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Not just the nurses, administrators, even guests. What am I talking about?

My name is Carlos. I’m not Spanish, my mother just liked the name. Anyhow, I’m ninety-years-old. I still get around pretty well. Not to brag, but I can pass for eighty.

After my wife died fifteen years ago, my kids thought I should move into this nursing home. They call it assisted living. I have my own apartment, but they have a nice dining room that prepares all our meals.

Since women usually out live men, there are more women here than men.

My apartment is small. One bedroom; kitchenette, living/dining room, bathroom. That’s about it, but it’s big enough for just me.

The trouble started on my ninetieth birthday. The staff threw a big party for me with cake and ice cream, even a buffet. The local TV station showed up and interviewed me. She was a cute young thing, maybe twenty-five-years old. I had great grandchildren her age.

She asked what I thought were standard questions. “Mr. Murton, what do you attribute your longevity?”

I thought I’d have some fun with her. I mean the staff, the other residents and their guests were there watching, plus it’d probably be on the news. “Well, Miss Hardiman, you have to laugh and have fun every day. I probably go through a bottle of good Scotch a month. That helps. Then there’s the sex. You’ve got to have a lot of sex. Good sex. You know what they say, use or lose it.”

The staff and everyone laughed and giggled. Miss Hardiman was at a loss for words. I don’t know if she was a virgin or not, but she blushed. I was certain they wouldn’t air that part of the interview.

I was just having some fun with all of this. To be honest, the mind was willing, but I had my doubts about the rest. I hadn’t used it in ages; I was pretty sure I’d lost it. Like I said, it was my ninetieth birthday. Some days it was even hard to pee.

Not only did they air it, one of the national news stations must have seen it, and they aired it.

To my surprise, letters started coming in. I use email, and somehow my email address got out there. Many of the letters were just congratulatory, and some suggested I should be ashamed of myself for saying such a thing. Those were mostly from preachers and old ladies who hadn’t been laid since their husbands went off to fight World War II.

It’s the other letters and emails you’re probably interested in. There were proposals for marriage. One woman in her seventies offered to send me an airline ticket, first class. She lived across the country in Los Angeles. Letters and emails came from all over the country, even Europe.

The assisted living facility had to hire someone just to sort the mail. One of the nursing interns separated them into piles: congratulations, proposals and ones with stuff in them like airline tickets or trinkets. There was even cash for gas and hotels.

One woman who claimed to be twenty-five, asked me if I’d talk to her boyfriend. He didn’t seem all that interested in sex. I didn’t talk to him, but I did tell her she should dump him. ‘It ain’t gonna get better, sweetie.’

A local radio station wanted to know if I’d like to do a weekly call-in show on elder sex.

I read as many as I could and frankly it was good therapy. I told that lady reporter that you should have fun and laugh a lot. I did both as I looked through those letters and emails. My nursing intern helped a lot. “Look at this one, Mr. Murton, some woman almost your age sent a picture.” She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit. On the back was her

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