The trip reflected our economic rise upward.With freedom from breastfeeding, diaper changing, midnight baby cry awakening via "the pill", my seminal sexual yearnings re-emerged. First, it was a new dress or lingerie, then a special dinner with wine, then dancing, and best, with all these ending on our marriage bed.Our sex, while vanilla, was again satisfying and sketches in the book, Joy of Sex, told us how to experiment for different flavors. The changing sexual culture swirling around us, however, also shook our marital bed with ideas of greener grass on the other side of the marriage fence, not just doing different positions together.We didn't talk about it. It was in our marriage closet. By the latter half of the 1970s, the sexual revolution of the sixties was over. Sex had won. Now everyone was "doing it". An eighteen-year-old virgin was a source of ridicule. Couples like us who missed the free love boat were urged to get aboard.By 1975 middle America Tupperware parties became. I massaged slowly and patiently. Breathing hard and staring at the ceiling, I felt the rising flood against my skin. My mind toyed with thoughts of Mr Renshaw. His barrel chest pushing against his tight shirts; two opened buttons revealing a tuft of auburn hair; the unmistakeable bulge in his corduroy trousers, at which I spent entire lessons staring and wondering. My fingers locked in a quickening spiral.I raised myself from the mattress and wrestled my shorts down my legs. My fingers pushed and padded around my clit and my breaths grew faster and shallower. I felt my nipples harden beneath my top. Warm tingles rippled over my body and sweat perspired from my chest and temples, tickling my skin. I slipped inside my tight opening, slowly curled my fingers and searched for the spongy area some magazine had taught me was my g-spot. Whatever I hit, it was raw and sensitive and made me want to pee. I straightened my fingers instead, settling on a more familiar position and easing them in.
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