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Ding Dong The Dick is Dead


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                                 (“I’m not a dirty old man, I’m a sexy senior citizen.“)

"Ding dong the dick is dead, dick is dead, dick is dead, ding dong the wicked dick is dead, hi ho, hi ho...."

Wanda Sykes, another brilliant philosopher and psychotherapist disguised as a comedian, sings this song when she talks about men, women, aging and sex.

My husband and I were watching her new HBO special comedy a couple of weeks ago.  When she got to the “dick is dead” segment of her routine, she was talking about older women who silently and secretly celebrate with glee when their husbands just can't get it up anymore.

After years of caretaking, nurturing, working, and providing, they are excited about the break.  Hey, some time for themselves!

When Sykes was singing the song, the women in the audience (and me) were laughing hysterically.  The men were silent.  I may have laughed a little too loudly for my husband's taste.   "Oh honey, she's just funny, no worries there, ha ha, no siree bob."

Chris Rock, my other favorite philosopher and marriage counselor in disguise, is quite candid about what men want.

"When a man offers to help a woman with anything, he's offering her dick.  Oh, can I help you with those groceries?  What a man is really saying is, "Would you like some dick?"  "Oh, can I help you clean the house, can I give you some dick?"  And so on and so on.

The men in the audience laughed hysterically when he said this.  The women were silent.  

Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus and perhaps those differences are clearest with it comes to sexual disparity.

Now, don't get your panties all in a wad. There are plenty of women who are raring to go until they take in their last breath (these women usually die young).  No, seriously, I for one, am one who wants to enjoy sexual intimacy with my husband well into the golden years.  

                                         (Viagra:  An unwelcome house guest?)  

Nowadays, the women whose husband's libidos seemed to have reached their shelf lives have short-lived celebrations.  They come home one day and Limpy Larry is suddenly Long-Lasting Laurence.  He's got a pill in his hand and a smile on his face.  The women excuse themselves quickly to call the doctor and ask for an anti-depressant.

Last night, I spent the evening with a group of fellow therapists.  One of them shared that a 78-year-old client had recently married her 87-year-old boyfriend.  Her presenting complaint:  Her new husband had a prescription with enough refills to last a lifetime and he wanted sex EVERY MORNING, seven days a week.   She was sick of it and didn't know what to do.

Since suicide/homicide wasn't a viable option, we were all putting our heads together (no pun intended) to come up with solutions.  

Thanks to the advances of pharmaceutical companies who are now wrecking havoc on people's sex lives, an active sex life can extend well into the dark corners of the local nursing home.

Fair is fair and the next medical breakthrough to come (no pun intended):  A female version of Viagra.

This obsessive need to deny aging (and believe me, I'm a big time fan) makes me wonder how far we will all go before we allow ourselves to gracefully succumb to the realities of aging.  Is there a way to bring sexuality into our latter years without the help of prescription drugs and unrealistic expectations?

Many women complain that their husbands will die 6-8 years before them.  Why?  Maybe it's Mother Nature's way to give them a break and provide them with some much needed time for themselves.  

 

                                                   (Whohee!  The dick is dead!)  

Why do you think there are so many ecstatic women traveling in packs like wolves with red hats on their heads and orgasmic looks on their faces?

Let the conversation begin...

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