Presently I'm deeply involved with the woman I call Darling here, a 40-year-old divorcee whom I plan to marry within the next year or two if she'll have me, and with whom I enjoy not only a rich emotional and intellectual relationship but -- perhaps not coincidentally -- the best sex of my life.

As the popular HBO series of that title makes all too clear, sex in the city ain't for sissies. As I hope I demonstrate here, it ain't just for yuppie kids either (especially since they don't seem to understand that its fundamental motive -- beyond reproduction -- is pleasure in its manifold forms, not belt-notching or self-advancement). I know plenty of men and women alive above the neck and below the waist post-40, and I tell some of their stories, as well as my own, here. Most of us aren't new to the world of lust and romance; indeed, some of us may feel a bit shopworn. But we keep trying to get it right. Trust me: There's a whole world of sexuality between "The OC" and "Golden Girls," and much of it in no way resembles what passes for a case of the hots on "Dharma and Greg."

Point is, for some of us of the mid-life persuasion sex happens regularly and/or frequently, even if we don't hang in the clubs and pick-up bars. Like Cuban fishermen, the libido drops its hooks at many levels simultaneously, "combing the sea" for its catch. And you can have no idea who's who. So look carefully at the nondescript man to your left in the deli, the slightly frazzled, less-than-glamorous woman across from you on the bus. Either one of them might be getting more than you are.

And getting it better, too.