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The music played on our bedroom boom box -- an old Stones recording. In the candlelight, Elly's auburn hair looked darker than it actually was, and the gray streaks disappeared. She hates the gray, and has been toying with coloring her hair. I think the streaks add character to her mane, and that hair dye is a waste, but on this subject, my opinion doesn't matter. She'll do what she wants to do. Back when we first got together in 1967, neither of us had any gray, and we had no idea we'd be lovers long enough to discuss what, if anything, to do about it.

I'm 54. Elly is 52. When we first got together, I thought sex was as static as eye color. I had no idea how it could evolve and mature. We're not two horny college kids humping our brains out on a single mattress to Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde" LP. We still do it to music -- in addition to the Stones, there are Springsteen and Indigo Girls CDs stacked up on our boom box -- but now we're on a king-size bed surrounded by scented candles, and the action has mellowed. I forget who said it, but it's true: Older sex is less like the Fourth of July, more like Thanksgiving. In our case, it's a feast with the occasional bone in the stuffing -- the bones being our enduring difference in desired frequency.

Elly and I met in college. We were introduced by a mutual friend at a screening of an obscure movie, "Lilith," with Warren Beatty, Jean Seberg, Peter Fonda and Gene Hackman, about a therapist who falls in love with a patient. (Every now and then when we notice it's on TV, we try to catch it.) Elly was a freshman, all of 18. I was an "older man," a 20-year-old junior. We have kids those ages now, and it amazes us how immature they seem. We ask each other if we were that clueless, and suppose we were. It never occurred to us when we were that age that life is long, and that we could grow and change together -- as individuals and partners in marriage and in a sexual relationship.

Elly was on the Pill, so she was ready to be responsibly sexual. But as far as sex itself was concerned, she was pretty passive. It was up to me to orchestrate things. In my grossly incompetent 20-year-old hands, our early sex was mechanical and brief. We would kiss and hug for a little while. I would play with her breasts (still my favorite sex toy), and suck on her nipples. Next we would fondle each other's genitals until I felt the first hint of dampness between her legs. Then I'd mount her, push my way inside, and come almost immediately. The end.

Oral sex quickly became a regular part of our lovemaking. As I mentioned, when I licked her, Elly moaned -- and added a new element, running her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. I enjoyed it, but didn't think anything of it. Later I learned that she was actually trying to pull my tongue up to her clitoris. But who knew? I was a dumb 20-year-old. I had only the vaguest notion of the clitoris, and no idea where it was located in relation to the labia and vaginal opening.

Meanwhile, I also felt angry and betrayed that Elly had kept such important information from me for so long. She was surprised at my reactions. She considered her lack of orgasm no big deal. It was easy enough to fix. After I fell asleep, she masturbated to climax. That made me feel even more inadequate. But since the subject had come up, she said it might be nice if I would lick her clit. I thought I was, I groaned. Where the hell is it? She spread her legs and pointed it out. Oh. I recall feeling surprised that her clit was so high up and so small.

Neither of us has ever found it easy to discuss what we want in bed, to make specific sexual requests. But over time, we've both managed to spit out a few. I was able to say that I wanted Elly to take my erection in her hand early on and not let go until I was inside her. I was able to ask her to lick my balls and play with and suck my nipples. And despite her reticent nature, Elly was able to ask for gentler nipple fondling, slower penis insertion and more oral. It felt great to be able to make -- and grant -- such intimate requests.

Another benefit of the Orgasm Crisis was that I hit the campus bookstore and stumbled onto a copy of Masters and Johnson's "Human Sexual Response," which had just appeared in paperback. It was a revelation. It had a drawing of women's genital anatomy, with the clitoris considerably north of the vagina, right where Elly said hers was. Incredible. In addition, I recall feeling especially astonished by Masters and Johnson's assertion that vaginal lubrication is the firstsign of women's arousal. Stupid me. I thought that when Elly's vulva got the least bit damp, she was ready to fuck. I asked her about it. Yeah, she said, you dive in before I'm really ready. Which led to more self-loathing on my part, and another strained round of: Why didn't you ever say anything about this?

Thanks to Masters and Johnson, our sex life improved considerably. We extended our foreplay, became more sensual, adopted more of a mutual massage approach, and got into touching each other all over, not just around her breasts and both of our genitals. My tongue found her clitoris. And I didn't enter her until she'd been good and wet for quite a while. Best of all, Elly began having orgasms with me. Consistently. Lovely, shuddering, hip-jerking orgasms. I was thrilled. Here was proof nightly that I was, finally, a skilled lover, maybe not the stud I'd fantasized being, but good enough.

As our skills evolved, so did the atmospherics we created for lovemaking. As members of the "sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll" generation, Elly and I have always made love to music. Back in our early days together, I had a cheap stereo on which you could stack five LPs. John Lennon's "Imagine" album was one of our favorites for a while. Motown, too, especially Marvin Gaye. Now we have a CD boom box in our bedroom. When we set it up on my dresser, our daughter was maybe 6 years old. She said, "Why do you have that in your bedroom? You never play it." We told her we don't play it when she's awake, but that when she's asleep we enjoy music while making love. She seemed satisfied.

Then there's marijuana. We used to smoke a fair amount, and both considered it wonderfully sex-enhancing. We smoke a lot less now, but continue to enjoy pot for sex. Getting stoned beforehand continues to be part of our preparations, really part of foreplay. We smoke pot maybe half the time, depending on the circumstances. My house once published a book that, among other issues, discussed the scientific debate over the sexual effects of marijuana. I found it difficult to believe there was a debate. There is none in our bed. Both Elly and I agree that pot improves sex. It focuses the mind and body on the sensual, on the moment, on the here and now. Sometimes I imagine Elly and me in our 80s, fumbling with matches and rolling papers before making love. I hope we live that long and are healthy enough to keep doing it. Maybe pot will be legal by then. 041b061a72