Diana Athill on aging and sex | Weekend | Guardian Unlimited:
That acceptance was sad. Indeed, I was forced into it at a time when our household was invaded by a ruthless and remarkably succulent blonde in her mid-20s and he fell into bed with her. There was one sleepless night of real sorrow, but only one night. What I mourned during that painful night was not the loss of my loving old friend who was still there, and still is, but the loss of youth: "What she has, God rot her, I no longer have and will never, never have again." A belated recognition, up against which I had come with a horrid crunch. But very soon another voice began to sound in my head, which made more sense. "Look," it said, "you know quite well that you have stopped wanting him in your bed, it's months since you enjoyed it, so what are you moaning about? Of course you have lost youth, you have moved on and stopped wanting what youth wants." And that was the end of that stage.