We all like to be titillated. From time to time, we all need to escape, to pretend. Sometimes, the secret forbidden act of taking or being taken is so exciting in our brains, that it can arouse even the lowest libidos. It’s the time when we can be tortured, tied down, taken against our will, appear in outrageously sexy alluring clothes, tempt the begging servant, beg for mercy – all in our head, and no one knows! What fun! It happens universally, and no one ever knows.

What if we could share some of it, or all of it, so that others will “get off” with our fantasies, too.  Here’s the chance. These are short sequences. They can be read in 5-7 minutes. They must be written by a woman 50 or over, and they must INCLUDE a woman over 50.

The winner will win $50 and one month featured posting on my blogsite. Check out the rules, and send in your entry today. Email it to me (info@getasecondwind.com), Katherine Forsythe, and share your fantasy with us, so we can enjoy it, too. Entries will also be available to download after the contest, from this website. Have fun!

Today, incidentally, he pulled his shoulder muscle while loading my stuff – crutches, briefcase, coat, purse, etc. in his car. He is not a happy camper. He is exhausted. Now, he hurts a lot. I insisted that he go home tonight, give himself a break, and take one of my pain killers. I can manage without him (though I secretly am not sure how).

Ten days ago, I broke my foot. Fell flat on my face, splayed all over the pavement, when I missed the curb in front of the Hyatt in downtown San Francisco. I lay there for a minute or two and ran a quick systems check. Nothing major. Dizzy and shaken, I got up, nabbed a cab, and went home.

Home is one story walk-up apartment, with another set of stairs inside the apartment. Kitchen on one floor, bath and bedrooms downstairs. With the foot swelling at exponential speed, I wondered, How in the heck am I going to get upstairs? The cab left, and there I was. Single, alone, relatively new to San Francisco, with my friend not answering his cell. I have no family here, so there was no one obligated to answer my May Day! call. Suddenly, I live in a newly hostile environment with venomous steps begging me to challenge them.

My friend-about-to-become-caretaker got to my house in time to help me remove my foot from the shoe, already fastened in place by the swelling spilling over the top. Ouch. The doctor says at least 6 weeks of no driving or heavy walking. Here’s two pain killers. You are going to hurt a lot for awhile while you drag around that big black boot. Be thankful. It could have been worse.

Part of my job is to talk to our midlife plus crowd about sex and disability. I extol the healing virtues of sex. It can speed healing. It can comfort you. It can divert your attention. At the very least, it can provide free, fun stuff to do while you are stuck at home. All of the above is true.

That was until I broke my foot. Now, I look at him, and I think of all the high-faluting advice I have given other people. Just snuggle if you can’t do anything else. Lay back and let him/her please you. Massage and play with the parts of the body you can get to. This is when it’s important to carve out quiet time and just hold each other.

Are you kidding? We are both so exhausted and sick of each other, that sex has fallen ‘way down the list. Instead, we have watched On Demand every night. Just stared at it, as if we were stoned.

If this goes on much longer, intimate action needs to be taken. I know that. I am lucky this is a short term injury. I have a new appreciation for folks who endure long term disability, though I would not presume to know the depth of the challenge. I appreciate the exhaustion. I appreciate the pain. I appreciate that sometimes simplifying is the answer. Just take time to appreciate the friend-turned-caregiver, sit and be. Sleep and heal.

I do know that more intimacy will help us get through this. That will come in time. In the meantime, accept the reality, and don’t put any more demands on it.

 The teacher learns her lessons.

TMI. Too much information. In the information age, speed dating, internet hook-ups for midlife and beyond, and fledgling relationships, it happens.

 I prefer the term Oversharing. (Webster’s New World Dictionary): ‘”to divulge excessive personal information, as in a blog or broadcast interview [or dating], prompting reactions ranging from alarmed discomfort to approval.” Emily Gould writes a fascinating article about how it affected her career (”Exposed”, New York Times Magazine). It waves a red flag to all of us: get a grip – oversharing can bring you down.

What makes a person divulge deeply personal data ‘way too early, or ever, in dating? What makes us sit through it, and even encourage it – while we are embarrassed or even repulsed by it? What makes us turn around and do the very same thing – provide enthralling aspects of our personal life – to someone else, in a different situation, perhaps even repeating a ghastly tale heard earlier in the day?

I think the sexes overshare for very specific reasons, with just a few overlaps. When men are oversharing, I think they are puffing out their chests to impress. I think men want their partners to believe how manly they are. How sexual they are. How worldly they are. In whatever context they are living, men want to kill the biggest elephant, and let you know they did it – whether last year or 30 years ago.

When women overshare, I believe we are trying to hook our partners (or our friends) with personal disclosures that will insure that we are bonded closer. Sort of an “I’ll show you mine, and you show me yours”. Now, we are closer, much like a blood sisters’ ritual when young girls prick skin, share blood, and reveal secrets.

I also think we overshare when we are nervous. Perhaps we overshare to test the waters, too soon.

What makes us listen to intensely personal or embarrassing information, sometimes even encouraging it? Again, I think the gender difference matters. My guess is that men continue to listen so that they can fix it for you, when you are finished with your story. I think women listen to please, in hopes that their partner will like them better.

It’s probable that we listen to unnecessary, discomforting dribble because we were taught to not interrupt, to be polite. And, when we are embarrassed, we are too shy to say so.

What’s the damage? You tell me.  How about: Dirt they can hold over you?; Feeling ridiculous afterwards?; Too many people know too much about you? Maybe you simply think, “Note to self: Next!”

The lesson? Zip it about the really personal stuff until, what, the 3rd or 4th date? Maybe the general rule of no sex until the 3rd date applies to this, too. No one needs to know about your infertility treatments, your pet’s last writhing days with cancer, your love of being tied up in sex, or your abuse relationships – at least not for awhile.

What do you think? When is it appropriate to overshare? What nightmares have you experienced with this? What happened as a result? Why do we do it? How do you stop it? Maybe working together we can figure out how to tame our tongues.