Yes

Yes, I find a few more men and they are, every single one of them, sexy and gorgeous. I don’t remember this many handsome men, even in a catalogue. I never thought I liked younger men, but I do – not just for their performance levels, although there is that. I love their hopefulness, kindness and interest. I watch them looking at me and I wonder if they’ve taken a sneak at my driving licence. Mainly, they are confident and happy and they know a lot more about sex than they should. Are they all equipped with girlfriends at 12? Do I have online porn to thank for this? One 25-year-old does things I didn’t know were possible. He’s so good I feel I’ve discovered another room in my house.
There are times I feel so comfortable (and, possibly, drunk) that I wonder if I shouldn’t bring up the menopause. But I stop myself. These are men, not ther****ts or girlfriends. As much as they seem to care, they are here for the same thing I want. That’s what we have in common.
I’m constantly amazed that they don’t find an older woman a turn-off. Everytime I’m told I have a great body, I have to stifle a laugh. I pose the question to one who is annoying me, “Why do you want an older woman? She doesn’t want a relationship, marriage or babies from you. She has her own money. She’s emotionally stable. So what’s in it for you?”
Repeatedly I get the question, “Do you prefer young men?” to which I say, “It’s the man, not his age.”
I actually mean this until I have drinks with a couple of men nearer my own age. Meeting with them is a downer. They like Harleys and rock’n’roll. They look backwards, not forwards. They look at me and, I think, wish I’d have my personality removed. Maybe I don’t worship them enough?
Neither time do they offer to come back or even give me a goodnight snog. They are alarmed that I pay for drinks. Why can’t the dudes of my youth keep up with the times? I try several more clicks on older men, but the younger ones just present themselves better. Blokes my age need to get proper photos – and maybe see the dentist.


Meanwhile, my GP is concerned for my sexual health. I try to explain that one chap was sized like a fire hydrant but apparently that shouldn’t matter. She’s not amused as she gives me a prescription for the same cream that a well-known singer uses, apparently, to keep her inner rock star happy and useful.
With that, I up my game. I change my hair, wear better clothes and listen to new music like the X Ambassadors. I feel younger. I actually feel sexier than I did in my 30s and forget how old I really am.
As I spend more time on the apps, I grow bolder. I think I am probably addicted now, checking them more often than I do Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat and Twitter. I make jokes after a few drinks with friends, seeing strangers and saying, “Haven’t I seen you on Tinder?”
I'm not here for kink or naughty thrills. I'm here to get my life back – specifically, my sexual confidence
Again to my surprise, two old “friends” emerge from the woodwork to ask me out. They tell me after three beers that they were always interested. Men at parties begin to ask me out on dates – real, actual dates. I must smell different or something.
But I worry. I worry about diseases. I worry that my pelvic floor is going to cave in like a Chilean mine. I order a Kegel8, a miracle machine that brings my vagina back to life like a defibrillator. My growler is so strong I can almost climb trees with it. Naturally, I am thrilled.
Back at the clinic, I have tests and all are clear. Just as the doctor is drawing blood, my ex calls and we argue. I start to cry and realise how much I really love and miss him.
So, again, I attempt to date someone of my own age. I meet a man who wants a relationship. This is a horrible mistake because I really do not want a permanent man, even if it would make things somewhat less hotel-like: I must be the only person who changes the sheets every time. Sadly, I have to block him on WhatsApp and blame myself for hurting his feelings.
How could I think I could snap back into a less embarrassing position of dating men half my age and loving it?
On Happn, a dating/sex app that shows you who crosses your path, I find that my entire neighbourhood is filled with freaks. I never expected danger here. One man sends me porn which, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t find shocking. When it arrives on my phone, I want to be sick because I’m not here for kink, for dress-up, fantasy-play or naughty thrills. I’m here to get my life back – and for me, that means, specifically, my sexual confidence. Even if my vagina doesn’t want to play ball the way it used to, I must find a way to have sex until death. It’s that important to me. It’s not worth living without that surge of desire.

But I know that this isn’t really about sex. This is about reclamation. I am fighting off the death that menopause automatically brings. I refuse to be subsumed into its shadow.
Post-menopause, I’ve had a sex life that I didn’t have in my 20s. I’ve had men who wouldn’t have looked at me twice back then. But despite the enormous pleasure I’ve had, it is only when I begin to fall for one of them that I realise how limited my time is. The weirdos, the beauties and the lonely, lonely men cannot remain the point of my life. I have no idea where this endless parade of unimaginable pleasure will take me. But I have to find out, as every woman does.