The other day I wrote about the things I missed about Maria when she was away, and I paused briefly at the thought that I missed touching her breasts – I like to touch her breasts and I miss them – so I put it in the piece. It was one line in a long piece, but I did wonder briefly how people would take it.

Older people are not supposed to have sex, and are certainly not supposed to talk about sex or love. Or breasts. It is almost a heresy.

As a general rule, I don’t worry much about what people think when I write, that would shut me down in our world. Too many people on social media who think I want their approval. If Thoreau had Facebook on Walden Pond, I am sure he would have thrown himself into the water and drowned.

I am fond of Maria’s breasts, among many other things such as her humor, smile, intelligence and creativity, it was actually far down the list, and this morning, first thing, this being America in the age of Facebook,  there was a message from a complete stranger named Arleen.

Many of you probably know that it almost never turns out well when somebody tells me what to write, and it’s even worse when people patronize me.

“I am no prude by any means,” wrote Arlene, “but do you have to talk about being lovers in every post? More power to you for still doing that. And the breast touching thing?”

Well, of course I had to write about this, partially to explain and partially to speak up against ageism, perhaps the last acceptable social and cultural bigotry in America.

First off, Arleen, I’m afraid you are a prude, you would do well to accept that. According to the dictionary, a prude is a person excessively concerned about propriety and decorum. That is you.

Your message, cheerful as it pretended to be, was both inappropriate and offensive. I don’t know you, and I’m not sure what gives you the right to send me a message like that on Facebook, as if you are my friend. And if you were my friend, of course, you wouldn’t dream of sending me a message like that. My friends are very happy that I am have someone to love in my life, even my young friends.

Then, there’s this: I rarely talk about being lovers, I do not mention it nearly as much as I should because I imagine there are a lot of people like you out there getting queasy about it. Stuff gets into your head like that in America, no idea or thought lives freely for long, it is immediately set upon by people who want to tell you what to think or write.

If older people wrote and talked more about love, perhaps the subject would not be forbidden and unknown.

You might have said what you thought: How dare this old guy talk about “still doing that” at his age – you can add patronizing to offensive, Arleen –  when he should just be hiding it, walking the dogs, or playing checkers like older people are expected to do, then withering and turning to dust.

I wouldn’t care to offer too much detail about my sex life, that would make me queasy, but much as I wanted to share my mental illness, I also want to let people know that older people do have sex, and like it.

Older people like me want to have sex as often as I can possibly have it, and it is surely not the same for me as it once was. In my hospice and therapy work, I often encounter older people in love, and sometimes having sex, and good for them, they ought to shout it from the rooftops.

Older people have sex – “doing that” – all of the time, Arlene, and even though I am no Brad Pitt, I am grateful to be having sex. If I were Brad Pitt, I doubt you would ever send a message like that.

I hope I can die having sex, I’d love to go that way. I’m not eager to talk about it a lot, but it ought not be hidden either. It is nothing to be ashamed of.  This is one of the reasons I do not ever do “old talk.” At our age, we are all slowing down, good for you for “still doing that.” Speak for yourself. I am on fire, reborn and excited about my life. Don’t tell me what I feel, just because it is what you feel. I am just getting started in so many ways.

I did not have sex for too many years and I am here to tell you that having sex is so much better than not having sex, at any age. The other day I wrote about my experience with mental illness and neither you, Arlene,  or anyone else wrote me to ask if I “have to talk about being crazy.”

So you are not a prude, but it’s okay to write about mental illness, but not about the love I have for my wife and her body? That says a lot about our country to me.

According to the National Center for Social Research, more than half of the men over 70 (54 per cent) and a third of the women (32 per cent) are sexually active. For people over 60, the numbers double. For some younger people and magazine editors and movie producers, older people and sex seems to be a taboo subject. We are not the demographic advertisers want.

People like Arlene seem to believe physical love dies with age, and must not be discussed. It makes  her uncomfortable that I mention love.

In recent weeks, I have been speaking up about Muslims and refugees, and I am not inclined to be silent about making love. Prejudice is prejudice, and it ought to be challenged whenever it pops up.

I love my wife, and  she would not be happy if I gave up on sex. if I should be uncomfortable about anything, it is the fact that I have been reluctant to write more about our love for one another, and about my love of making love. Shame on me for that. How could I write honestly about missing her when I began censoring some of the things I miss the most? To withhold truth is to cheat my readers, and I promised early on that I won’t ever do that.

Arlene, I am not clear what your purpose was in writing me, I guess it was to tiptoe around the fact that my talking about Maria’s breasts made you uncomfortable and you wished I would stop so you could read about the dogs and donkeys.

At the beginning of the message,  you wrote that you love reading my posts.

But that does not strike me as sincere. It had the odor of hypocrisy.

If you love my posts, you know that I will try be honest and authentic about my life, and not accept the strictures and social conventions that keep so many people from being truthful and helpful to others. That is perhaps, the core idea of the blog.

If you don’t love this about my writing, then you don’t love my blog , and might  be more comfortable reading somebody more proper. And if you don’t wish me to write about my love for Maria, you are definitely in the wrong place.  Eventually, I will horrify you. You are welcome to stay, but I warn you, no I promise you, that it will happen again.

And one last thing, perhaps you will give older people a bit more thought before you write about them as if they were children in need of a gentle scold.