socks, facial pustules – all of the above can be used in order to keep the cork in the bottle until the female part of the equation is ready for an explosive bang and fizz.

Now I must shove off: Helga is pawing at the ground and snorting – and, let’s face it, a really good masseuse is worth two in the topiary.

 

Lady Autumn : The Beauties of Ageing…


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Lady Autumn, leaves falling, thin branches bare and barren, beauty fading, looks in the watery mirror of plashing stream – and sees the colour being sucked out of her former crackling locks; feels winter’s scythe stripping her flesh back to the bone; senses her sprightly dance of maple and beach, oak and dogwood, chokeberry and witch hazel slowing to a bald and stately passacaglia, the lament of bagpipes replacing lively full orchestra.

She feels ice hovering unseen in the air, a horde of spicules bent upon deadly invasion, a fight to the death she knows she cannot win.

Yet she pauses, stares, proud of surviving for so long. She touches the bony projections, sees fine sculpture in her prominent cheekbones, the sharpness of thin wrists, the turn of a skeletal ankle.

Winter’s Grim Reaper waits patiently, stripping the flesh from roseate youth, pressing death’s fingers into living bark, sucking juice and joy from pulsating earth and her transient creations.

Autumn knows. She feels the cycle deep in her race memory. She smiles. Last leaves flutter forlornly to the forest floor.

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Let’s STOP blatant Ageism!


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Madonna and I are the same age. We also share our year of birth with the late Michael Jackson, Rik Mayall and the very-much-alive Jennifer Saunders and Kate Bush (to name but a few).

She is absolutely right in the above quote. I regularly feel the same: Now I am approaching sixty, am I supposed to just die?

We tip toe fearfully around anyone whose ism is currently in the News; we go out of our way to be stringently politically correct when it come to race, sex and religious belief – but age seems to have slipped through the net.

Are we all assumed to be so mentally confused that we will not notice examples of blatant and hurtful ageism? Is it assumed that we are all withered, dried up, past our best, our rivers of talent dwindling to arid puddles and then dry sand? Is there an unspoken feeling that we should give way to those younger than we and see ourselves as grey, mind-fogged, talent free has-beens?

Well fuck that for a game of soldiers, is all I can say!

Yes, we have more years on the clock – but, by God, the vehicle can still reach ninety on the motorway! We may have charged, limped or wept our way through the menopause, but we can still bonk like barbarians when the mood’s upon us! We may not look as fresh and taut as we did forty years ago, but we are still a force to be reckoned with: Writing, painting, composing, singing, sculpting with just as much passion as we did way back when – but with an added palette of life experience to add to the mix.

How superficial have we become, as a society, when we are made to feel we have to LOOK young and beautiful/handsome to justify any kind of role, other than a brief walk-on part, in life’s vast drama? How tragic that the expertise and talent and lust for life of an entire generation is so easily pushed to one side to make way for the young and still-tight-of-skin.

We become the Great Unseen, don’t we? Comments are often patronising (‘Ooh, you don’t LOOK your age…’), looks pitying (as if we are deluding ourselves that we still have any right to exist at all!) and glances of shorter duration that the life of a May Fly!

For crying out loud, though, what is it with these pathetic and outworn stereotypes concerning age? When I am told that I look younger than I am, what the fuck does that imply about the expectations for a nearly-sixty-year-old-woman’s looks? Should I be but a winding-sheet away from an Egyptian Mummy in the face department? Does imminent Bus Pass bring with it an immediate road test for a Zimmer Frame?

By a hilarious irony, I was often asked to provide ID well into my twenties whenever I went into an Off Licence. Buggered by age-related barriers at both ends! How unfair is that, eh?!

What, I ask you, IS a typical sixty-year-old woman’s mindset? Looks? Size? Ability? Do we still think that people over sixty leave their dentures in a glass by the side of the bed (that is, if incipient Alzheimer’s Disease allows them to actually find the bloody bed/glass in the first place!); that they all have short grey hair, and shorter, even greyer, memories? That any interests and talents they once had have long been Natron-treated for seventy days, wrapped securely and piled into the nearest Pyramid? That they can be passed over because they are so close to actually passing on?

What a complete lavatorium full of sloths’ testicles!

A pox upon such thinking!

Tolerance, to my way of thinking, should be a two-way thing! That means, to put it bluntly, respect for race, sex and religion should be reciprocated when it comes to us elderly buggers!

We ancient ones, we almost-Ancestors-in-our-own-time, have rights too, you know, and abundant life force! Why the hell should we feel, even for one second, that we have to roll up the sodding curtain and join the bleeding choir invisible just because we can no longer cartwheel from a cold start, turn over two pages at once in the Kama Sutra without herniating ourselves or capture the camera’s eye with that oh-so-brief dewy petal of youth look?

I love being a Crone! Apart from anything else, it allows me to say this kind of thing without, frankly, giving a toss!

Ageism? Don’t get me started…

Cougar Women and MILFs!


As with so much in life, I came to these two expressions late – and, until two years or so ago, had no idea what either of them meant. This all changed when a woman my age referred to me as a Cougar Woman (though on what grounds, I am unable to say!) and, worse, a year eight boy I taught wrote ‘MILF’ on the board, when I turned my back for five seconds. I went ballistic!

My understanding now – and do feel free to correct me if I am wrong – is that both terms refer to older women who have a proclivity for, if you’ll pardon the coarseness, fucking younger men!*

Well, I certainly qualify for one half of the definition, being what could kindly be described as an older female (or a withered old hag, as I call myself in jesting moments); but, the second part baffles me somewhat because I have not, as yet, felt the lure of the Younger Man in the sexual sense. Oh, I can admire their beauty in an aesthetic way and imagine that they would be a bit bloody handy in the sack (as it were); but, truth be told, they do not stir me to frothing cauldrons of unbridled lust.

I have always gone for older men – and, on the occasions when I fell in love with my own sex, women – or those who are/were roughly contemporaneous. But, now that I am racing towards Bus Pass Age (Yay! Can barely contain myself for sheer excitement…NOT!), a certain ‘Oh my God!’ element is creeping in to the equation.

Why? Because, let me be blunt, older men are now segueing into – and, in some cases, indistinguishable from – Decrepit Old Gits and, for all that there are many exceptions, most I come across have all the sex appeal of month-old road-kill. As, I dare say, do I in their cataract-blurred eyes!

I would sooner bonk a goat, quite frankly!

Now, post-divorce, I am taking a break from below the belt activity – but, when I do get back into the saddle, I do not intend to trawl through the local OAP homes in order to find a ride which/who is not already spavined beyond repair! Call me fussy if you will, but my preference is for a sexual partner who does not need Viagra/a hoist and crane to keep Percy perpendicular in a Hide the Salami Scenario, and – really pushing the boat out here – one who has sufficient brain cells left to know what he is doing beneath the duvet/in the dovecote/on a beach/in a forest!

This is all, as I am sure the discerning amongst you will have realised, tongue in cheek and not meant to be taken as a serious comment upon vast swathes of the male population. There are some eminently fanciable men of around my age, though statistically, by the time they reach sixty, most are either married (several times as often as not) or gay. I also know that tupping in the twilight years is by no means uncommon, with veritable wall-rippling orgies taking place in retirement homes up and down the land!

I know that sex appeal goes far deeper than mere physical looks – though I would, I suspect, draw the line at a man with a merkin! – and that a bloke with an effective Sat Nav of Lust (as it were) is worth his weight in Lindt Chocolate whatever his chronological age!

It would, I feel sure, be a damn sight easier if my erogenous zones were zinged by the sight of a toned twenty-year-old – but they aren’t. And, in any case, I have a son of roughly that age – and consider I am quite embarrassing enough as a mother without turning into a ferocious Cougar Woman!

Now, I am not a bloke. Obviously! But I often wonder what younger guys see in crones like me whose bits are going south at a rate of knots and, in many cases, whose skin looks as if a good iron wouldn’t go amiss! Is it the aura of experience (often with more than a hint of the jaded about it!) that grabs them by the balls? Is it unreconciled early sexual feelings for the actual Mother in their lives? Is it, perhaps, the need to mount an old mare in order to practise the trot, the canter and the gallop for future fillies?

I also wonder, from time to time, what the attraction, for the young stud, is in what one could euphemistically call the Fuller Figure! Or, to put it another way, women, like me, whose waists have long ago become Equatorial Regions and who require a large rope, several Sherpas and a day or two in order to circumnavigate said body part!

Who knows? Who cares?! Look, I am not condemning it at all! Get your leg over who the hell you want, as far as I am concerned, as long as said ‘horse’ is legal and the act does not involve abuse. If your bag is humping hags, be my guest! If a knee-trembler with a Nonagenarian is what fires up your Engine of Lurve, go for it – providing it is consensual and does not slip into necrophilia…

Frankly, I doubt that this post will see the light of day. The Censors will be on it like flies on a corpse. Ah well! Shame really!

MILF? Nope, ‘fraid not!

Cougar?

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No thanks! Bugger off!

*I stand corrected on the MILF front. It does not mean the same as Cougar. Many thanks to the reader who pointed this out to me!

Nineteen? NINETEEN?! And the rest…


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Just for a lark yesterday, I entered one of those Facebook quizzy doodads. You know the sort of thing I mean: What is your IQ in Smarties? Read your true age through your posterial wrinkles! Guess your star sign through your own ear wax… That kind of malarkey!

This one promised to tell you how old you looked based on an online photograph – and, as if that weren’t exciting enough, how old your posts suggested you were.

With me so far? I ask because it took me a while to hoist this utterly riveting premise on board!

Now, I have never made any bones about my age (fifty-eight and three quarters as of tomorrow), so my expectation was that the photographic evidence statistic would be higher than the writing evidence. Frankly, I would’ve been more than happy to settle for mid-to-late forties on the former and mid-to-late thirties on the latter. I know I look younger than I am – but not by that much!

So, my vitals were well and truly stapped when the (obviously faulty!) calculator gave me an age, based on one photograph, of NINETEEN!

Nineteen?!! I wish! How utterly ludicrous. On a good day, with the light behind me and a favourable prevailing wind, I can look as if I am still in my forties (if only by the skin of my teeth) – but a teenager? Nope!

I know all the rumours about Capricorns: That we, as a breed, have this Reverse Ageing thing going on (allegedly), possibly to make up for the fact that so many of us resembled tiny nonagenarians when in our formative years – but there are limits. Ye gods, at this rate, I shall be more reminiscent of a foetus than a proper ‘uman bean by the time I reach sixty in fifteen months’ (and one day: very important, that one day!) time.

I know, I know, this all just goes to show how ludicrous these online ‘games’ are, and how credulous (and vain!) I am for engaging with them. Still and all, there was a tiny moment of, ‘Wow!’ going on in amongst the carpet-biting laughter and cameloid sneering.

But I have to end this with the vividly-remembered mindset (and consummate irony) of actually being a teenager – and the weird longing to look older, to look like an adult, to be an adult…

Why? Oh why?!

Just goes to show that youth really is wasted on the young!

Oh! And according to Mystic Medusa (or whoever was behind this latest Guess Yer Age stall at the Fair we call Facebook) my age based on my writing is thirty-six!

Superficial? Undeniably! But it made me laugh!

As Old as the Woman you Feel!


A reader of mine made a comment along the ‘Old as the woman you feel’ lines yesterday – and this has made me think!

In sixteen months and four days’ time, I shall turn SIXTY! Amazing, eh? Does it worry or frighten me, though?

Only in the sense that, statistically, I am closer to the sands of my life running out through time’s funnel – and I am passionate about being alive.

But sixty as an age worries me not – because I, too, am as old as the woman I feel – and I am regularly having hands-on experiences with a female far younger than sixty! (Well, I am still a mere infant of fifty-eight!)

Don’t worry: I am not bonking a Cheerleader or anything sordid of that variety…

No. I have long felt more youthful than my actual years would suggest – and, forty years on from starting at Aberystwyth University, think I may have reached my late teens or early twenties!

A new chapter of my life is about to start. It would be very strange, though not entirely unexpected, if I were to find myself physically moving on October 3rd (the forty year anniversary of that first wild and wonderful train journey over the Cors Fochno marshes near Borth, to the university town I fell in love with at first sight):

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So, going back to the title, the young woman I feel is, of course, myself! Physically, my body has, naturally, aged over the intervening four decades – but it still has the same familiar dips and hollows, nooks and crannies, high peaks, Mediterranean heat zones and more temperate areas!

It remains, in a word, the same body I have touched and been intimate with for fifty-eight years. It shares secrets with the two year old, five year old, fifteen and thirty year old me. It responds in ways no other human being could possibly understand or predict. I know it better than the best lover ever has – and it has, thus far, outlived all sexual relationships and love affairs.

In terms of the way I look, I have been blessed (through my mother’s side) with a youthful appearance – and, having an adventurous approach to hair colouring, have remained an unnatural red-head for thirty-plus years!

I am not daft: I know that no one would mistake me for a teenager these days – but many people think I look younger than I actually am!

So. Sixty? Bring it on! I shall continue to wear brightly patterned DMs, swear like a Navvy, write outrageously graphic pieces about sex and be turned on to, and by, life!

Truly, we are ALL as old as the woman, or man, we feel – and I am not yet caressing the Crone, though I am mindful and respectful of her magical presence in my being.

You can see, in this image (another of the five I took a few days ago), that my face is no longer teen-smooth, and that my skin is not as tight and springy as it was. But I reckon I still look younger than my years – if only just!

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I think age is largely an attitude of mind – though obviously our bodies do wear down, and eventually out, at the purely physical level – and, if we think we should inhabit the conventional characteristics of a certain age, we probably will; whereas, if we remain fluid and live an ageless life in our bodies, we are likely to remain young for longer, perhaps (in some ways) forever!