Those words could have been expressed by women in my grandmother’s generation and beyond. Case in point: My mother’s Aunt Ellie married a minister who looks in faded photos as if a smile would shatter his solemn face. When asked whether she loved her husband, Aunt Ellie answered without hesitation, “Not at night.” The couple’s eight children are evidence that the reverend believed in sex. But I’m thinking he might not have excelled in the art of lovemaking.
From what I understand, marital sex often was considered just another chore in those days. It was to be borne stoically, like childbirth. Back then, if you heard the old mattress
creaking deep in the night you’d hope he wouldn’t be reaching for you. You were exhausted. But you were supposed to be there if he wanted you. And if, every time he reached out, there was a strong chance you’d be getting another baby, how turned on would you be?
Sex-as-marital-duty relates to the thinking that women “belonged” to their husbands, just a piece of -- well, real estate. The women-as-property craziness has lessened over time, as we’ve wised up and fought it. But the attitudes of Aunt Ellie’s generation didn’t vanish with my grandmother’s and not entirely with my mother’s. After all, even in “her day,” the 1940’s and 50’s, birth control methods still were undependable. My mother had four babies and no pill to prevent unintended pregnancy. Condoms were, still are, less than reliable.
While most of my female relatives appear to share my repression, two or three have taken the fast track in the opposite direction. I sometimes wonder whether they are overcompensating for the rest of us -- and our failure to live as sexual adventurers. I also wonder whether these happy wanderers got free passes in some twilight-zone lottery, while the card I got said “Do not pass go.”
***
A role model for authenticity and the sexual art-of-the-possible came along when I was about forty. Eva became my aunt by marrying my father’s oldest brother. She was in her sixties then; he was closer to seventy. It was a second marriage, after less-than-good first marriages ended with the death of their spouses. Eva’s invalid husband had been in her dutiful care for nearly a decade before he died.
Eva and Uncle Ed lived in Florida and sometimes paid a visit on their way to or from the North Carolina mountains. I felt a connection the first time I met Eva; I trusted her instantly. Later, I realized it was her authenticity I was sensing. She was warm, likable, and obviously comfortable in her own skin. She was who she was, the real deal.
After that first meeting she sent what would become one of my favorite books, The Education of Little Tree by Forrest Carter. She inscribed it, “I’m glad we are kindred.” So was I.
It was a joy seeing Eva and Ed together. Besides their strong chemistry, mutual love and respect fairly radiated from the two of them. They grabbed the brass ring of a second chance and never let go. Ed had money, so they were able to travel the world, play lots of golf, and enjoy good times with friends and family. Years later, Eva loved Ed through his struggle with cancer. And when he died, she grieved the loss of her sweetheart deeply.
Rather than go down for the funeral, I promised to visit when things got too quiet around her house. And I did that. We had a wonderful time sharing confidences, tears, and belly laughs. She told me their love story, adding: “Never believe you’re too old to fall in love and have a fabulous, intimate, sexy life. We just need to get more creative about sex as we get older.”
She was comfortable with her sexuality, a “first” for me to observe. I had cringed watching women her age convince themselves they were still in their twenties. Those women used “baby talk” or hushed, sexy tones when they flirted with boys the ages of their grandsons.
It was not at all that way with Eva. I think the difference was that she wasn’t confused about who she was. Eva was fully aware and comfortable about being whatever age she was. You could see her confidence in the way she moved her body and the way she dressed -- always tasteful, feminine and sexy -- into her eighties. She didn’t allow an aging body to sabotage her sexuality. And, as long as she lived Eva, continued to own her personal power.
If only she had been in my life during my teens and twenties! I wonder whether her early influence might have altered my attitudes about sex. I also wonder whether I’d have grown into my own authenticity sooner. Of course I’ll never know for sure -- but I’m leaning in favor of “yes” and “yes.”
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