When will I age out of having affairs? When will I be no longer desirable?

It’s soon. I know.

I’m 51.

Usually, I’m invisible.

Most men don’t notice me. I can go on my merry way day after day and not attract a glance from the opposite sex. Guys notice my reddish hair, probably more than I think, but when I turn around, they dismiss me. I dye my hair, of course, to hide the encroaching grey.

“Why don’t you let yourself go natural?” my mom asks.

She did. Her brunette locks became a sexy grey streak in the front that framed her face. Progressing with time to silver, which complemented her olive skin tone.

“Because I love my hair! It’s one of my best features!” I said too loudly.

I can lose everything else, my expanding waistline, my sagging jowls, but my hair. I can’t lose my signature.

“I’m a redhead.”
“All that dye isn’t good for you,” my mom answers.
“I don’t care,” I said.
“Your husband doesn’t care.”

That’s the truth.

He rarely touches me or even looks at me.

When he sees me mix color on a weekend morning with all the paraphernalia on the countertop, he pushes it to the side to access his oval sink.

“I need to brush my teeth!” he barks.
“Can you help me spot the greys on the back of my head?” I ask.
“I don’t see any!”
“What do you mean? They’re there!”
“I don’t know why you bother.”

I “bother” because I pay attention to how I look. Not for him, though. I’m about as noticeable as the kitchen chair.

“Are you ready yet?” he’ll poke his head into the bathroom as we’re preparing to go out for dinner.

“You don’t need to get dolled up,” he adds.
“I know.”

I don’t do it for you, that’s for sure. I do it for me.

You notice nothing. And you never say I look pretty.

What I don’t tell him is that I care — a lot. I need to remain attractive to men for as long as possible. Why? Because I’m cheating. And the sexual currency is attractiveness.

I have to try ridiculously hard to remain youthful to get laid.

My skin is still less wrinkled from sun exposure than most. I’m a redhead, and I get burnt. So sunscreen, hats, and shade are my friends. What men don’t perceive is the skincare. The expensive creams and facials and lasers. I cover those with my earnings, so my hubby doesn’t hit the roof.

“What is all this s**t? Do you really need it?”

Yeah. But not for you.

My body is a whole other story — it’s not great. I make a concerted effort. Nora Ephron wrote about choosing between your face and your ass once you pass fifty. I wisely chose my face. My ass will never budge. Plump and present. Unmovable like the arctic circle. Thank God I don’t own a full-length mirror. The less I look at my backside, the happier I am.

I starve myself year after year and exercise like a fiend and then gorge myself on Chex Mix. None of it makes much of a difference. My physical presence takes up space — too much space to be deemed acceptable.

So in terms of adultery, this body and face leave me with limited choices. Some men will like me, and most won’t. As I age, the pickings get slimmer.

When will I get to that point — the precipice of no return?

No longer sexually desirable and in a dead bedroom?

It’s fast encroaching.

What will I do?

I guess what I did before stepping out — lots of masturbating.

I don’t delude myself into thinking I’ll be desirable forever. Adultery is a pretty harsh landscape with younger women owning the territory. Guys will look for the best options. I’ll be left high and dry.

Currently, I’m in the outfield, trying to catch a ball. Keeping alert. Peering up. Eventually, that won’t work anymore. I’ll be sidelined.

The baseball analogy is a good one.

Right now, the odds are still in my favor. Lots of men are looking, and fewer women are cheating. Men my age or older may find me acceptable because they don’t have loads of choices. Younger men who want MILF’s are also an option.

“Older women are so hot.”
“I have always wanted a woman with experience.”
“I dig a lady who knows what she wants.”

The problem is I couldn’t see myself getting naked with a younger guy — the embarrassment. I couldn’t bear it.

“Don’t make me feel bad about my body.”

I shouldn’t have to apologize.

Affairs should be a way for me to feel beautiful and chosen. I have enough rejection in my home life to last a few centuries. I don’t need more from a lover.

When I send my pictures to potential affair partners online, I hold my breath.

Will he like me? Can I still catch the ball?

The photos lie because they show the best parts of me. I crop and cut. If we meet for coffee, what will this prospective lover think? Will I be what he expected?

Then I get mad at myself for wanting this so badly.

Why do I care?

Because I need sex, I need warmth. I need intimacy.

I get nothing at home.

That’s why I care.

That’s why I try so hard to remain desirable. I’ll age out soon. I see it coming.
No one will want me.

The question is whether I’ll want myself.

Reprinted with permission from The Scarlett Letter.

About the author: MonalisaSmiled is on Medium at https://monalisasmiled.medium.com with over 250,000 views and 2.3 thousand followers. Email her at monalisalady0@gmail.com because she’s so bad, she’s good. Follow The Scarlett Letter, her publication for adultery. Support her at https://ko-fi.com/monalisasmiled.