Remember when you were the shiny new thing on the block? The world courted you, opened up for you, and wanted your sex at every turn? The world would chase after you, lick its lips when it saw you, clutch you by the small of your back, drew you close, nuzzled the nape of your neck, and whispered naughty things in your ear. The world wanted to smell you, taste you, lock you in its gaze for hours, and conceptualize ways to be mischievous with you. The world loved you. It lusted for you. It would nibble every inch of you and let your juiciness run down the sides of its mouth, drop to its knees and beg you for more. What a time.
Well, times have certainly changed. Now the world treats you like a deteriorated heirloom in the back of that quirky antique shop that only opens on the weekends from 2 - 5 pm. Welcome to "a certain age". The age where the world takes its time returning your phone calls, often looks past you when you're trying to have a conversation with it, thinks you're past your prime, doesn't want to recognize anything you've accomplished past the age of 25, and wishes you would dissipate into the atmosphere like train smoke so it doesn't have to be tasked with acknowledging your presence. Nice.
At 54 I don't feel old, a little worn for the wear, but not old. There's an ache here, a pain there and it takes a little more time for the engine to rev in the morning. And to be fair, I earned every ache and pain from those juicy years. Dropping it like it's hot on the regular, bouts of partying all night, and dragging myself into work still wearing a club wristband the next day. Speaking of clubs, they used to be hot and sweaty, folks dressed to the nines, a cloud of Lagerfeld and Cool Water filled the air (dudes kept their cologne game TIGHT back then), guys getting their mack on over the blaring music, and Before I Let Go by Frankie Beverly and Maze signaled the end of the night, so you had to make some hard and fast decisions when the lights came on. HA! The many scintillating walks of shame, which really weren't shameful at all. Running the streets like it was on my W-2 form and if you went to Freaknik (the 90s version) during your juicy years, let's just say you got some shit you're taking to the grave. No judgment here. Again just a little worn for the wear but definitely not ready for the scrap heap. When I was in my 20s I thought my mojo would last forever. The tight tummy, smooth skin, fast metabolism, boundless energy....all of it would be at my bidding for the long haul. Of course, when you're in your 20s you think everything good and juicy would last forever. But now we're here.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not hating on the current young juicys, it's their time to shine. The difference is there's a colossal spotlight called social media they use. They document their every move, every meal, every word, every tryst, every thought, every EVERY! Their lives are one long continuous piece of content for the 'Gram. Whether what they post is real or scripted, they're willing to entertain the world and the world sits with bated breath, eyes wide, heart racing ready to consume what the young juicys have to give. That takes a LOT of energy. I used to have that energy. I used to love to entertain the world, albeit offline. Because like Prince taught us, some things are meant for the vault. I loved to prep for the dance: clothes tight, heels high, lips glossed and hips swaying. One day I was on my way back to work after having lunch, I strolled past a gentleman and he said "Girl you got a walk on you!" That still makes my heart flutter and brings a sly smile to my face some 25 years later. Women love to hear things like that. Women of a certain age remember things like that.
Speaking of flirting, why does the world violently wince when the sexuality of a woman over 40 is presented? When books, movies, tv-shows, news articles, etc. center around the passions, pleasures, and desires of a woman of a certain age, you can almost hear the collective blustering gag reflex of society blaring in the atmosphere. Damn! Aren't we allowed to still get our asses smacked and our hair pulled? To be kissed passionately and held lovingly? To be summoned from across the room with a sexy steely gaze? There's a great movie on Hulu entitled Good Luck To You, Leo Grande starring the incomparable Emma Thompson. It's about a retired and widowed teacher who hires a young male sex worker to essentially get her mojo back...sexually and generally in life. Without giving away too much, their sessions are part therapy and part raw sexual pleasure. At first, I questioned, "Why does this woman of a certain age have to resort to hiring a sex worker?" But while watching the movie, I was educated that sex work isn't always entirely about sex, it's often about companionship. A much-needed service in this ugly and often lonely world we live in. There are some powerful scenes in this movie, particularly the ending scene which sends an equally powerful message. It's definitely worth the watch.
I find it irritating that when women of a certain age exert their sexuality or are merely comfortable with it are called brave. What the fuck is that? We're brave because we're over 30 and still like to have sex, wear tight black dresses and sway our hips as we shop for groceries? That's a low bar for bravery. But when society, mainly straight white men, has gone unchallenged for years in setting the standard of beauty, this is the shit you get. I refuse to listen to the mediocrity of white maleness when it comes to the things of womanhood, particularly what's juicy or not. But it's a fact that I'm a woman of a certain age navigating a world that tends to look away when I show up. You practically have to be Janet, Halle, or Taraji, cuz the bulk of society ain't checking for us regular OGs. Shout out to these BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMEN!!
As I fondly reminisce about my young juicy years, an epiphany emerges. As women of a certain age, we need to stop talking about how juicy we used to be and embrace that our juiciness had transformed into something better. Our juice now has a bite to it, it's gone from Welch's to wine. Our life experiences make us intoxicating. We're no longer looking to be gulped by life, but rather slowly sipped...allowing us to linger on your tongue and have the bouquet burst and resonate in the back of your throat and rise slowly into your nasal cavity. We've gone from entertaining you to teaching you. Making direct eye contact and having robust conversations with you. That's probably what makes life so uncomfortable around us. It knows that the seasoned and substantial sirens are a lot juicer than they want to give us credit for. To paraphrase Lucian from the movie Underworld: Rise of the Lycans "Don't be scared, we don't bite...much." To all my OG juicys out there...play on playa.