The Afternoon Delight That Wasn't

Mavis Brennan
Aug 16
4 min read

Updated: Aug 30

Sex After Seventy - Episode One

Comic of a woman sleeping on a couch, dog and cat watching, vibrator on the floor. — Afternoon Delight

I remember a time when "afternoon delight" meant a little nooky. Now it means a nap, a heating pad, and maybe a bowl of soup if I'm feeling particularly adventurous.

But this week I decided: enough is enough. I was determined to recapture those magical afternoons --- the ones where you'd emerge from the bedroom sweaty, smug, and with hair that looked like you'd been in a wind tunnel. Now my hair just looks like that naturally thanks to menopause and questionable styling choices, but I wanted the experience.

So I did my research. And let me tell you, if you want a great car, you get one with a German engine. Apparently, the same holds true for vibrators. Who knew Berlin was turning out more than bratwurst and existential dread? I'm talking engineering so precise it could launch a small satellite or locate a missing sock. And honey, I was ready to be mission control.

The package arrived "discreetly" --- in a box the size of a microwave with "PERSONAL WELLNESS DEVICE" stamped on every side. Subtle as a Vegas billboard. My mailman already looks at me like I'm running a meth lab, so this probably confirms his suspicions. I tore it open, charged the thing up (took longer than my Tesla), and --- this is important --- made sure I had water, snacks, reading glasses, and emergency contact numbers nearby.

Preparation is everything at my age.

And it was... magnificent. Earth-moving. Like being personally serenaded by a tiny, determined opera singer who'd majored in percussion. I was this close to seeing God --- or at least a young Paul Newman in those blue eyes --- when I made the fatal mistake: I lay back for "just a minute" to catch my breath.

Cutting to the chase: I wake up on the couch three hours later, drooling like a Saint Bernard, my mouth dry as the Sahara, my hips creaking like old hinges, and an eerie silence where there should have been gentle humming. Then I heard it --- enthusiastic chewing noises coming from the dining room, like someone attacking a particularly stubborn steak.

The dog.

Apparently, 'someone' thought my $229 German-engineered marvel of modern technology was the most exciting chew toy since that tennis ball he's been carrying around since Clinton was president. And judging by the state of it when I pried the mangled remains from his slobbery, triumphant jaws, Velcrow had a much better afternoon than I did.

The bastard was actually wagging.

Pro Tip: Sex after seventy is just like sex at twenty: it's all about timing, stamina, and making sure you lock the damn door. And for the love of all that's holy, hide the vibrator from the dog. They have no respect for fine engineering or your credit card balance.

Epilogue: I'm currently shopping for a safe. Velcrow is currently in the doghouse. Literally.

And figuratively.

Love, Mavis

Pineapple Upside-Down Cake

That Turned My Mailman Into a Regular Visitor

Listen, darling, this isn't just dessert—it's a conversation starter, a peace offering, and occasionally, a marriage proposal catalyst. I've been making this since 1962, and let me tell you, it's never failed me. Well, except for that incident with Harold in '83, but that had more to do with his commitment issues than my baking.

As featured in Mavis Brennan’s "Sex After Seventy"

The Magic Ingredients

For the Topping (the pretty part that makes people weak in the knees)

1/4 cup butter
2/3 cup packed brown sugar (don't you dare use that fake stuff)
7-9 pineapple rings (canned is fine, fresh is divine)
Maraschino cherries (as many as your heart desires, mine desires plenty)

For the Cake (the foundation of all good relationships)

1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup butter, softened
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup milk
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla (the real stuff, not that imitation nonsense)

The Seduction Process

Heat your oven to 350°F. Same temperature I keep my bedroom, coincidentally.
Melt that 1/4 cup butter in your 9-inch round cake pan right in the oven. Takes about 3 minutes. Don't walk away—butter burns faster than a summer romance.
Sprinkle brown sugar evenly over the melted butter. This is your sweet foundation, literally and metaphorically.
Arrange pineapple rings over the brown sugar. Put a cherry in the center of each ring, and a few extras around the edges because life's too short for cherry rationing.
In a bowl, beat together all the cake ingredients with an electric mixer on low speed for 30 seconds, then high speed for 3 minutes. The batter should be smooth and promising.
Pour batter carefully over the pineapple. Don't disturb the fruit arrangement—it's like a good relationship, handle with care.
Bake 45-55 minutes until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Your kitchen will smell like paradise and possibility.
Immediately run a knife around the edges to loosen the cake. Place a serving plate upside down over the pan, then flip the whole thing over. Leave the pan on for 1 minute, then lift off. If any fruit sticks to the pan, just poke it back where it belongs—nobody needs to know.

Mavis's Secret Notes

Serve this warm with a dollop of whipped cream and watch strong men become putty in your hands
It keeps well covered, but it never lasts long in my house
The mailman still asks about it every Tuesday
Pairs excellently with coffee, conversation, and second chances

Serves 8, or 2 very determined people with flexible waistbands

Remember: confidence is the best ingredient in any recipe. Wear your favorite apron and maybe a little lipstick—you never know who might drop by when this beauty comes out of the oven.