The Friday Flower Club

They still called it the Friday Flower Club although it had long since given up on flower arranging. Marjorie suggested one day they should rename it the Saturday Sex Club, but that wasn't correct either; they never met on Saturdays when husbands were likely to be at home.

There was nothing formal, no chairperson or secretary, no treasurer collecting membership fees. Over the two years or so since the first meeting the numbers had fluctuated but, because they met in each others' houses, it was agreed that eight was the practical maximum. Currently, there were six: Marjorie, Helen, Sylvia, Ann, Jo and Cynthia (who had replaced Vera in circumstances that will need relating in some detail}. They were women of a certain age and lifestyle, upper middle class, family rearing behind them, not obliged to have jobs thanks to husbands in high-earning executive positions. They were not idle; much of their time was taken up with what can loosely be called "good works." But still with room for other activities. Which is how the Friday Flower Club came into existence.

After a while, demonstrations of how to display half-a-dozen long-stemmed roses began to pall. Subsequent metamorphoses embraced needlecraft, soft fruit preserving, picture framing, genealogy and creative writing. On one memorable occasion, Vera gave a talk about her holiday safari in Kenya, illustrated with her husband's photographs, many of which were only slightly out of focus.

The tipping point came during some desultory conversation towards the end of an afternoon. They were drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches prepared by Sylvia. Someone - no-one now remembers who - had wondered aloud about things that had improved life for women. Washing machines, dishwashers, vacuum cleaners, computers, a second car were all considered. But what was still lacking?

"Better sex." The words that triggered the ultimate transformation of the Friday Flower Club were uttered by Marjorie. They were followed by a pregnant silence, broken eventually by Marjorie herself. "Oh, come on, why be embarrassed? You can't turn on the television these days without coming across a couple going at it like rabbits. There's sex all over the newspapers, agony aunts in your magazines. Why should we sit here, grown up women, and pretend it's of no interest to us?"

"Yes, but - " Jo was more interested in the subject than she was willing to admit. Ever since she had met Ann she had been aware of something between them - an atmosphere, an unspoken attraction - that surprised her, scared her even, but couldn't be dismissed.

"But what?" Marjorie put down her tea cup and looked round the room. "Let me ask you this: how many of you have had any sex in the last seven days?"

The question was followed by an even longer silence than before. It was broken this time by Vera, a founder member of the Friday Flower Club, remembering that she had to be home early; she left hurriedly and later sent a message saying that she would not be attending future meetings.

When the door closed behind Vera, Marjorie remained defiant. Svelte, expensively dressed, blonde hair defying her fifty-plus years, she looked from one to another of her group of friends. "Listen," she said, "I'm no different from any of you. I feel as though I'm missing something, and sitting around exchanging recipes isn't going to solve it. Too much origami, not enough orgasm. Isn't that true?"

Subdued murmurs of agreement. Then Sylvia found the courage to say that she and her husband had - well, had sex last Saturday. It was their wedding anniversary, but she had to admit that Colin had treated it as though it were an obligation rather than an uncontrollable urge.

"Ten minutes?" Marjorie asked.

Sylvia blushed and shook her head. "Probably more like five."

"So what's the answer? I'll tell you what mine is: masturbation. It's better than nothing. I'm just not ready to say sex was fun while it lasted but now I'm past it. Because I'm not. And neither should any of you be."

There were nods of agreement. It was dawning on them that Marjorie had merely put words to a situation they all recognised. Ann spoke: "Can I suggest something?"

"Why not?" said Marjorie. "Let's see if we can't help each other."

"Well, there's the internet. You have to search a bit but it's not difficult. I mean, I found a site that publishes erotic stories. Some of them are just crude, but others are quite well written and arousing. Anyway, they did it for me. That and the vibrator."

"Sounds good to me." Helen didn't want it to be thought she was a prude.

"There's more though," Ann went on. "I wrote to one of the authors, a woman, and she e-mailed back. And after a bit we kind of set up a mutual session, exchanging e-mails telling each other what we were doing."

"And that worked?"

"Yes. I don't really know if we got there simultaneously, but it seemed as if we did. And when it happened it was - you know, big. Because it wasn't lonely. Someone had helped, and you'd helped them."

Cynthia joined the conversation for the first time. A divorcee who had been awarded control of a chain of hairdressing salons and beauty parlours when her husband wanted to trade her in for a younger model, Cynthia may have been the newest member of the Friday Flower Club but was never short of self-confidence.

"Not surprising, really. Two are always better than one. Or maybe five are better than one?" Cynthia paused, letting the implied suggestion swirl around in the silence. Then she spelt it out. "What I'm saying is, are we all talk and no action? If it worked for Ann over the internet, why shouldn't it work for us all together here?"

The tension in the room was palpable. This wasn't what they had expected from the Friday Flower Club but they all sensed that they didn't want to draw back. All that was needed was the final step. Whatever that might be.

When there was no response, Cynthia added, "Suppose I set an example?"

Standing, she unzipped her skirt, let it fall to the ground to reveal pale beige knickers above stockings with lacy hold-up tops. When she sat down, she spread her legs wide and pushed her bottom to the edge of her chair, thrusting her pelvis forward. Her right hand slipped inside the waistband of her knickers. Her fingers could be seen moving.

Helen was the first to follow suit. Nothing was said, but one by one the others stripped to their underwear. Helen and Jo both wore serviceable white. Ann's knickers were blue with wide French legs; her hand was already inside the waist band. Sylvia displayed white silk with a lace trim and tiny pink bows at the hip. Marjorie was sexy in high cut black with a suspender belt and black stockings.

Cynthia spoke quietly. "Go slowly. Don't leave anyone behind. And don't close your eyes: share. It's good."

If there had been reticence at first, it had been undermined. A common chord had been struck, an erotic resonance that swirled around the room, reaching out to all six masturbating women. No two techniques were quite the same; fingers searched, stroked, stimulated, some languidly persuading, some urgently demanding. There were soft sighs and murmurs.

Ann was already far advanced and wondering who would lose control first when she became aware that Jo, beside her on the couch, was whispering in her ear. "Would you like me to help you?"

The afternoon had taken another unforeseen turn. Was she prepared to surrender to yet another surprise? The decision was made for her. Jo slid to her knees on the carpet, reaching up, slipping Ann's knickers clear of her bottom. Involuntarily, Ann lifted herself to make the task easier. She didn't know if it was what she wanted but she was powerless to prevent it. Jo's hands parted Ann's legs. A cunning tongue unerringly found a distended clitoris.

Did it take ten seconds? A minute? Five? It seemed to be over yet it was still consuming her. Ann's only thought was that she wanted it to go on for ever, this indescribable feeling that Jo's sensuous lapping had sent coursing through every fibre of her body. She was aware that when the crisis overtook her she had cried out, and that there had been unfettered moans and wails of fulfilment from those around her. Last of all was Jo who had fallen on to her back at Ann's feet, thighs clamped round her hand as she writhed and bucked to give herself what she had so expertly delivered for Ann. Finally, spent, she slumped down to relax in the tingling afterglow.

Returning to reality wasn't easy. These were not women accustomed to overt sexual display, nothing in their public lives had prepared them for the collective frenzy of the past half hour. Gathering themselves, rearranging skirts and dresses, they avoided each other's gaze. Marjorie, who had started it all, eventually took the initiative.

"Well," she said. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I came in this afternoon but we can't pretend it didn't happen. But does anyone wish it hadn't?"

She waited. No one demurred.

"Nor do I. It was good. Good in a different way but I wouldn't have missed it. So what now?"

Again there was no answer to the question they all knew they had to confront.

"Oh, come on, girls. For goodness sake, it wasn't illegal. It was - well, it was something I think I would enjoy again another time. I don't think I'll tell Clive, but as long as we keep this to ourselves, I see no reason why other Friday afternoons shouldn't be just as much fun."

And that was how the Friday Flower Club became the Friday Sex Club. The six founder members still meet regularly. And from time to time when their husbands are safely out of the way, Ann and Jo pursue their own additional explorations with increasing ingenuity and unfailing satisfaction.