Parting Glances: Your Wrinkle Room, Or Mine

There's nothing quite as ho-ho-hum as other people's sex lives. Unless, of course, they're young, pretty, age legal and available of their own good-natured free will or by tax-free monetary inducement.
In the course of my three-score-and-19-or-other, I've investigated many marvelous nooks and a few incredible crannies of a decidedly libidinous nature. And, like a goodly share of my older cronies, I've learned that the adage I had heard woefully repeated to me in my 20s, "Nobody wants you when you're old and gay," ain't necessarily so.
Not by a long shot. (Viagra not withstanding.)
For those of you who plan to live well past mid-age studhood marketability (the crossover usually hits in tidal waves of dieting, exercising, hair tinting, fibbing, padding and panic, say age 35, or a generously repetitive age 39), please mark your perpetual youth desk calendars.
More than likely you'll still be able to perform — not as sure fire often, not as grandly choosey of your multiple partners or your serial monogamy cohorts, but certainly a little more expertly — at 50, 60, 70 and, if you try extra hard, at 80. (But don't hold your penis breath. Or his.)
Like everybody else, those of us who are wrinkle-roomers (especially male) think a lot about sex, even if we pretend not to. Sex as a commodity of day-to-day daring do lurks alluringly everywhere, 24/7. On TV, in the movies, books, magazines (and certainly denounced and/or titillated over each Sunday from thousands of begrudging or envious church pulpits).
When I was a kid, say 12 or 13, my sexual knowledge could be summed up as playground zero. My folks never discussed sex. I recall my total shock at finding a copy of Sexology magazine, with dozens of incomprehensible Gray's Anatomy illustrations, stashed under the cushion of a living room chair. (Hey, teeny boppers, been to Barnes & Noble lately?)
Here are media items gleaned to make your view from over the hill conversationally brighter. The first comes under the rubric of "nosegay." (Source: "The Science of Orgasm," Johns Hopkins Press.)
According to the authors, a certain unnamed, but nonetheless enterprising — presumably happy, high on pot — young man was able to achieve the Big O by applying an electric vibrator to his nose and to his knee cap.
Applying the selfsame double-AA instrument to his schwantz, he climaxed with an unexpected bon voyage: "an image of an ocean liner appeared (to him) in the distance, being raised from the depths by an uplifted hand."
For what it's worth, the authors clinically opine, "This description indicates that there was coherence among somatic, visceral and cognitive activities leading up to the orgasmic moment." (No wonder gay sea cruises are so popular.)
For those who remember the "God, was I drunk last night" syndrome, here's a twist. It's called "sexsomnia," according to an in-depth article in the British publication New Scientist. "For most of us, sex and sleep don't happen at the same time. When they do, it can be an emotional and legal disaster." (Count your bedtime sheep, Mary. Just don't bugger them.)
And, this from a tell-all issue of Mother Jones. Subject, "The Way of All Flesh." Expose! On Christian sex sites, anything goes, so long as you are married and shun porn. Oral and anal sex, toys and fantasies. Mild pain through spanking. All are possibilities.
One wonders how Solomon managed with 600 wives and a goodly number of concubines.
Probably worn about by his third go-around of being 39.