For my entire single life, it seemed all the great guys were taken—but when I hit my 40s, the great guys got divorced. Finally, here were grown-ups who had jobs and could load a dishwasher. The best part: They were so grateful to be having sex that I didn't worry whether my breasts were big enough or my butt small enough, whether I made a weird sound or emitted a plume of gas after a Mexican dinner.

It took me a while to notice that the sex itself was...blah. Oh, the men were enthusiastic, but they were clueless—painfully unimaginative or relying on ridiculous porn clichés. (The pizza guy? Really?) In his awkward maneuvers, one guy even sprained my finger. It occurred to me that the last time these divorced men dated, smartphones hadn't been invented. They were like inept 20-somethings, but with looser abs. Clearly, I was going to have to teach them a thing or two.

I would never have considered myself qualified as an instructor of the erotic arts, but my single-girl experience paid off. Single sex can be nerve-racking—all that getting naked with new people. But it's also "I haven't tried that before!" and "I've never been touched there."

Suddenly I was a femme fatale, wrinkles and all. I'd never felt more sexually confident—or aware. Sex, it turned out, was as much about mechanics as metaphysics. So what if the guy needed a little tune-up? The end result could still be thrilling.

Eventually, one of my students became my boyfriend, and he learned everything I had to teach. I have to admit I was relieved. As much as I loved being a middle-aged sex goddess, in the long run, it's exhausting. Now the problem is that I've taught him too well, and I can barely keep up. I feel like Dr. Frankenstein, mastermind of an experiment that's gone madly out of control. And then I find myself having the wildest fantasies—about boring married sex.


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