A Summer in the Flesh

When we look back on our lives, we often focus on particular events to the exclusion of others. It is a way of protecting ourselves from the immensity of the whole of our experience. Certain times in our life begin to take on a theme, and certain moments stand out as turning points. When we attempt to define the narrative of our life, we focus on these themes and these moments, and we ascribe to them a significance that fictionalizes them. These moments only represent a metaphor for the greater truth of the whole story.

As the years go by, I find myself continuing to look back on a particular time in my life that has become very important to me. This story is about that time. The story is true. Every fact of it occurred. What makes the story a fiction is my purposeful exclusion of many other, extraneous experiences that shaped my life at the time. They are no more or less important than the experiences I have included in the story; I simply have chosen to omit them because they cling only to the periphery of my memory. I have chosen to tell the story in vivid detail because the details are important to me. They are what form the substance of my memories. The story is about the summer of 1979. It was the summer I graduated from college. It was also the summer I discovered sex. Not the act of sexual intercourse – that came much earlier. What I discovered was a new relationship with my sexuality that forever changed the person that I am.

I know that the real story is not solely about sex. There was so much more than that going on in my life and inside of me. But the sex tells the story better than all those other details could. It is the sex I remember. It is the sex that now defines this period in my life, and it is my experiences with the people with whom I explored my sexuality that made this a turning point in my life. The story focuses on the sex, but the sex only serves to identify the theme. I hope you enjoy it, but more importantly, I hope you take the time to try and understand the real story, the truth behind the fiction.

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My given name is Madelyn. It is a horrible name. My parents told me it was a beautiful name because it was the name of my very Irish, paternal grandmother. My grandmother was a beautiful person, but the name is still horrible. My parents called me Maddy, but beginning in grade school I insisted on using my middle name: Andrea. My friends insist on calling me Annie. I am in my mid-forties now, I have two adolescent children and a loving husband of seventeen years, and I love my life.

I was born and raised in the Midwest, and like so many other Midwestern girls, I went to college in a small Midwestern town that was all but consumed by the enormous Midwestern university that called the town home. I enjoyed college life, if only because it was such a vast improvement over my life in high school. I didn't feel very good about myself in high school. I am a tall woman, just over 5'10, and I matured early, which is another way of saying that even at a young age I had a womanly figure, with wide, mature hips. I wasn't fat in high school, but I was a little overweight, soft and fleshy and awkward in my frame. I also suffered with acne. Why in my life, just when my looks were to become most important to me, did I have to suffer from sores breaking out on my face? It seemed like too cruel a joke. It's not that I wasn't "accepted," whatever that means in a high school context. I had a nice circle of girlfriends, a few of whom I actually trusted. I had the occasional date now and then, and a couple of steady boyfriends who didn't treat me too badly. No relationship with a boy ever really amounted to much, though: a few awkward tussles in the back seat of a car; a couple hurried, nervous efforts at love spoiled by the ever-present dread of being discovered by a parent. At the time, I thought my life was horrible. As I look back on it, it wasn't so bad, but things were better in college.

For one thing, I turned out to be a good student. I was a good student in high school, too, but there was never any real challenge in that. All anyone had to do in high school was show up. In college, that wasn't always true. I noticed that some students would struggle despite their best efforts. Thankfully, that wasn't the case for me, and while being a good student in high school didn't do a lot for my self-esteem, it did wonders for me in college. I studied business and psychology, and went on to graduate school and received my MBA degree from a large, well-known university in California.

Perhaps even more importantly, at least from a social perspective, my acne miraculously cleared. I don't know that I can remember the exact date I first noticed the change, but it was during the latter half of my freshman year. I remember looking in my dormitory bathroom mirror one morning and being startled by the realization that I wasn't hideous. Instead of acne I saw bright green eyes, cute freckles across the bridge of my nose, and a charming smile. I don't know that I want to say I was pretty. I probably was. But what was important to me was that I realized I had changed from an acne plagued little girl into an honest-to-God woman – one with a relatively pleasant and clear face. I was overwhelmed.

I had also lost some weight. Beginning the summer before college, I started jogging and swimming and lifting weights. By the end of my freshman year I had gone from a tight size ten (okay, a twelve) to a comfortable size eight (okay, a tight size eight). While I probably thought I could stand to lose even a few more pounds at the time, I would have to laugh at that thought today. I was definitely not "skinny," but the difference was remarkable.

I began to think of myself as an attractive woman. My newfound confidence, together with my clear complexion and new figure, did wonders for my relationships with men. In high school, everything seemed to be about sex, but it wasn't because I was sexy, it was because the boys were so desperate. If I went on a date with a boy, and I didn't "put out," at least a little something, I would never see the boy again. Even the two boys I did go out with on a more regular basis were always pawing and groping at me, and they lost interest in me when I didn't "put out" as often or as much as they wanted me to.

As insecure as I was, I wasn't needy, and I didn't want to engage in sex just so some guy would notice me or stay with me. I have to admit that I didn't escape high school as a virgin, but sex the way I remember it then was brief, awkward, and not very pleasant. My few naïve and more often than not unsuccessful attempts at making love usually resulted from a strange sense of obligation on my part. Everyone needs to feel wanted. To the extent I knew I was being used, I have forgiven myself. A girl needs a date now and then, especially in high school. But knowing I was being used certainly didn't help with the way I felt about myself.

The change in my perception of myself came with a noticeable change in the way men would treat me. Sometime just after spring break, a cute guy from my freshman biology class asked me out. His name was Rick, and he was the best looking guy that I had ever spoken to, let alone dated, and I was mortified because I really did have a conflict and had to say no. He slunk off before I could say, "Some other time?" But miracle of miracles, he asked me out again. Not only that, but when I left him at my door with a soft peck on his cheek, he called me and asked me out yet again! That would have never happened in high school, and I was probably a little too grateful. On our second date, Rick and I made love. It was a mistake, but I was on a learning curve. Our relationship lost its innocence and was never the same again. Still, he was my first real sexual encounter, and I don't regret it.

Don't get me wrong. I hadn't turned into a beauty queen by any stretch of the imagination. Guys weren't flocking to my door. If anything, it was a subtle change. Even though Rick and I didn't turn out, I began to see the real possibility of a meaningful relationship with a guy because I wanted the relationship. It could be my choice. I like to think that that change would have occurred even if I had remained overweight and acne-ridden, but I'll never know. During my sophomore year I only dated a few guys more than once. Nothing meaningful developed, but I wasn't worried. I stopped worrying so much about what my date thought of me, and started to concentrate more on what I thought of my date.

In my junior year I moved out of the dormitory and into a house with four other girls from my floor. I quickly learned that for whatever reason, sharing a house with someone is much more intimate than sharing a dormitory floor. It was kind of crazy. One girl became addicted to cocaine, and another seemed to slut around with any stray guy that would have her. There were lots of drugs available, it being the late 70s and all. Marijuana and cocaine mostly. I had experimented with marijuana in high school, and continued to enjoy it occasionally in college. I tried cocaine a few times, but never caught on to its allure. I tried mushrooms a few times, and thought the experience was profound and enjoyable, but I stayed away from LSD, precisely because I thought it might be too profound and enjoyable. But compared to a few of my roommates, my "experimentation" was just that. The girl with the cocaine habit was a drug slut, and the sex slut was constantly on drugs, albeit it was guys with drugs that seemed to be her real addiction. I just concentrated on my studies and tried to let the strange goings on go on without me.

For my senior year, my two relatively sane roommates and I moved to another house. This time we shared the house with two guys, and it actually turned out great. They were far more stable than the two girls we left behind. It seemed we had an unspoken rule against dating or screwing around within the house, and that worked out well. By the middle of my first term, I had sent off all of my applications for graduate school, so I put my schoolwork school on auto-pilot and started to make a conscious effort to have a little more fun.

Of the young men I dated that year, Rudy is the one I remember most fondly. He was very quiet, and very sweet to me. He was also a big marijuana user. It wasn't that he was obsessive, he just really enjoyed it, and I learned to like it quite a bit while I was with him. I noticed it made me feel very sensual. I started to think about sex a lot during my time with Rudy. I probably thought about it more than Rudy did, but unlike Rudy (I'm sure) my thoughts always came back to one central concern: I wondered why I didn't enjoy it more.

Perhaps I should have been satisfied with the mere fact that I no longer found sex unpleasant. These guys that I dated weren't lousy lovers (at least for the most part). I just felt like I wasn't quite getting the whole picture. I enjoyed sex, and the marijuana seemed to open me up to the possibility that I could be significantly more sensual, more attuned to my desires.

I had always masturbated, since it first felt good, and I was pretty certain I knew what an orgasm was (boy, I would learn). I had never been a regular practitioner, however. My mood had to be right, and even then, it rarely lead to anything earth shattering. I might get a little light headed from time to time. I had started to enjoy fucking, and I could tell there was some promise there, but up to that point I hadn't ever come during sex. This always made me feel a little left out when my partner came. I loved cunnilingus, especially when the guy had some slight idea of what he was doing (which was rare), and I had felt trembles and twitters that I assumed were orgasms. But I knew there was more, and I wanted to know how to get there.

During my time with Rudy, the winter of my senior year, I started to experiment more aggressively with masturbation. I read a few books, and this inspired me to order a vibrator from a classified ad in a woman's magazine. I went from occasionally giving myself a nervous, guilt-ridden little feel to being quite the enthusiast. I was a woman on a mission. I started masturbating three to five times a week. I tried numerous techniques and all kinds of fantasies, even ones I was pretty certain wouldn't do anything for me. I fantasized about being with another woman, and I played out various bondage and domination scenarios, but ultimately I found it wasn't worth the effort. I learned I was a pretty simple girl when it came to sex (I still am, too). Despite all their weaknesses and imperfections, I like men. I like the way they smell. I like the taste of their mouths. I like the feel of a strong back as I run my hands over it. I like it when they're shy and gentle, and I like it when they are playful and rough. I like straight sex, missionary position, pubic bone to pubic bone, chest to chest, pressing hard against each other, strong, eager thrusting, wrapping my legs tightly around him and squeezing him into me. That's what I found myself fantasizing about most often. My God, I thought, how boring am I?

As much as I like oral sex, it didn't serve well as masturbatory fantasy. All I could think about is how much more I preferred the real thing. Through these frequent and sometimes frustrating efforts at masturbation, I found that besides straight sex, the sexiest and most gratifying of my fantasies had to do with masturbating with a boyfriend. This probably resulted from a lack of imagination on my part, but after some pretty heroic efforts at exploring my sensuality through masturbation, I felt a certain comfort in the simplicity of a fantasy that incorporated what I was actually doing – masturbating.

I found two aspects of my shared masturbation fantasy pleasing. First, I liked the idea of being watched. It made me feel sexual and connected to the person watching, like I could use their energy, and their desire to see me satiated, and that would make it okay, even important for me to really let go and enjoy the sensation. Maybe the idea of sharing the experience freed me from the guilt and loneliness I felt when I masturbated. I also liked the idea of watching my partner masturbate. I liked the feeling of raw sexual power in knowing that the sight of my naked body could cause a man to achieve an aching erection.

Before this time in my life, I had always known that a man could achieve an erection with me, but I never felt it was because of me. But now, finally, I not only felt like I was attractive, I felt like I was sexy. I could look at myself in the mirror and run my hands over my breasts, and enjoy how plump they were and how perfectly they filled the cup of my hands, the soft flesh spilling from my grasp. The sight of my pale and somewhat large areolas, which swelled as my nipples hardened and thrust outward, excited me. Often I would brush out my reddish/fawn colored hair so that the loose curling ends would tickle my nipples, and I would sway my shoulders back and forth so that my breasts all but floated in front of me, nipples taught and tender. These lovely breasts, the curve of my hip, the soft down of my pubic hair, the round fullness of my ass – I knew these images of me were enough to send the blood rushing to a man's penis, and that excited me. It was the beginning of something new for me. I was having sexual fantasies, and I was developing a desire to fulfill them.

I had always looked at men as a means of satisfying some emotional need. I wanted them to like me, and somehow thereby validate my worth. Now I was beginning to see men in a different light, more as a means of satisfying my physical desires with a lot less emotional baggage. I didn't necessarily want them to like me. I wanted them to desire me. I wanted to turn them on, and use their lust to ignite my own sexual fires. I wanted to explore my sex, my passion, and my hunger.

I remember the first time I truly experienced this change. It was, snowy night in February. It was clearly just the beginning, however – the first smoke from the volcano.

Rudy had a clean cut, boyish charm about his face that belied his ravenous appetite for marijuana. He had dark blue eyes that I loved to look at, but on this particular night I couldn't keep my eyes off his penis. Rudy and I were lying naked on my bed smoking a joint. We were both sitting up, side-by-side with our backs against the headboard. Rudy's body was lean, hard and dark, with wisps of black hair everywhere. He had just come out of the shower after getting back late that night from his job at the party store. His penis was lying flaccid and small in his pubic hair, completely relaxed. The marijuana had affected me in just the way I had hoped. I had a warm, sensual feeling in my center, and my skin felt radiant and soft. I kept looking at his penis, mesmerized, and I decided to try an experiment. I started to stroke my pubic hair, running it between my fingers and pressing down against my mound. I petted the small pelt of reddish hair, and teased it. Rudy put out the joint and started to reach for my pussy. I whispered, "Just watch." I arched my hand and slid my index finger to the tip of my clitoris. I pushed it like a button, and then ran my finger further down my folds until my finger was damp and warm. I pulled it back up and began rubbing my clitoris in a slow, teasing, circular motion. I let out a little sigh, and I watched as Rudy's penis began to swell. It was if it were slowly emerging from a cocoon. It creped sideways and then leaned upright, now twice the size from where it began, but the skin was still loose and ruffled. He started to reach for himself, and again I whispered, "Just watch." He obediently clasped his hands on his stomach.

I pulled my hand slowly up over my tummy, and with both hands I cupped my breasts. I twirled my hardening nipples between my fingers. Then I reached again for my pussy, this time with both hands. I spread my lips with the fingers of my left hand and pulling up gently, I unsheathed my clitoris. I let it breathe for a moment, and then I pinched it with the fingers of my free hand. I groaned and purred, and continued to stroke myself. Rudy's penis continued to grow. It had fallen against his belly and was thick and swollen, the tip pushing on towards his belly button.

I continued to rub and tease myself until I was fairly certain that he was fully erect. Then I got another idea. My vibrator was in box on the ledge on top of the headboard, just behind my head. Carefully I reached up and retrieved it. I crawled down the bed and turned and sat cross-legged, facing him. I spread his legs and scooted my bottom up towards him, with my legs over the tops of his. When my pussy was a foot from his penis, I lay back. My head was slightly propped by a blanket, and as looked toward him I could see him start stroking his penis. From my angle, his penis appeared to rise from my pubic mound. His rhythm was slow and methodical, his grip tight. The tip of his penis would grow an inch or two above his hand on the downward stroke, and then disappear back into his hand on the upstroke.

"Don't come until I tell you it's okay." The words escaped my lips before I knew I had said them. And then I was glad I said them. This was my fantasy, not his. I was the one who had given him his erection. He owed me the courtesy.

I lifted my knees and spread my legs wide before his eyes. My pussy felt open and free, yet moist, warm and receptive. I didn't feel any insecurity. How could I, knowing that it was the sight of me that aroused him? I began to massage my clitoris with my left hand while I held the vibrator in my right hand, against my thigh. I wanted him to look at the warm place between my legs and desire me.

"Do you like my pussy?"