What It’s Been Like Trying to Relight My Libido at 70

Welcome to Ethels Tell All, where the writers behind The Ethel newsletter share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging. Come back Wednesday each week for the latest piece, exclusively on AARP Members Edition.

Back in the 1970s, vibrators weren’t the sleek little battery-powered wands you can toss in a drawer today. Mine had to be plugged into the wall and came with clunky “massage” attachments. I used it so much I sometimes feared I’d die of electrocution mid-orgasm and be discovered, frozen in bliss, with the thing still buzzing between my legs.

In my 20s, hormones ran the show. I craved passion, touch, that magnetic pull only another body could exert. But I also carried a lot of emotional baggage, the kind that weighed down every relationship before it had a chance to take off. Fear of abandonment ran deep, so whenever a relationship got rocky, I preemptively sabotaged it. Better to blow it up myself than risk being left. Sometimes that meant picking a fight over nothing or suddenly going cold when things were warm. Despite all that, I managed to find great love along the way — though I never earned any awards for longevity.

Fast-forward to now. I’ve been on Medicare for more than five years and recently started collecting Social Security (thank you, Suze Orman, for convincing me to wait and maximize that 8 percent). It’s been nearly as long since I’ve had a boyfriend. The last one — handsome, charming and narcissistic — had a favorite pastime that involved me and my mouth. But when I suggested good old-fashioned intercourse, his so-called love stick wimped out. Let’s just say it wasn’t a match made in heaven.

Which means it’s been even longer since I’ve had the kind of sex where bodies melt together into something bigger, something transcendent. I miss that.

Meanwhile, my own body is aging right on schedule. I can see I’m not as toned as I should be, and sometimes I catch glimpses of my crepey neck in the mirror. More whiskers keep sprouting on my chin and elsewhere on my face. Still, I’m grateful. My body is holding out surprisingly well, given my lack of consistent exercise.

And truthfully? I’ve grown content being a family of one — or, as I like to joke, a family of three: me, myself and I. The vibrator I’ve had for over a decade — battery-operated, vaguely shaped like a dildo — gathers dust more often than not. When I do use it, it’s purely external, quick and efficient. Straight to the big “C,” a short hop to the big “O,” and back to my book or to-do list.

The only thing routinely inserted into me these days is a speculum at my gynecologist’s office — and that’s no fun. I begged my doctor to use the smaller size, which tells you everything you need to know about how inviting my vagina is right now.

Dating apps? Forget it. I was there at the dawn of matchmaking services, starting with newspaper personals in the late 1980s. My brother once gifted me a membership to a video dating service called French Connection. That’s where I met a guy I’ll call Randy, who moved in within weeks. Later came Arthur, who I was sure would be around long-term. He started out passionate and loving but eventually grew cold and withdrawn. That one didn’t end well, to say the least.