Something Better Than Perfection

On Desire, Age, and Feeling a Whole Lot More Alive Than I Did an Hour Ago

“I feel a whole lot more like I do now than I did an hour ago.”

That’s what my friend told me after a good meal, a stronger drink, and a touch from someone who made him feel seen. At the time, I laughed. I thought he was just being clever. But now, older and just a little more alive myself, I know better.

There are moments—quiet, intimate, or gloriously sweaty—that don’t just remind you you’re alive… they confirm it. At age 73, when the body plays hard-to-get and the mind tries to negotiate terms, desire becomes more than hunger—it becomes proof. Proof that you still matter. That there's still warmth to give. That the spirit is willing, and the flesh—well, the flesh may be weaker, but it follows, albeit a little slower than it used to.

Some men, when they hit a certain age, hang it all up like an old coat—sex, spontaneity, adventure. They trade it in for a recliner and a bag of prescriptions. The fire in their belly was a young man’s game, played and done. But not me. Not yet. Because every now and then—on a day like today—I find out the pilot light’s still burning. All it needs is a little heat and a little oxygen.

The world doesn't talk much about passion after sixty. It edits us oldies out of the picture. Pretends we become invisible, asexual, all but irrelevant unless we’ve got a yacht or a prostate supplement to peddle.

But those of us who are still in it, still reaching, still learning the contours of pleasure—we know better. We know that desire doesn’t die. It just grows quieter, deeper. Less about conquest, more about connection. Less about the act, more about the offering.

And here’s the real surprise, one I never would’ve guessed in my restless twenties: it’s better now. Not easier, mind you—but better. There’s something holy in the slow, intentional rhythm of touch at this age. Something powerful in giving a woman pleasure, not because you have to, not because it’s expected, but because it’s a gift. A sacred act. A shared breath that says, “We’re still here. We’re not done yet.”

So, yes—'I do feel more like I do than I did an hour ago." I was older. Now, I’m something else. Slightly more alive.

Something better than perfection.