I Had My First Orgasm At 50
(Illustration: Sacha Stephan)
As a young woman, I never felt comfortable in my body. I was always self-conscious about my appearance: frizzy hair, freckles that glared against ghostly pale skin and a short and chubby silhouette.
The fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend until my first year of university did nothing to boost my self-esteem. He was incredibly hot—heavily into alternative music and brooding, à la Christian Slater in Heathers—and I wondered what he saw in me. We dated for three months, with furtive sexual interludes in his parents’ bed while they were at work, or in my twin bed while my single mom and brother were otherwise occupied. He broke up with me on Valentine’s Day.
I married my second-ever boyfriend when I was 30. He was a virgin and even more self-conscious than me. Early in our relationship, he tried to prioritize my pleasure. He encouraged sexual experimentation and ordered promisingly titled books like Being Orgasmic and How to Have an Orgasm as Often as You Want.
Despite the books’ optimism, it turned out I could not have an orgasm any time I wanted—or indeed, ever. My occasional, half-hearted attempts at masturbation were unsuccessful and discouraging. Does this ever really work for anyone?
A few years into the relationship, my husband bought me a vibrator, but I found the bright blue, rubbery device goofy-looking and unappealing to the touch. A sex therapist we saw for months suggested “sensate focus” techniques—a series of structured exercises designed to focus on bodily sensations while touching your naked partner—but they didn’t help at all.
Over time, our sex life dwindled to almost nothing. I found it difficult to talk to anyone about it, including him. The idea of sharing details about such an intimate subject caused me deep embarrassment and made me feel inadequate.
By my late 40s, I didn’t feel sexual, or even sensual, anymore. I discovered asexuality and contemplated if that applied to me. Sex wasn’t something I craved or even thought about. I assumed my body was defective.
Getting divorced and re-entering the dating world later in life proved me wrong. In 2018, I left my husband after 23 years together. I could no longer bear living with someone who behaved like an unappreciative roommate and took me for granted. The lack of a satisfying sex life was barely a factor in our split.
At 49, I was living alone for the first time—even our three cats stayed behind with my ex. But once the shock and guilt of the separation began to lessen, I found myself enjoying my new solo life.
One steamy July day, I finally felt ready to dip into the dating pool. Apps were unfamiliar territory for me, but on a whim, I signed up for one. When several men immediately took an interest in me, it was a revelation—even if most of them expressed their attraction in the most crass ways possible.
But who was I drawn to? Between all the cliché profile pics and agonizingly boring text chats, I wasn’t optimistic.
Then I matched with a man eight years younger than me, and we went on a date. The mutual attraction was clear, but I felt like an inexperienced teenager. After a night chatting awkwardly in a dark bar followed by some canoodling on a park bench, I frantically searched for sex and relationship articles online—“best sexual positions for women” and “best sex toys”—to try to fill in my years’ worth of missing knowledge.
A story about the latest in vibrator technology popped up. Impulsively, I tracked down and ordered a suction vibrator. When the gadget arrived, I put it to the test not expecting much. But my body shocked me. So this is what I’d been missing. Would you look at that? I’m not defective after all.
Anorgasmic, frigid, dysfunctional: all the words I’d attached to myself over decades no longer applied. I walked down Montreal’s Mount Royal Avenue feeling sexy and alive. Things fizzled out with park-bench guy after a few dates, but something new had been unleashed in me, and I felt excited about it.
Over the next five years, I met men from all walks of life. One relationship with an intense PhD student almost 20 years my junior helped me refine what I was looking for in a partner, especially on the physical front. Intensity can be sexy, but a sense of fun and play in the bedroom is important too. I also needed someone compatible with my newfound sex drive. (So much for the idea that libido goes down during perimenopause!)
Inspired by a couple of friends, I tried an app geared toward an older crowd. Within a couple of weeks, I met a man almost exactly my age. He was smart, funny and emotionally intelligent; he also had the rare ability to communicate clearly and honestly.
Over time, I compiled a list of qualities I liked about him, starting with “listens and remembers things,” continuing through “uninhibited (sexually)” and ending with “likes me the way I am.”
When the list topped 30 items, it started to click that we might have something special. Turns out I was right. After more than two years together, our sex life still feels healthy, playful, fulfilling and deep. We can and do talk about anything.
Being so open with each other feels liberating—we can share what we want with each other, without fear or worry. If our desires don’t align, we talk about that openly, too. Goofy innuendo and double entendres fill our texts. If I blurt out something particularly unsexy at an inopportune moment—my sense of timing needs work—he says, “timeless art of seduction,” with a huge grin.
Getting more comfortable with my body and in touch with my sexuality has taken work and persistence—physical, of course, but also mental. Great communication is key. Creating a satisfying sex life has been a rewarding, ongoing process—and dare I say it, a fun one as well. Even for a couple of creaky Gen Xers.
