I flew to San Francisco yesterday and had the good fortune to travel with a work colleague and good friend, G-Raffe, who I've known almost 20 years. He's someone I'm insanely comfortable with and he's also my favorite type of travel companion. You get a little nosh at the airport and dish a bit before the flight, chat briefly until the flight takes off, then you're both left to your own devices until just before the flight lands, where you resume your chat again. I know it sounds strange, but the time spent in the air is the only time left these days where a phone call or e-mail can't yet intrude; the knowledge that you have six hours of uninterrupted time ahead is luxurious. The flight may be crowded and uncomfortable; babies may be wailing in the back; a man may have a serious phlegm problem and hack continuously; regardless—that time is apologetically yours to use constructively or to piss away and listen to the songs stuck in your head (since you asked: "Smile" by Lilly Allen).

G-Raffe is a very tall, lanky man. For obvious reasons, I made him take my aisle seat. Watching him collapse his long frame (of which is mostly leg) was like watching an aluminum folding chair compress itself to fit into the trunk of the car. I couldn't imagine how he could have been comfortable in those inhuman parameters, but he complained not at all. So he turned to his attention to his laptop; I attempted to catch up on a month's worth of crap magazine reading, some work projects and tried to fine tune a poem for the blog devoted to the penis. A penis is pretty obvious—I mean, everything rhymes with prick, so it requires much more finesse and humor than I was capable of. I toyed with this verse a little, and feeling uninspired, returned to the glossy magazine pile swimming at my feet.

Catching up on the February issue of Glamour, I rolled my eyes in nauseated blunder no less than eleven times at their hearts and flowers tribute to Valentine's Day. Good God. What a stupid holiday. Let us not forget that St. Valentine was actually brutally killed (that's usually what makes a martyr) and how the association between this Catholic saint and red underwear and roses is still a mystery, but that's hardly a digression I want to pursue now. Something different caught my eye.

With their usual whimsy, Glamour's editors devoted their "Am I Normal? Life & Happiness" page to "How Normal is your Sex Drive?" The side poll ("Normal by the Numbers") had one result that should surprise no one. It stated "Age 40 – Approximate age when a woman wants more sex than any other time in her life." Hello? You need a poll for that? That's hardly a surprise, but nice to see the validation. I wondered briefly if "Maxim" had a "Normal by the Numbers" column. Note to self: Pick up a copy and research.

Honestly, we all know when women get to be 40, they know all too clearly what they want. They have the confidence to say, "Don't waste time doing that tongue thing—I've always hated it and it doesn't work for me." That's the age you don't fake it anymore. This is the time where you climb on top because you want to not because your partner is tired. This is the time you got all the tricks and bells and whistles down and you're not afraid to use them. You should be at a point where you're used to and comfortable with your body…and you don't give a shit if anyone else doesn't think so. I mean it when I say it, these are the good years.

Ironically, if women at 40 are at the point of their lives that they want sex the most, then why are so few women in their 40s are getting it? A highly unscientific poll (OK, I asked a few friends) indicates these years mark a dry spell. Seems that men in their 40s are less interested than ever. It also seems God's margin of error when matching the sexes and their various appetites was more than a few percentage points off. I think this very notion makes a strong case for younger men and older women.

It's hardly a shocking notion and I completely understand it. Consider the dynamic of a man at his sexual peak and a woman with her inhibitions unbridled and her confidence braying. If they are mentally on the same par (because no one wants to babysit a romantic partner) and their values and objectives are comparable, that seems like a sound pairing—even for a short while. I now have new appreciation for Ashton Kutcher bagging Demi Moore, 14 years his senior, when she is probably at her personal zenith.

Men have supplemented their midlife crisis for years with something shapely and fast (young women, sleek convertibles). It's time for us gals to step up. Now I was going to say that to Glamour, but it's so much easier to say it to you.


Sidenote: I was unable to post this last night. I am staying with Marv & MeiMei and they are the very last house on Planet Earth without a home computer. Using their reptilian dial up system is akin to starting a fire with two sticks. This week might be a bit hit or miss.