What My Spouse and I Do Nightly That’s Better Than Sex

For us, this intimate evening ritual is truly nirvana

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Published September 11, 2024

feet on a blue background with colorful confetti

Laura Liedo

Welcome to Ethels Tell All, where the writers behind The Ethel newsletter share their personal stories related to the joys and challenges of aging. Come back each Wednesday for the latest piece, exclusively on AARP Members Edition.

“Ooooh,” I moan to my husband of 40-plus years. “That feels so good. A little to the left … a little higher … that’s it!”

We’re not having sex. We’re engaging in something perhaps even more pleasurable: massaging each other’s feet.

There’s a time and a place for everything. The time, back in the 1970s, when we fell in love and married in our 20s. The place was everywhere we could have sex as long as we wouldn’t get arrested. Most often the traditional way, in our queen-size bed, where lazy weekend mornings were ripe for sex; brunch could wait and was even better after orgasms. In the shower, awkwardly standing up, giggling about our soapy bodies. When traveling, as soon as we parked our luggage in a hotel room, we’d throw off the bedspread and get right to it.

Once, we even made love on a lounge chair on our friends’ outdoor deck while they were at the movies; the only one who could spy on us was their curious dog who was good at keeping secrets.

Back then, I remember hearing claims that newly married folks had sex four to five times a week. I thought that was an underestimate, and was shocked when I heard how older couples had little or no sex. Stress, raising children, body changes due to aging, boring routines and marital problems can make libidos plummet.

Yet, after a big argument, I always found makeup sex the best. In time, our lust slowed down but didn’t disappear. We had demanding jobs and a baby who grew into a toddler, barging into our bedroom at odd times, unannounced. Sometimes our aphrodisiac was a good night’s sleep.

Perimenopause and menopause didn’t exactly fuel sexual desire. Plus, we found it harder to contort our bodies into different positions like an Olympic gymnast in a new lovemaking competition. Those bad backs and arthritic knees!

Sex was no longer always on our minds, and we were both OK with that. When my mother was a widow, she moved in with a widower. He told me, “Your mom and I like touching toes.” Ew, I thought, I didn’t want to hear that. Now I get it. Touching toes is nirvana.

I discovered reflexology in my eighth month of pregnancy, when I could barely roll over, let alone consider having sex. In my first half-hour session, the practitioner promised that this toe would clear my sinuses and that the pressure point on the bottom of my foot would improve kidney function. Afterward, when my husband picked me up, I felt tingly and giggly the whole car ride home. The mix of pregnancy hormones and a glorious, nonstop foot massage was one of the best natural highs I’ve ever had.

My husband started giving me reflexology gift certificates on my birthdays. Decades later, as empty nesters, I missed the sensory pleasures of skin-on-skin. One night, after dinner dishes were washed and the trash thrown out, I suggested we turn to something other than Netflix. “Let’s give each other foot massages,” I said.

My husband looked at me blankly, the TV remote in his hand. I showed him the book I’d bought on reflexology. We removed our shoes and socks, then lay on our backs on opposite sides of our bed. I plopped a pillow over my knees, and he rested one leg on it. We dimmed the lights. Rarely without a phone in his hand, he suggested, “I’ll set a timer.”

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“A half-hour for each foot?” I hoped.

He agreed to seven minutes per foot. He slouched down, resting his head on another pillow, and closed his eyes. After our right feet were in bliss, we switched sides to the left. Because he’s a thoughtful guy, he does me first. Then I do him.

“Feels so good,” my husband murmurs.

“Nooooo,” we always lament when the timer goes off.

All pleasures must end. But the titillating, sensory feelings remain. This ritual is more relaxing than a hot bubble bath and a perfect segue to a deep night’s sleep at a time in our lives when dreamland can feel unreachable. And it’s healthier than taking sleep medications.

We’re in our 70s and haven’t had traditional sex in a decade, but we never doze off before reiterating to each other nightly, “I love you.” We begin each morning and close each night with kisses. We still hold hands on the street. Research suggests that our brains reward us for touching other people and forming social bonds; being caressed has positive health benefits.

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The Ethel from AARP champions older women owning their age. Subscribe at aarpethel.com to smash stereotypes, celebrate life and have honest conversations about getting older.

In her 80s, my mother told me, “Your generation thinks they invented sex. But believe it or not, I still have sex.” Ew again! I didn’t want to picture it, but I’ve begun thinking that sex is not always intercourse — it can be any kind of intimacy. Or, in my case, a nightly mutual foot massage.

I’ve replaced the lube with lavender massage oil. I always have a fresh pedicure so my toes look inviting and sexy. We’ve worked up to 10 minutes per foot, each of us getting equal pleasure. Our mantra is: “Why does it ever have to end?”

Tomorrow is not just another day, it’s another foot massage. Can’t wait.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

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