I was in the travel section Borders bookstore the other day during work to get a book on St. Louis for U.S. Bank research. As I finally decided on the one pitiful book they had on St. Louis (I guess it's not a big travel destination) I headed toward the cashier. As I was leaving the travel area I overheard two middle aged women in the following conversation:
"Okay I just to get one more thing. I need one of those sex, trashy, Danielle steel romance novels-"
Normal so far....dialogue continues...
"for my mother, she's ninety-five and that's the only thing that keeps her goin'."
I think having a sex drive at ninety-five is a fate worse than death. By that time, you've probably outlived your spouse, or your spouse is so old that the machine probably doesn't work any more and even if it did, foreplay would be spent trying to figure out how to position yourselves so you don't break the other's hip. I guess all you could do is live vicariously though the characters of Danielle Steel and then bust out the vibrator you use for your arthritis.