A typical tale of old men...

I realise that over the past twelve months I've unwittingly read, and I have to say enjoyed, books written by old male authors coming to the winter of their career, about old males coming to, or having reached, the winter of their sexual career. There are plenty of them, including:

Everyman, Philip Roth
The Dying Animal, Philip Roth
Memories of my Melancholy Whores, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Disgrace, J.M.Coetzee

Because I read them quite close together it suddenly dawned on me that it is a subject not, to my own limited knowledge, often covered by their female counterparts. It does seem like it's the posturing of fading male authors about their fading sexual capabilities. Maybe women don't fade in quite the same way so therefore don't feel the need to say 'look at how hot I was! Look at how many liaisons I notched up.'

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