Nuclear Fiction Newsletter, #10

Sex in the Senior City

Leslie author photo 1984

Leslie author photo 2025

In 1984, I wrote a book titled Prime Time: Sex for Men over Fifty. Oral pills to improve men’s erections were years away from being a profit center for pharma companies, but there was a surgery available to implant a silicone pump system inside the penis and scrotum, giving a man the ability to make his penis stiff or soft at will, regardless of his mental sexual arousal. I was a thirty-two-year-old psychologist, trained by some of the most expert sex therapists in the world, and then cast into the mechanistic, “bro” world of urology.

When I arrived at my first job in Houston, three surgeons had busy practices inserting inflatable penile prostheses. Men came from all over the world and were run through a standard evaluation, including a psychological interview and testing, as well as monitoring their erections during sleep with a special set-up. The main goal of the clinic, at least for the American men, was to show that the erection problem had a medical cause so that insurers would pay for the surgery. My baptism of fire in this new environment came as I watched a slide show illustrating each step of the operation during a device-company-sponsored dinner. Avocado soup was on the menu. I have never tasted it again, because it evokes the image shown on the screen as the presenter intoned, “And now we draw the needle through the glans.” I was stoic, however, upholding the traditional sangfroid of my profession.

That experience, and my subsequent years helping cancer patients try to recover their sexual function, led me to write Prime Time. Although my publisher, Holt, Rinehart, allocated some promotion budget, I was a genuine babe in the woods about marketing. Also, as a book, Prime Time was way before its time. It did sell over five thousand copies and I appeared on one, national daytime TV show. The host was probably in his early fifties himself, although he desperately protested that the book was for much older men. He conducted the entire interview with a pained, deer-in-the-headlights expression.

Although I am now forty years older, and have had a long career treating sexual problems linked to aging and chronic illness in men and women, I am amazed that sexuality, even in fiction, remains the province of the young. I have been amused by the buzz about Miranda July’s All Fours. Gasp! A forty-five year old woman dares to explore her sexual desires! And she’s in perimenopause! It is still on my to-be-read list, so I cannot comment on whether her partners find her juicy enough. I certainly hope so.

Here on Substack, book coach Heather Garbo (@Write Your Next Chapter) and agent Erin Niumata (@erinniumata) have written recently about the need for more novels with heroines over age fifty. After all, who buys most books? Women in their middle to older years. And in the three years that I have turned to writing novels myself, I have connected with a vast group of older women writers. Though few of us manage to secure an agent and traditional publishing contract (Bonnie Garmus is everyone’s aspiration), the ease of hybrid and self-publishing open pathways to fulfilling our dreams. Still, most of us write from the points of view of younger women. In my first two novels, the heroines were nineteen and thirty-four years old. Only in the last few months have I decided to tackle a story about a woman around my own age, struggling with a breast cancer recurrence (which I, thankfully, have not had to personally confront).

I am not writing a novel about dying, however, but about living as well as possible. Julia, the central character, is dating a man who ghosts her when her cancer reappears. Later she reconnects with a friend from her medical training days, who becomes her lover. The first sex scene in the book occurs in Chapter 2 and involves some senior accommodations—erection pills, a vacuum penis pump, and copious amounts of lube. I recently got feedback from my two writing critique groups and to a man or woman, they were flabbergasted. “I never heard of this, and now I can’t unsee it,” one reader commented.

I cannot wait to find out their reactions to the second sexual encounter. Here is a little taste:

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Jerry sat on the foot of the mattress and unzipped his suitcase. Julia sat beside him, wondering what was next. He handed her a box. “This is for us.”

She read the label out loud. “Naughty Bed Bondage? Really, Jerry?”

“I don’t want to dominate you, Julia. Just the opposite. I know you always want to be the giver and take care of everyone else. I thought if we used this, you might give up all that need for control, and really let me focus on your pleasure.”

She gave him a dubious look and read more of the explanation on the box. “Easy to adjust velcro cuffs with soft lining. Works with any mattress. Comfy secure blindfold included.”

“Open it.”

Julia complied and pulled out the aforementioned items. With the red fabric and black velcro, they reminded her of hiking equipment. She started to laugh. “This looks like the L. L. Bean version of bondage. Are you sure there isn’t a camping lantern in the box?”

“I get more of a Lululemon vibe. Feel the nice, smooth fabric, kind of like yoga pants.” Jerry tested a cuff between his thumb and fingers. He ripped open the velcro strap and closed it again, tugging the connection to test whether it would stay secure.

“Hot yoga! And if we don’t enjoy it in bed, I might be able to attach the straps to the over-the-door hook in my exercise corner, and use them for bicep curls.”

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So readers, are you ready for Sex in the Senior (Not Just Perimenopausal) City? And where the heck am I going to find comps?