While Bob was away getting the rental truck, I packed the few things we had needed over the night and morning. It was a whole morning's work to load the truck after he got back. We went up to check the apartment one last time. We didn't want to leave anything behind, and we wanted it nice and neat for the landlord's inspection. We needed to get our whole deposit back.

The living room was clean, and our stuff was gone or packed in the two bags that would ride in the front with us. "Goodbye, house," I said. I was surprised at my sadness in leaving that apartment, with its antique plumbing and left-over furniture. I hadn't enjoyed the place. Everything important would be in the small truck that we had rented. Everything really important was standing beside me.

It held the memories of our first two years of married life, however. I had always wanted us to be a family. I'm still not quite certain of everything that this entails. It means structure, but it means more than that. I know that we have become a family though. Bob and Jeanette had moved in to this apartment; the Brennans were moving out.

The living room having passed inspection, we moved to the kitchen. This time, it was Bob who said, "Goodbye table." Our bed conversation had tended toward monologues by Bob, lovely ones. ("I like Bob's voice," I had told his sister once. "It's one of the things you have in common," had been Vi's reply.) Other than that, Bob and I -- who used to discuss everything -- had fallen into discussing immediate trivia. After a visit to his parents, we'd established a pattern of current- events discussion at table. It's part of being a family.

When we got to the bedroom, Bob checked out the surfaces. I simply stared at the bed. I had entered marriage fully determined to satisfy all Bob's sexual needs and expecting to enjoy doing so. Sexuality is one thing, sensuality is another. That bed was where I had learned the difference, and where Bob had enticed me into sensuality.

The night before had exemplified that.

Bob had kissed me everywhere, ending in his favorite place. His hands, lips and tongue had teased me until I writhed in anticipation, then had guided me through spasming satisfaction to exhausted repletion. I recovered in his arms, feeling the hot hardness of his desire on my thigh. Once, I had been embarrassed by his erections; now, at least when we are alone, my reaction is smugness. We had kissed for a long time before I had cradled him and he had entered me.

People joke about the "missionary position" but I had been able to hold him everywhere, in my arms and legs and mouth and vagina. It had been a time of licking and movement and friction and lust but also a time of whispers and pauses and hugs and love. It had not been his exciting me, delicious as that can be. Rather, it had been our exciting us until neither could stand any more. Then I had touched him in the ways he can't resist. The feel of his ecstasy and his seed spraying into me is the ultimate aphrodisiac. I had followed him, and our throes and our collapse were two more pieces of togetherness. I had fallen asleep in my beloved's arms, but I had been the one hugging him after I had come back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. I had hugged him in that bed, for the last time.

"Goodbye, bed," I managed to croak out. Bob must have been remembering that night also.

"All the sheets are packed," he said. We both tried to think of a way.

"Do you think he'd notice anything if you flipped the mattress?" I asked.

"I hope not. I flipped it this morning."

"Chair?"

"Chair!" he said on his way to get one. While he was gone, I inserted the contraceptive. Once we were both naked, I sat on Bob's lap while we kissed and petted. After those memories, the foreplay was redundant. Soon it was sweet torture.

Just when I was deciding to insist, Bob said the most erotic phrase imaginable, "I, Robert, take thee, Jeanette." But that time, in that position, I was going to take him. I kissed him for his thoughtfulness and his love. Mostly, though, I kissed him from my own desire. While we kissed, I moved over his erection and took it in my hand.

"I, Jeanette," I corrected him, fitting my actions to my words, "take thee, Robert." I took all of him while I said it and ended sitting on his lap.

"Home," he said, and so we were. We weren't really leaving our home, we were taking it with us. He was in me, where he belonged; I was in his lap, where I belonged. "One flesh," he added. I had to kiss my sexy husband again. He pulled me against him so he was the tiniest bit deeper.

There we merged and mingled, my tongue tasting his, my nipples aroused by his skin, my center clasping his. The joy of warm flesh satisfied us briefly while only our tongues moved.

Then Bob moved us. The joy of the kiss remained; his skin rubbed my nipples as well as pressing them; but the sensations from below predominated. Bob was moving beneath me as well as within me. I was on fire, and that fire straightened me, ripping my mouth from his but pressing my breasts harder against him. Helpless I writhed in that fire, rubbing my nipples against Bob until they almost hurt. I reached the point where the promise of pleasure balanced the threat of loss of control; remembering that I was safe in Bob's arms, I let go.

I can never really remember the ecstasy of those moments, although I fully remember that there was ecstasy. The pleasure of the aftermath fits better in the memory. I was still in Bob's lap, hugging and being hugged, loving and being loved. Finally, we cleaned up and called the landlord.

"Well," he said, "there are more scars and dinges." I could see Bob tense; we needed to get that deposit back, and security deposits are not intended to cover normal wear and tear. "But," the landlord continued, "It's a lot cleaner than when you moved in." He gave us the check and moved to close the windows. We took our last bags and left.

Bob drove first. We bade goodbye to old haunts, etc. I had an hour behind the wheel to get back in the habit while I was still fresh and Bob was awake. Then Bob settled down to driving. After a short time while we recited our plans for Boston, Bob turned his attention to the road; and I got out my favorite toy. Well, it is practical, but it's fun. I was expanding a success based on two failures.

Bob (and his whole family) had been dismayed that our marriage meant that I wouldn't be a college student too. The first summer, Bob and I learned only about marriage. Even leaving sex out of it, which we didn't, that is a huge amount to learn. When Bob started back to school, I read along with him in one course. East Asia, The Modern Transformation is a classic, and I got a lot out of it. But Bob wasn't taking a comparable course the next semester. Finding that the pattern couldn't be repeated was the first failure.

My supervisor had told me that I could test for the next opening for data entry technician. That was a raise from file clerk, in both money and status. My typing hadn't been adequate at that time, however. So we had purchased a computer program that taught typing. At first, I had started in the middle. When that hadn't worked, I had started in the beginning and rushed through the first lessons. That hadn't worked either, the second failure. Desperate to justify the program's cost, I had actually followed the directions, starting at the beginning, and going at the suggested speed without jumping ahead. That's when I learned that starting over on something that you almost know can make you an expert. I had ended up getting the data-entry job. Not too much later, I was a match for the best tech in the office.

This had been great, but I had needed -- still need -- some real learning to make me the appropriately educated wife of Professor Brennan. Having figured out that my lunch hour was available learning time, I'd decided to really learn my college French text, starting with the vocabulary.

We had purchased a boxed set of French vocabulary cards in a yard sale and (soon after) a set of blank cards from the bookstore. By pulling printed cards and writing others, I managed to memorize nearly the whole vocabulary from my college text by the time I was through the typing course. Going through the text after that memorization was no great problem.

That was as far as I had planned to go, but there were still lunch hours, and printed cards which I hadn't studied. Besides, I had rediscovered what I had learned from the typing program: Doing the course correctly when you almost know something really teaches you.

This had become my lunchtime game. For a while after finishing the old text book, I actually had spent little time on French at home; but language study had gradually taken over. I had gone back and memorized English-to-French; I had gone only the other direction at first. Bob had found some story collection texts in used-book stores next. Again, I would memorize the vocabulary in the back of the book first -- adding to my little cards -- then read the stories.

When fall came, I had started visiting the language lab one night a week. On Thursdays, Bob and I would each carry two "lunches" and would eat one for supper. He would go to the library, I would go to the language lab. They never checked for student ID. Late in the spring, my former French professor had caught me. "Considering the number of students who should be here but aren't," he'd said, "I am really tempted to shut my eyes. But this facility is for registered students only."

Bob had then written his parents the whole story. He finished the letter: "This going back to beginnings could sound like making no progress. In truth, it means a broadening of the base. Jeanette now has an impressive vocabulary. What she needs to emphasize next is pronunciation. There are language courses on tape which would do that job thoroughly. I think that this is a family educational expense. We decided, on practical grounds, that Jeanette's education should wait; but that was a compromise between the ideal of education and economic necessity. I feel that this little sliver of learning shouldn't wait. What do you feel?"

Bob's parents had brought an entire taped course, rated highest for business people, and a special tape recorder when they came for his graduation. Now I sat with earphones on my head and one of the tapes of that course in the recorder on my lap. I can't read in a moving car, but I can listen.

Bob and I were sailing along in the truck, superficially together. On a deeper level, Bob's attention was in another century from the truck, mine was on another continent. On the deepest level, however, we were together. My pleasure had been provided by my husband's solicitude. I was out of his arms (for which the other motorists should have given thanks) but still embraced in his care.

There was one more consequence to that letter. I got three novels and a French dictionary on my birthday. As soon as I got from the earth to the moon (I had never known Jules Verne was such a florid writer), I was planning to start Nana. By this time, when a word was new to me, I automatically wrote it down on a card. But I had started looking them up in my Petit Larousse before going to the English-French dictionary.

The lesson was mentally exhausting, if enjoyable. When I finished it, I settled down for a nap. "Je t'aime," I told Bob.

"Je t'adore," he replied.

It was dark when Bob woke me. We stopped for gas and a bathroom break soon after. I took some baby-wipes with me into the bathroom and had the equivalent to a sponge bath. We brought out sandwiches from the styrofoam chest in the back while we were stopped and ate them as soon as we were away from the gasoline fumes. I took over the driving so Bob could sleep. "Je t'adore," I told him as he settled down.

He mulled over that for a moment, Bob fashion. "Je t'aime," he responded.

I finished the thermos of coffee we'd brought from home, old as it was. Bob was sleeping like a log. I smiled at our good- night. His adoration was nice, but I needed his love. Bob, unlike the stereotypical husband, is willing to express his love. He didn't know, however, that I needed the expression right then. I was worried about our future in Boston. I'd never seen the apartment; I'd never even seen the city; I didn't have a job. For that matter, Washington was the only big city that I had ever seen; and I'd been escorted through that on a school tour.

I pulled myself out of the brooding after a long while. I reviewed the French that I had studied earlier. I would have to go over it again, there is a book along with the tapes; but I had absorbed enough so that drill wouldn't lead me astray. Then I stopped working and just appreciated the gift. I had been a little embarrassed because the course was obviously much more expensive than Bob's graduation present, a warm sweater for the chills of Boston. Bob's parents have treated me like one of their children since the wedding, but they outdid themselves when they acted like Bob's graduation was partially my accomplishment. It isn't. It was Bob's day in simple justice.

Bob would have none of that. He had argued that the French course was not a gift, but an education expense. "Besides," he had said, "there are no Bob accomplishments. There are only Bob&Jeanette accomplishments. One flesh." That was a strange use of one of his favorite phrases. He usually says it when we are locked together deep in one of his -- one of our -- safaris into sensuality.

That led my mind down an old pathway. I'd entered into my marriage determined to satisfy all of Bob's sexual desires. Once married, I'd been surprised by his sensual blandishments.

I can't say that I hadn't been warned. When we went for counseling before the wedding, PastorJim had made the point that no one has really thought out a marriage before entering into one. Most planning concerns only a few areas. "You've had your wedding all planned for some time?" he had asked me. I had agreed. "And," he had asked Bob, "you've had the honeymoon thought out for as long?"

"We're going hiking on our honeymoon." I had replied, thinking that I was speaking for both of us. Then I had sat there trying to hold back my blushes while the two males tried to hold back their laughter. Well, I had gone hiking on my honeymoon; and Bob had been beside me every step of the way. Bob had spent his honeymoon in a tent; he's said so since. And I had been in his arms every night.

And every night, he had been thoughtful.

I stole a glance over at my gentle husband sprawled in the other seat, then I pulled my eyes back to the road.

Beforehand, I'd formed my image of sex from the descriptions in books. We, mostly Bob, would do "foreplay" until I was "ready." Then we would have "intercourse" until Bob (and I, if things were done right) had a "climax." Then the books, by changing the subject to the millions of sperm trying to get to the ovum and the reasons to make sure that you prevent that, implied that the people involved were done and could go on to the next task.

Even my wedding night hadn't quite been like that. Bob kissed and stroked me until I had a climax, a blessedly small one. Bob had worried about physical pain, and there had been some, then he had been sorry about that. That concern, that sorrow, had quieted my worries about the commitment that I had just made.

Our fourth night had changed my understanding. My pain had been gone; we were in the tent instead of a hotel room. This time, Bob had stopped his stroking short of my climax. Then he had entered me slowly. Absent the pain of the first night, this had been an indescribably voluptuous sensation. While he had paused at full penetration, I had luxuriated in holding him in a way that I never had before. I had just enough time to decide that I had reached the sensuous limit that explained everyone's fascination with sex before he had begun moving and had proven me wrong.

Gradually, he had completely lost control. He had driven mindlessly within me as I had struggled to meet his motions and contain his passion. Then he had pressed in to the limit, stiff and shaking, while I could see his face grimace in the starlight and could feel his organ pulsing within me. My own physical sensations probably had been exciting, but all I had really noticed was that miracle of emotion above and within me. I had seen the blinding heat of his passion, and it had been directed at me.

After he had wrenched himself from my arms and caught his breath, he had returned to his kisses and caresses. My worries about self-control had melted before the exciting sensations and more exciting memories. After that revelation of his passion, how could I have denied him mine, scary as that might be?

And it had been damned scary. With another glance toward the right-hand seat, I switched my memories from two years before to seven.

Before I'd met Bob, I had established a pattern for myself. If I didn't care for people and didn't let them see how they affected me, then they couldn't hurt me except physically. (It's strange, though, how much I hurt in those years.) Bob had become my friend, then my boyfriend; but I certainly hadn't intended to allow him inside the stockade. Bob had done things which hurt me. Against my will, I had let him see the hurt.

Bob hadn't told me how that hurt showed selfishness on my part in trying to put my goals before his, as my mother does. He hadn't explained that I was misunderstanding the real situation, as my father and older brother often do. He certainly hadn't enjoyed my pain as my brother Dave does. (Dave is the younger of my brothers, but is older than me.) Bob had been anguished. I hadn't thought that good enough, I had tried to lock him out of my life, my caring. I had failed to do so.

The other side of that, though, was that Bob had become my only pain. I could share almost everything that bothered me, and he felt it, too. After we had begun hugging in romance, I had learned that he could hug in reassurance. I had tried out for the girls' track team depending on his being there to kiss away the sting of rejection. Instead, he had been there to share the joy of acceptance and, later, he had been there to watch me run. If I could share it with Bob, the pleasures of life were worth the risks of life.

When we had been able to be alone after particularly bad times, Bob had held me while I shuddered. "Able to talk about it?" he would ask. I would shake my head. Then, after the movie or whatever, I had often been able to tell him.

This had developed slowly, over two years that also included my completion of puberty. Hugs which had once kept me warm had gone on to make me hot; kisses had gone from being a celebration of excitement to a cause of it. Bob had been well ahead of me; and I, with two older brothers, had always known what that pressure against my stomach had meant.

One spring day, Bob had been able to borrow his father's car. Considering it too fine a day for petting in the front seat, we'd spent the time petting in a grove of trees off a deserted farm road. His attention to my breasts had turned me on even more than usual. I had been standing against a tree with his thigh between mine pressing against my mound. We had been kissing as deeply as we could and rubbing our bodies together. Suddenly, the sensations between my legs had gone from a pleasant, familiar, tingle to a desperate fire. I had panicked and writhed in attempted escape, but Bob had been only slightly more yielding than the tree. The fire had cut through me and shaken me to my core. Then I had nearly collapsed. Bob had actually picked me up and carried me back towards the car before I recovered.

I had freaked. Then, even more than now, control had been important to me. Losing control had frightened me to death. I hadn't been able to talk to Bob about it, much less anybody else. Bob had driven me back home, at my request.

I risked another glance. Five and a half years later, Bob still looked like a kid when asleep; he often acted like a kid when awake. But at seventeen, he'd shown maturity when it counted.

What would have resulted from all this if we'd been together, I don't know; but Bob had left for his first summer as a road- construction laborer a month later. His absence had taught me something that his presence had only suggested. I needed him.

The few days between his return and the beginning of school were bliss. His parents had even invited me for dinner one night ostensibly so that they could see their son. School slowed us down only slightly. One afternoon, his mouth on my breasts and his hand on my thighs had overcome all my usual caution. When he had reached the juncture of my legs, I had spread them instead of clasping them. The climax had been a wave of pleasure followed by a wave of panic, but Bob had been there holding me and crooning. "Lovely Jeanette," he'd said. "Sweet girl. Darling, beautiful, darling. Precious girl. I love you."

"Bob?" I'd asked.

"I'm right here. You're in my arms. You are safe and loved." And I was. My panic ebbed. He tried to be comforting, but there was an underlying smugness; he thought that I had had a climax. The real, frightening, truth was that the climax had had me. The pleasure had been real, but the fright had been much greater. Having another person there had compounded the fright, although having Bob there afterwards had been a comfort. If I was ever to let control go, instead of having it wrenched from me, it had to be in Bob's presence. Even so, I later asked him to draw the line on petting so that he didn't touch me there again. "For how long?" he'd asked. We'd drawn lines in petting before.

"Forever, I think."

"Indefinitely," he'd offered and not brought it up that year.

When Bob had gone off to the university, my parents -- with some support from his -- had extracted the promise that each of us would date others in that separation. In this "cooling off period," I had dated juniors, nerds, and two boys who thought that their romance with each other was secret. Bob had participated in the college dating scene. We had only seen each other on the few school breaks. Deprived of Bob, I had counted the months until we would both be on the same campus away from my mother.

By Bob's spring break, even my mother had accepted that this was the future. On that break, Bob had taken almost full control of his mother's car. We had walked and talked driven and talked and parked and ... Well, we had talked then too. We had needed to catch each other up on the time that we had been apart. Our discussions ran for hours.

That had included a long talk on our past year which revealed that some of his dates had included full sex. I had been devastated. I had hidden myself in my room and cried my eyes out. I had been livid. I had never wanted to see him again. Realistically, though, there had only been three days to tell him what a dog he had been, and avoiding him would have meant wasting them. Instead, I had told him how he had ruined my life. He'd responded that he loved me, that we had promised our parents to try out other relationships before we made a commitment to each other, that he had never doubted the permanence of our relationships, and that I'd never told him that I expected him to fake those dates. (You can take a date to the movies without taking her to bed.)

I had silenced him with a demand that he only listen. For two days I talked myself hoarse. "And never imagine," I'd ended one diatribe, "that I'm going to compete with those other girls."

"Too late," he'd finally broken in. "You've already won."

"You know what I mean. My body isn't the price for a date with you."

"It never was. You haven't even said that you will go on a date with me, much less that you would put out for the privilege." He had a point, but he hadn't been supposed to be talking back.

We had parted with nothing resolved. I had entered more honestly into the school social life, although it had been rather late for that. I had discovered that I didn't like kissing or petting with other boys, and that drawing the line was much harder with them.

Bob had signed up for a third summer of road construction. His brief interim at home had included as much time together as before, but most of it had been spent in recrimination. He had said that he had stopped having sex. I'd told him that this reform was rather late.

"How would you have felt if I had done that?" I had asked.

"Devastated. Betrayed. But I was always ready for you. I would have felt betrayed that you were ready for another when you weren't ready for me."

So he had gone for the summer, still with nothing resolved. We had started writing again, Bob's letters to me going via his mother. Bob's letters had been simply abject in the beginning. While the later ones all included an apology, he made an effort to include the jokes and insights that had entertained me before. I had gradually realized that I had been even more afraid of losing Bob to someone else than I had been angry about the betrayal.

At the end of the summer, he had begged for my pardon literally on his knees. Unable to resist that, and remembering the times that he had been there when I had needed him, I had forgiven him.

Soon we had been on the same campus together. Bob introduced me to the campus social scene, but we would also meet between classes or for lunch. We'd studied together at the library until he confessed that he wasn't learning anything. It had been fine for me, Bob's presence is the most reassuring environment for anything. We had talked, and talked, and talked. We had reestablished all the physical intimacy denied us over the previous fifteen months. In hidden nooks, he had groped me; his roommate had been willing to guarantee library absences to give us privacy.

Bob had held his breath when he confessed that he really wanted to change his future plans from lawyer to historian. In the truck, I stole another glance at my love. He has huge blind spots and hadn't been able to see that his unhappiness would have made me unhappy.

Ironically, this had been the first period in my life since meeting him -- since long before meeting him, had I known it -- that I hadn't needed Bob. I had one tiny bedroom in a "suite," but that room had a lock. My silent insistence on my privacy had been freely accepted by my suitemates. (They had met, and been mightily impressed by, Bob the first week. Dating a sophomore, I had come across as the one who knew what college life was about.) Mother had been many miles away; classes, my only campus pressure, had never been able to compete with her. In this heady freedom. I had been able to enjoy Bob's presence without using it as a talisman. There had been no need for: "I can take this, Bob will hug me tomorrow."

We had jointly explored the emptier parts of the University while Bob explored my parts. I asked him to honor the old limits. "Until marriage?" he had asked dubiously. At that time, this had still meant two and a half more years.

(That September, we had decided that we would get married when he graduated. On the bus taking us both home for Thanksgiving, we had decided that the end of his junior -- and my sophomore -- year made more sense. At Christmas, we had announced the engagement for the coming June to both families.)

We'd agreed about nothing on the question of limits except to talk later. "I'll trade you," had been Bob's final offer. "We stop where we are. No sex before marriage. You keep your panties on. But if sex waits for marriage, then marriage is about sex. There are no inhibitions after we have tied the knot. You think about that one." And I had.

I'd had to deal with myself honestly. My passion, not Bob's, was what had frightened me, but my passion had also attracted me, especially at the lower intensities. The possibility of those moments had become almost as enticing as alarming. And the more distant the future, the more enticing and the less threatening it had appeared. I had already become nearly as reluctant to say "never" about those climaxes as I was to say "now" or "soon." I had been (I am still) unable to imagine trusting anyone but Bob around when I lost control; so saying "not Bob" was saying "never."

Then there was marriage. I'd always meant to marry Bob someday. Even at my angriest, I'd never quite told myself that I wouldn't marry him. Bob had been wrong, marriage isn't about sex; it is about trust, and forever, and sharing everything. But sharing everything obviously included sharing this thing which was of paramount importance to Bob. And if I said never to this, Bob's "forever" would include a "never"; he hadn't said that he wouldn't make that sacrifice, but he hadn't said that he would. And, finally, my reluctance wasn't about sex; it was about trust.

There were other considerations. Bob had given me comfort when there was no other comfort; I would give him whatever he wanted. He had gone back to his harem with staples in their bellies, but I couldn't expect him to be satisfied with those magazines forever. I had wanted a future with Bob; it could only be secure if his lust reinforced, rather than eroding, his love. I'd been greedy for all of Bob. Wanting a monopoly, I had decided to satisfy all his wants. Then and there I had determined to satisfy all of my husband's sexual desires. I had agreed that "Marriage is about sex."

And there I was again, with the same thought after how many miles? I hoped that I was driving straight while I was thinking in a circle. That old determination had not reckoned, of course, on the extent of Bob's sexual desires. I darted another glance at my sleeping man. All these memories were increasing my sexual desires. And that was the other half of it.

Everybody had become concerned about the inessentials when we announced our engagement. My mother and I had gone through serious negotiations about how many of my dreams would be allowed in the wedding designed according to her dreams, but that had been totally predictable. The response of Bob's family had come as a surprise; they had kept expecting me to be fazed by Bob's decision to take seven or eight more years to become a history instructor, rather than five more years to become a lawyer. They, and Bob, had been quite upset that my education would be delayed or ended. (Although we never had spoken the word "ended" aloud.) We had gone for marital counseling with the pastor of a church near campus. (He hadn't married us, although that threat had been useful against my mother.) PastorJim had raised all sorts of questions regarding the future, some of them involving sex. Bob had once suggested that I avoid the pain of defloration by stretching myself first.

Nobody seemed to worry whether Jeanette could bear losing self control.