There is a cruel and stupid intolerance among the young. I know that is so, because at the tender age of 30 I was given to the claim, in tones of injured purity: old women of 50 look awful in ropes of colored beads, and in thong sandals, and with fresh flowers in their hair. I used to say “I’ve had it with old men of 50 also; whose skins have gone to leather yet still wear open neck shirts, and heavy gold chains down to their crotches." I was not always careful, whether or not the object of my division over heard me, and if I had spoken too loudly maybe the old person would learn something about propriety. Ah-ha. Ah-ha indeed. Now that I am firmly settled into my fifth decade, and pressing resolutely towards my sixth, I find nothing so pleases me as much as outsized gaudy earrings, off the shoulder blouses, and a few red hibiscus blooms pinned into my hair. Do I look awful? Possibly to the young. Do I feel awful? Decidedly not. I have reached the lovely age where I can admit that sensuality satisfies me as much as sexuality and some times more so. Oh, I do not mean to suggest here, that standing on a hill in San Francisco being buffeted by a fresh wind leers, sneers, and lascivious smirks to the contrary. Sensuality does not necessarily lead to sex nor is it meant to be a substitute for sex. Sensuality is its own reward. There are some that are so frightened by the idea of sensual entertainment that they reveal their dwelling places to be dreadfully bleak and joyless; And the horrible addendum is they would have all of us share that lonely landscape. Personally, I will have not part in it. I want all my senses to be engaged. I would have my ears filled with the world’s music, with the grunts of hewers of wood, the abandoned cackle of old folks sitting in the last sunlight, and the whir of busy bees in the early morning. I want to hear the sharp sound of tap dancing and the murmur of a spiritual half-remembered then half-sung in a mournful throat. I want the clashing of cymbals of a marching band and the whisper of a lover entreating a beloved. Let me hear anxious parents warning the upstrupious offspring and the pedantic pedagogue informing a disinterested class on the mysteries of thermal nuclear purpoltion. All sounds of life and living, death and dying, will find welcome places in my ears. For the sense of hearing, not only instructs me about my world, it does more, it identifies me to myself.My eyes will gladly receive colors, the burnt orange skin of old black women who ride on busses and the cool lavender of certain peoples eyes. I like the tomato red dresses of summer, and the sienna of a highly waxed mahogany table. I desire the threatening dark green of rain forests and the sunshine yellow of a bowl of lemons. Let my eager sight have the thick black of a starless night and the crisp white of fresh linen. And I will have blue, the very pale blue of some complexions and the bold blue of flags, the iridescent blue of hummingbird’s wings, and the dusty blue of twilight in North Carolina. I wish for the blood red of birth and the red blood of death. These orbs small and only two, describe my world’s variety and uniqueness. Taste and smell are firmly joined, in what used to be called wedded bliss. About the bliss I cannot speak, but I can say much about that marriage. I like it that the fleeting scent of fresh cut citrus and the flowery strong aroma of strawberries start my salivary glands to pour into my mouth a warm and pure liquid. I accept the salt of tears, invoked by sweet onions and betrayed love. Give me the smell of the sea, and the wild scent of mountain pines. I do not refuse the suffocating smell of burnt rubber, of city streets, nor the green scent of fresh sweat for their pungencies remind me of the bitterness of the chocolate, the sting of vinegar some of life’s greatest pleasures are conveyed by the duo senses of taste and smell. In this tribute to sensuality, I have saved the sense of touch as the last pleasure to be extolled. I wish for the slick feel of silk underclothes, and the pinch of sand in my beach shoes, I welcome the sun strong on my back and the tender pelting of snow on my face; Good clothes that fit snuggly without squeezing and strong fearless hands that caress without pain. I want the crunch of hazelnuts between my teeth. And ice cream melting on my tongue. I will have that night of sexuality, with the man that inhabits my fantasy. I’ll take the sensuality and the sexuality. Who made the rule that one must choose either or? - Maya Angelou