I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez Page A

with a mirror on the ceiling or illuminated by a spotlight or under lights as bright as a night game. I didn’t care. And it didn’t matter when—night, noon, dawn, dusk. There was no bad time. It could be anywhere, too. In a car, a swimming pool, a closet. I didn’t need any advance notice or warm-up, either. I was always ready.
    â€œWhat did you say? You want to go now? Great. No, that was plenty of warning. More than enough. Let’s get it on.”
    But when you turn fifty, all that changes. You especially lose spontaneity. That’s one of the first things to go. You have to plan ahead. You need plenty of notice so you can put the booty call on your schedule. You have to tap the ass-tap time right into your smartphone calendar.
    â€œHoney, how’s Wednesday night?”
    â€œWednesday night? Let me see. Well, I have a thing, but it’s not important. I can move it. And that other thing can wait. Okay, yes, Wednesday night will work. Thursday night would be better. And actually, Friday’s even better. That gives me plenty of time to plan and get ready.”
    Yes, sex becomes something you plan. An event. An activity. Hopefully a regular activity. Many therapists and experts on aging suggest that sex is better after fifty if you remove the guesswork. They say you should make a night out of it, preferably the same night every week. Sunday night you have dinner with the in-laws; Tuesday night you bowl; Wednesday night you bang. Once a week seems about right. More than that can put strain on your heart. Less than that can cause you to dry up. A weekly booty call gives a guy enough time to gear up, to get his head into the game. Wednesday is perfect. It’s hump day, right?
    A lot of guys count it down.
    â€œFive more days to go. Four more. Three. Two. Today? Is it Wednesday already? Sex day is today. Wow.”
    This may sound like I’m lying, or that the world has turned upside down, but when some guys turn fifty, they don’t always look forward to the scheduled weekly sex date. As the night gets closer, a feeling of dread hits them. It could be performance anxiety, or feeling the loss of spontaneity, or hating that sex has become an obligation. Or maybe they’re just not in the mood. That over-fifty drop in testosterone can do that. Whatever the cause, when we know that the night has come and calculate what is expected of us, there can be pushback. We don’t want to be told what to do. We’re men. We’re in charge. We’re supposed to be the ones who do the deciding. Yes, sure, that’s a lie. We never had control of sex. But now, after fifty, we start to get resentful. We start thinking of excuses, especially if there’s something good on TV, like a game or a wildlife special or a reality show about bounty hunters or restoring a World War I helmet.
    Some guys try to get out of it. They hope for a tapeworm or some kind of virus. Some guys throw themselves down the stairs. That usually works. Others feign migraines. Or, better, stomach pains. No woman wants to be with somebody who’s got diarrhea. That’s your real out.
    The truth is, it’s really about respect. And appreciation. And commitment. I want to be there for my weekly Wednesday-night party. If you’re in a relationship with a truly caring woman, just being together affectionately, lovingly, intimately, can be all she wants. Of course, if it leads to something else . . .
    I wasn’t always this way. I admit that there were times, especially in my marriage, that I may have been a tad selfish.
    One warm Saturday afternoon in late May 1997—that day still sticks in my head—I promised my wife that I would go with her to a strawberry festival. Now, I like strawberries as much as anyone—nothing wrong with popping a few strawbs into your mouth for a snack, or spreading some strawberry jam on your toast—but a strawberry
festival
?
An entire weekend