Still a virgin at 51 – and married twice
virgin at 51
It wasn’t until a sizzling encounter in her 60s that life changed for Maria-louise Warne
This weekend, I’m looking forward to a romantic dinner cooked for me by my boyfriend of two years, Patrick. When I get to his house, the table will be laid, candles will be lit and my favourite freesia flowers will be on the table. He recently told me, over one such dinner, ‘You’re not in my world, Maria, you are my world.’ We always end the evening by going to bed together.
Forgive me if I seem to be boasting, or sharing a little too much. The truth is that I still can’t believe my good luck in finally having found happiness. At 62, I am enjoying a sexually fulfilling relationship for the first time, and it is wonderfully liberating. At an age when many women are preparing to say goodbye to their sexual selves, I am leading the life I should have led in my 20s and 30s.
My dark secret
But until recently, things were very different – so much so that at the age of 51 I was still a virgin, despite having been married twice. I’ve always been a reasonably attractive, successful woman, so people probably just assumed I had a decent sex life. But being a married virgin was my secret shame for years.
The truth was that throughout my married life I never felt properly married, never loved as a real woman. So how did this happen to me, not once but twice? I wonder if my mother’s dysfunctional attitude to intimacy skewed my understanding of relationships from the start.
As an adolescent, she told me sex was to be endured, not enjoyed, and I heard my parents arguing about it late at night.
My first marriage at 20 was to a much older man. He was always respectful, never pushing me to become intimate before our wedding. I found his physical reticence appealing: it reassured me that he wasn’t just after me for sex.
He later told me that he was deeply religious and believed sex was only for procreating; and, as I didn’t want to start a family straight away, he left me alone.
By the time we filed for divorce, we were just living amicably as brother and sister and sleeping in separate bedrooms. It seems extraordinary now, but given what I’d learned from my mother, I concluded I was having a lucky
‘We were just living amicably as brother and sister’
escape. It caused me surprisingly little sadness because I’d never known passion, so I didn’t have a clue what I was missing.
Then, in 1982, I met my second husband. At 47, he was 22 years my senior, married and the father of two daughters. He seemed to me the epitome of sophistication, with a good physique and a twinkle in his eye. I was smitten, and he awakened in me all those healthy sexual feelings that I hadn’t had with my first husband.
And yet, our union, too, was ultimately limited by his total lack of interest in sex. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me. Once or twice I put on sexy underwear and tried to seduce him. But he told me it wasn’t appropriate. Feelings of shame and embarrassment began to consume me. I also worried that the chance to have children was passing me by, as he now flatly refused to try. I thought about leaving him, but by then he was in very ill health. Instead, we decided to move to France for a fresh start, and bought a home in Charente, where I retrained as an English teacher. For a while, we were happy, but still, I’d spent decades never knowing what it was like to make love. I didn’t talk to anyone about it, because I was convinced it was my fault. While I had achieved orgasm on my own, that rare pleasure came as a result of the novels I read. My second marriage ended in 2008. Suddenly single for the first time in 30 years, I was determined to have sex at last, and recklessly allowed myself to be seduced by a chap in the village.
The first time, I was terribly embarrassed and ashamed. So I let him lead the way. I confessed to him afterwards that I was a virgin, and he could hardly believe it.
After that, he was extremely patient with me, gently offering to teach me how to please a man and to help me explore my body. This experience – and I am fortunate that it was a gentle, caring one – was revolutionary for me.
The breakthrough
When I compare myself now with the frightened, timid woman I was back then, I can hardly believe the difference. Instead of living to make my husband happy, or trying in vain to arouse some sort of desire in him, I have time to explore what I like and don’t like. Home is now in a pretty little village near Bordeaux. I’m still teaching English, too, both to professionals, such as doctors and lawyers and to boys and girls who need help with lessons. Although I now know that I’ll never be a mother, I love helping these children and am delighted when they call out my nickname ‘Bonjour Ma-lou!’ in the street when they see me. I’m always busy, and go for a 15km run most mornings before starting work. When I get home in the evening, I’m greeted by my two Chihuahuas, Harry and Barney, and I might host friends or meet a pal at my favourite sushi restaurant. I now know there was nothing wrong with me; that I was never ‘damaged goods’, as I feared for so many years when my second husband rejected me again and again. For many women, their 50s and 60s are a time of waning desire. But for me, they have been deeply liberating – a decade in which I have come to know myself more deeply, experience pleasure more fully and finally feel fulfilled and happy in a relationship. And, yes, that includes lots of sex. Patrick (who I met through mutual friends) and I go away every two months for a three-night break in a hotel. I’ve just bought a pair of red stilettos and some expensive underwear for our next trip. At last, I have got my happy ever after.
‘I now know there was nothing wrong with me’