Nope. This isn’t a racy story about me and my sexual escapades.
Instead, it’s about the fascination we have about sex and, as a result, why sex sells.
I have a perfect example: Yesterday, I posted a blog titled “Grandmother Lover” here and on Medium. I didn’t dare go off script and disrupt my focus on siblings and publicize my ramblings on the more visible sites like Twitter and Facebook. Never know where Big Brother is lurking or when publishers, distributors, literary agents decide to read my stuff.
Still, I just HAD to blog somewhere. The night before, I’d happened upon “Grandmother Lover,” a documentary about younger men (I’m talking in their 30s) and older women . . . grandmothers, great grandmothers in their 80s, even 90s.
Okay, I’m not a prude. And I like to consider myself an accepting woman who honors all kinds of wacko stuff. And, as I wrote yesterday, I went along with this phenomenon because, at first, it gave me hope—hope that, if in the highly unlikely circumstance I were ever in the market for a new man, the wrinkles, crepe skin, sagging everything wouldn’t matter. I could find a man, a young man, who would think I’m the best thing since the great grandmother he’d wooed before me.
I titled my post “Grandmother Lovers.” Guess what? I had more views on this blog than I’d had in weeks, maybe months. And I can’t lie: it felt great to have had so many people interested in what I had to say.
But then? Not so much. As a sassy senior, would I now have to sprinkle my posts with some kind of sex material or references? Is that the best way to entice viewers to my blog and to my web site?
Doesn’t anyone out there care about my thoughts on family relationships? Writing? Boomers+?
Why is there a need for bloggers, advertisers, and anyone else, for that matter, to use sex in order to have their voice heard or their brand seen?
Even though there have been studies which conclude that sex doesn’t sell, the common belief is that it does.
Think the barrage of ads for erectile dysfunction and all those loving couples who apparently can’t wait to jump in the sack. Or think the sexy woman wearing a sports jersey who, in a soft, come-hither voice, suggests that, yes, men like sports but after the game, they want to get it on.
I could just puke.
I’m not an author of romance and will never be. It just isn’t me. Besides, we have the thirty-two books that Jackie Collins left behind for all the sex anyone could want.
I think I’m left with continuing to write/post/tweet about lifestyle, family relationships, and boomers+. The number of folks who follow me will most surely take a swan dive off a cliff. I’ll try to steel myself for the defections but, if it’s anything like dropping from #1 on Amazon to #40, then I’m in for a big sulk and thoughts of taking up organic farming.