"Oh, Christian," I moaned as his tongue passionately explored my firm dentures.

"What?" Christian took one hand from my wrinkled skin and fiddled with his hearing aid.

"OH, CHRISTIAN," I yelled erotically through the white hair in his ear.

"Ow! Jesus Christ!" Christian sexily winced as he rolled off me and grabbed his ear.

"Sorry," I whispered, my breath hot on his liver spotted body.

"What?" Christian stoked my hair, inadvertently knocking my wig loose. "Oops."

"Oh, Christian," I said incongruously as I flirtatiously fixed my wig, "do you remember how we used to make love?"

"Baby," said Christian seductively, "You know I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night."

"I just feel as though there used to be more passion," I said reminiscently. I ran my less arthritic hand through Christian's silver comb over.

"Ana, if the Viagra ever kicks in I'll give you all the passion you're allowed to handle before your hip surgery." He groped lovingly at my right mastectomy scar. I started breathing heavily. Not because he was arousing me, I just have trouble breathing sometimes now.

"I need more than that, Christian. I need you to treat me like you used to. Tie me up with my knitting wool. Spank me with a rolled up Reader's Digest. Make me beg for my heart medication. Do something to make me feel young again," I pleaded pleadingly.

"Ana, I'll do anything you want," mumbled Christian. "When I'm finished with you, you'll feel like you're 75."

"Take me, Christian," I begged. "Take me in your incredibly fragile arms."

Then there was nothing but the sound of the bed rocking, joints cracking and bodily fluids being dispelled. After twenty minutes of kinky movement, I gasped in relief. We had finally got our clothes off.

"Now take me, you manly man!" I urged. "Take me before one of us falls asleep!"

But my cry was too late—Christian was gone for the night. I sighed, put on my reading glasses and regretfully returned to the Sudoku puzzle in which I was fifty shades of stuck.