I am not supposed to talk about the artist who finger fucked me in my forties a few feet away from Parliament Hill and the National Gallery of Canada, where his work was on display. Or the notorious playwright whose lovers all drank his piss, including me. I am not supposed to talk about the twenty-one year old Haitian who talked to me about witnessing the earthquake and who sang to me in between fucks in in my late 40s, or the dirty blonde mid-twenties lover whose cock I rode when I turned fifty. Not only am I not supposed to talk about these instances of debauchery, I am also not supposed to experience them and I am definitely not supposed to initiate them.
I’m supposed to be a late-middle-aged woman in a conventional relationship who writes as a hobby or escape from her boring nine-to-five job. Instead I am in an open marriage and have been for over a decade. I’m a messy dresser who prefers flannel shirts to dresses on most days. I wear men’s sweaters and boxer shorts. Writing is my day job and any form of art I can explore is my obsession, as are men. My inspirations are the subversive surrealists, who flouted societal convention and made art, made sex their art. I take lovers when I am in the mood. I yearn to be surrounded by a coterie of artists and admirers who worship me and fuck me whenever I desire.
Sex is not separate but an intrinsic part of my artistic nature. I write to explore, play and connect with others. I want an intimate relationship between myself and others, between my writing and those who read my work. I want to be connected to the world. I wrote smut for years because I couldn’t make love to everyone in the world, so I had to do it through my writing. Even today, when I read my poetry aloud to an audience, what I want most is to seduce the audience, to mesmerize.
I am bored by the kind of sex that is popular amongst the online or Tinder app set. Doggy-style poundings, varied positions. Men who are so influenced by pornography that they will fuck in missionary position with their legs spread. What I want is to be devoured and to devour. To consume and to be consumed. Have you seen the film, “La vie d’Adèle” (Blue is the Warmest Colour)? Look at how the naked Emma and Adèle lick each other, stroke each other, eat every part of each other. They are like lionesses, unable and unwilling to be tamed. This is the kind of passion I require in my sexual activity and in my art and the art of others.
I live in a conventional world where monogamy is king, and owning a home with a two-car garage in the suburbs, whilst planted in front of a big screen television watching reality tv is the ideal lifestyle. This is not for me. I want to hold court in the city over decadent tea salons where art is discussed and debauchery ensues.
At a poetry reading recently, a man in his thirties captivated me with his unusual writing. It was playful, unique and brilliant. I went with him and a group of friends to a local pub where we chitchatted. I wanted him to myself, in my bed, to drink wine, talk about art and poetry and fuck until the wee small hours.
What I’m told by social media and society in general, however, is a different thing. A woman who enjoys sex at my age is someone to be laughed at, or if she likes to fuck younger men, to be sneered at. She is a cougar, some kind of predatory beast. It’s a form of dismissiveness, a way of telling a woman of a certain age she should stay in her place. As a feisty woman in my 50s, I refuse to stay in my so-called place. I want to be a deviant in both my art and my sexual activities. I want to deviate from the norm.
In her essay on menopause, in Granta Magazine, American poet Mary Ruefle nails it when she says, “You have on some days the desire to fuck a tree, or a dog, whichever is closest.” I am fifty-two years old with a libido that has always been strong, but now that I am entering menopause, it is a blazing inferno. For some women, the sex drive seems to go away or at least, they are not interested in fucking their spouses of umpteen years.
I have heard over and over that sexual desire usually decreases with age and, because it hasn’t for me, I often feel alienated and freakish, even ashamed of myself for my need to jill off at least two or three times a day on average, and my wish to engage in sexual activity with men, in addition to my husband. Men of all ages from early twenties until…I’m not even sure how high the age limit is. As long as they are exploring art in some way, are handsome, intelligent and kind, I’ll be happy to spend an afternoon with them in my boudoir.
I’ve never seen myself as an alluring woman in public, the type men send drinks to in bars. I’m rarely in a bar in the evening, I’m the afternoon barfly type. So it comes as no surprise to me that as my hair silvers that men’s eyes pass me by for the young, doe-skinned feisty women with supple bodies, tattoos and piercings. But it’s disappointing. As a sexual creature, but also as a writer who writes to play, to explore and to connect with others, not being treated as a sexual being can be hard on my ego. Especially when my sexuality has reached such a fever pitch.
Sometimes, when I’m thinking with my little head, I join online dating sites or add smart phone apps, such as Tinder. But there, the interest from men is either about my age or the sole fact that I’m available. They want to fuck a woman who reminds them of their mothers. They want to be taught by an experienced lover. I don’t want to be chosen because of my age and I don’t care to remind anyone of their mother.
The other type of man who contacts me on these sites is the married man in my age group who is in a so-called monogamous relationship. There again, it has nothing to do with me as a person but rather the desire to conduct a secret, taboo affair. These men are usually looking for specific sex acts they aren’t getting from their spouses. They often have no wish for intimacy or connection. They want to stick their cocks into a hole, c’est tout. While I don’t judge anyone’s relationships or sexual activity, I suggest these men hire sex workers. Unfortunately, in Canada, where I live, it is illegal to do so.
I continue to be open about my sexuality, for many reasons, but one of the chief reasons is to let other fellow old lady deviants know that they are not alone. No matter how much I am mocked or slut-shamed or talked down to for enjoying sex with multiple partners and for wanting it from men of all ages, I will not be silenced.
Amanda Earl is a Canadian poet, publisher and occasional pornographer. She’s the managing editor of Bywords.ca and the fallen angel of AngelHousePress, including its transgressive prose imprint DevilHouse. She runs a close reading service for new women poets. She’s the co-host of the poetry podcast, “The Small Machine Talks” with a.m. kozak. Her books include “A World of Yes” (DevilHouse, 2016), about a woman who falls asleep during her thirty-fifth birthday party and misses an orgy; “Kiki” (Chaudiere Books, 2014), a poetic celebration of Montparnasse between the Wars; and “Coming Together Presents Amanda Earl,” (Coming Together, 2014), a collection of erotic tales whose revenue goes to the AIDS/HIV charity GMHC.org. For more information, please visit AmandaEarl.com or chat Amanda up on Twitter @KikiFolle.
Gem Blackthorn is QMT's Sex Columnist, and the author/curator of Lust Thrust Thursdays. Send her your submissions and questions at sexsexsex [at] queenmobs.com