It’s standing room only at the Party House. Or maybe I should say the seats have been taken by those who need them most. A motley group of people, mostly in their 60s and 70s, wander around nibbling hors d’oeuvres and greeting each other warmly as old friends do when they meet at a wedding or memorial service—and we are there for both of those things.
What is the Party House, you ask? And why are we there for a wedding and a memorial? There’s no diplomatic way to describe either the place or the event. A distant cousin of mine has gathered family and friends together to celebrate the life of her first husband, who died a couple of months ago, and following a brief intermission, to witness her marriage to husband #4. The house itself, a 1920s-style residence in a quiet neighborhood, has functioned for the last 40 years as “the” place where nice couples meet other nice couples and then take off their clothes, though not always in that order. My cousin and her first husband ran it as a business together even after they divorced; now it’s hers alone.
For this occasion, the house has been scrubbed clean and festooned with what looks like pale mosquito netting, paper leaf cutouts and winking Christmas lights. I suspect that a number of the guests are charter members of the Party House, former swingers now equipped with high-tech hearing aids and canes. Or maybe they’re still swinging—I try not to imagine. One woman in her 70s startles me when she coos, “Oh, you were making eyes at me.” It’s true, I may have been staring, but not for the reason she thinks. We leave immediately after the ceremony, not waiting to see if the group energy would coalesce into one of their traditional evening events for old times’sake.
The thought of seniors having sex makes me uncomfortable as I’m sure it does many people. That holds especially true when I think of family members, namely parents. I’ll admit that it’s my problem, and that I should regard sexual intimacy as wonderful at any legal age. But I’ve always been prudish, more so as a child raised in the era of free love. Seeing couples make out in public has always offended me; once I even begged my father not to ask our neighbor when her baby was due. “Just don’t talk about it,” I said.
A few years ago my father and I were speaking on the phone; out of nowhere he began telling me about some sexual challenges he’d been experiencing with my stepmother. I heard the word "Viagra," and felt like I was about to black out. Then he announced proudly, “But just this morning, even without the pill, I—“ And here I cut him off, saying I really didn’t need to hear it. He was 80 at the time.
Some of my friends found the story inspiring. “Your dad is eighty and he can still get it up?” one enthused. “I think it’s wonderful that old people can still enjoy themselves!” said another. Intellectually, I’m in total agreement. All the studies indicate sex is good for one’s physical and emotional well-being, even (or perhaps especially) for older folks. But that doesn't mean I want to picture it.
At this point, I can safely assume that the season is permanently over for my dad. I haven’t asked, and won’t, but judging from his frailty and diminished energy level I’d guess that there remains nothing more in that department than some good memories and occasional hugs. And if there is more, I truly don’t want to know.
