Chapter 6

The rest of the semester was a disaster. After Bob and I broke up, I was depressed for weeks. My family and friends were very kind about it, but all they really knew was that I had broken up with my boyfriend, who they liked. That was reason enough for them for my dramatic behavior, and they tried their best to get my mind off of Bob and on other things. They didn't know that I had also gone from an active sex life to zero. I couldn't even masturbate any more, because whenever I tried, it just made me think of Bob, which made me angry and disrupted the mood. Sometimes I managed to get off, but more often than not I just ended up more frustrated than when I started. I kept it all to myself, which was probably not the best way to get over Bob, but I didn't have anybody to discuss it with that I thought I could trust. I wasn't ready to let my friends know about my sex life, or lack of one. I might have been better off without Bob, but I sure wasn't better off without sex.

Things started looking up around Christmas. I got a really nice present: breasts! My chest was finally starting to fill out a little. Over that year, I had gone from little bumps, to large protruding nipples, and now I had firm mounds under my nipples. I still didn't fill up an A cup, but I was delighted that my tits were finally growing. I did not have the flattest chest in school, but pretty close. (Gretchen did - she was totally flat!) Most of the other girls in my class had much more womanly figures, but then I was one of the youngest in my class. Breast comparisons with my classmates weren't fair, but to me, every little bit of breast enlargement was a cause for celebration.

After my life got mostly back to normal, I started reading dirty novels, because it gave me something to fantasize about, and it took my mind off of Bob. Keep in mind that this was happening in the 60's: TV and movies were totally non-sexual. What now shows every night on cable TV would have gotten you arrested for possession of pornography where I lived. But I was able to buy or borrow some pretty racy novels, and I swiped one of my brother's Playboy magazines with an erotic short story. I discovered that a friend at school also had pretty racy taste in reading matter as well, so we exchanged books now and then. By getting into the sexual fantasy in some of the books, I was able to get turned on enough to have some orgasms again. It probably warped my tastes in sex, but it at least it relieved my frustrations.

I was masturbating in bed every night, but it wasn't very satisfying. I would read some novel and try to imagine myself as the woman in the fantasy, but it wasn't working as well as I had hoped. Sometimes I could get off, but the orgasm wasn't very satisfying. Sometimes it just didn't work out, and all I got was hot and horny, with no relief. I did everything I could think of to get comfortable and relaxed, but something was missing. After a particularly frustrating evening I found myself laying naked in my safe and cozy bed, wide awake past midnight, trying to figure out why I could not have the kind of powerful orgasms I had when I was dating Bob.

I started going over in my mind the times when I had really strong orgasms, and what I had been doing to get off. While I had usually been with Bob, as often as not it had been my own fingers on my clit, not Bob's, that had brought me the big ones. It finally hit me: the reason I couldn't get off was because I was safe and comfortable in my own bed. The times that I had the most excitement, and my biggest orgasms, were when I was doing something dangerous. The big factor that was missing was risk. I had never had a really big orgasm while safe in my own bed.