If somebody had ever suggested to me that, at the age of 55, I would belong to a group of sexual hedonists I would have laughed. Nevertheless, here I am, in a room full of naked, horny people, some of whom are almost young enough to be my kids.

Life leads us down paths we never expect, though. Growing up in the Midwest I always sort of accepted that my life would follow the pattern: high school, some college, marriage and kids. That idea was pretty much unquestioned until they shot the President.

I have thought a lot about how things might have been different, not only for me, but for the country and the world, if JFK had been allowed to finish out his term of office. I'm positive that he would have been reelected.

Anyway, when he was killed a lot of things seemed to change. The war in Vietnam flared brighter and brighter as the '60's ran on. Life in general became looser and wilder. My friends began smoking pot and taking other drugs but I didn't. The social framing of my life as I had understood it faded a bit, but held.

Growing up I was always chubby. I tried for a while to slim down but nothing seemed to help. Finally I decided to accept that I was who I was. Things went better after that. I was happier and I was in decent shape otherwise. Once I accepted me, other people did, too. I had dates and played with sex, but I went off to college 'intact', as they say. In spite of all the extra padding around my hips and on my ass, I never grew the big knockers that larger women usually get as a consolation prize (later in life women with big tits told me they were more trouble than they were worth).

I graduated from high school and went to college in Chicago. I took classes straight through for three years. I wanted to get it over with. I went back to Iowa for breaks and the occasional weekend, but mostly I just stayed at school. During the riots at the convention there in 1968, I watched it all on television from the safety of my dorm room. I didn't like the war; I didn't always like what the government did. Yet I didn't want to take a radical stand because I had my life to live. However, for the first time I began to wonder if I really wanted to marry some average (but very handsome!) guy and raise his kids.

I wasn't a total Goody Two-shoes. I made sure to get rid of my virginity during my freshman year at Northwestern. While I always turned down drugs, I did acquire a taste for Vodka, Tequila, and Rum. One night my roommate and I even had a foursome with two guys from the baseball team. Halfway through the night we switched boys -- or they switched us, I was drunk. I can't remember whose idea it was.

Nevertheless, I was all for it. When I went down on the second guy was the first time I ever tasted another girl's juices. I didn't find it unpleasant at all. It was later the next week that I had my first girl/girl sex. My roommate, Barb, had mentioned after the "double-header", as we called it, that she had found the idea of licking my juices off Bobby's cock sort of a turn on. I agreed with her. We just looked at each other for a few long seconds after the admission and then we both cracked up.

Two nights later, when I came out of the shower, I found Barb lying naked in my bed masturbating. I just dropped the towel and took over for her. In spite of finding each other in bed with guys and talking about everything sexual, we had kept our masturbation private. She looked into my eyes as she came. I went down on her. She tasted great!

Then she licked me until I screamed into a climax. We spent the rest of the night kissing, licking, and sucking each other's tits before falling into an exhausted sleep around 2AM. The rest of the semester we slept in the same bed and shared a guy now and then, along with our other, heterosexual, activities.

I thought it was the height of debauchery, having a female lover at the same time as having a succession of male dates. That old picture of "husband, home, 2 1/2 kids and a dog" got dimmer and dimmer in my mind. Then I met George.

George was my English Lit professor. Well, he was an assistant professor. The first day of class with Professor Wheeler, he wrote just his first name on the board and said, "That's my name. If any of you call me anything else, your grade will suffer." So everybody called him George.

He was also ruggedly handsome in a bookish kind of way. His hair was fashionably long, curling up at the end which fell just below his shoulders. He assigned Chaucer and Lawrence. His lectures concentrated on the sexual aspects of the works, more often than not. It didn't take long for me to fall for him. Of course, I had to get in line with all the other impressionable girls in his classes.

One night Barb let her lips smack as she popped my nipple out of her mouth. I had been telling her that I loved the way she sucked my tits, but I wished it was George sometimes instead. She wasn't hurt. We often fantasized about guys when we made love. I guess we both acknowledged that our relationship was temporary; that we would eventually move on to leading "regular" lives. This was our social statement for the radical '60's, even if it was just the two of us who knew about it.

Barb looked up from between the twin mounds of my smallish tits. Her brown hair was sexy, all tangled and falling over one eye. "Why don't you get busy and seduce him?" she asked. It was a simple idea, but I had just accepted that my infatuation with George was doomed to be just that: a fantasy that would always be a bright memory in my mind.

"I don't know, Barb. He's so far from what we're used to. He's got a Ph D; he's got all the girls in school panting after him; he's so... old. Why would he pick me?" Actually, though, at nineteen, he seemed so old to me, in truth he was only thirty. Looking back now, that was incredibly young. Ah, well...

We tried to concoct a plot to get him into my bed -- or me into his. Somehow, Barb kept trying to inch her way into the plan so she could get some of the good stuff, as well, but I didn't care. We drank half a bottle of tequila that night as we tried to come up with a reasonable plan. Some of the ideas we tossed around were strictly for amusement. When Barb suggested I show up for class naked; or when I said I could get his initials tattooed on my ass and flash them at him.

It was common knowledge that George "held court" at a local pub. It was down on Lake Shore and it was also a college hangout. Students would bask in the glow of his academic brilliance. Guys as well as girls with oozing panties sat around him and listened. As far as the campus grapevine knew, he had yet to indulge in any "fraternization", however.

"We'll just be more sheep in the herd if we go there," I told Barb.

"Right, that's why we have to do something different. But what can we do?" she wondered aloud.

"What if I asked him for help with my work? He would have to do something. At least it would make him realize I'm alive." I really didn't need any help. I was carrying a GPA of 3.99. My grade in George's class was a steady 4.0.

"That would appeal to his ego, for sure. You'd have to make sure you wore something sexy -- and no panties." Remember, this was the '60's. Hardly any of the girls wore bras -- except the ones whose tits were so huge they'd have given themselves black eyes if they ran. My own tits were small enough that I hardly needed a bra anyway. My bras were gathering dust in my drawer.

I made an appointment with George to meet him in his office on the Thursday afternoon before a three day weekend. I told him I had some questions about some of William Blake's works. I knew that he had done his doctoral dissertation on Blake. He was more than eager to help me.

Barb went with me to George's office. I wore a miniskirt and my frilliest peasant blouse and sandals. That was it. I hadn't realized it at the time but my hair was a blonde version of George's brown, free flowing style. Mine was just a bit longer. George seemed to like the way Barb's tits pressed against her fringed leather vest (It was all she was wearing on top.). But I made sure I sat in the chair next to his desk so she had to take the one in the corner.

I set my book bag on the floor next to my chair and leaned over to get out my notebook. I knew for a fact that he could see my tits because Barb and I had practiced the whole thing. "I can see you all the way to your belly button!" was the way she put it. The exhibitionist move made my nipples stand up. As I said, my tits weren't very big but my nipples were -- and are still -- pretty spectacular. The aureoles are almost three inches across (I've measured) and the nubs are a half inch in diameter. When they're erect they rise almost 3⁄4" above the surrounding flesh. I actually heard George's breathing hesitate when I leaned over.

When I sat up I knew my face was red, just from bending down. It was also hot because it was the first time I had intentionally flashed anybody. George's eyes kept going to my nipples as we talked. I had made up some pretty good questions about 'Tyger' and 'The Sick Rose', considered two of Blake's most erotic poems. In the end it didn't really matter what I asked. George's attention was pretty well centered on my nipples and Barb's big boobs.

When Barb interrupted, saying she needed to catch the bus home (all according to the plan) I broke off the session. George stood up, clearly reluctant to end the meeting. "Perhaps I could give you both a ride," he suggested. We pretended to consider the offer while inside we were both jumping up and down.

It was all too easy. That should have warned me about George. But I was nineteen and still pretty naïve. We went to his VW van in the parking lot and he pulled out into traffic. It was during the ride that I put my lack of panties to good use. Barb was in back and I sat in the front. I turned so that my back was nestled in the corner the seat made with the door, sort of a 45 degree angle to the dash. George was talking about Blake's imagery, but I knew it was stuff that was second nature to him. I noticed that his eyes kept going to my face and then to my nipples before turning back to the road. When I scooted my hips forward a little bit it gave him another stop on his route. He noticed all that skin below the hem of my short skirt. I scooted again and actually felt the air current on my pussy. I felt so wanton but it was kind of funny. The plan was simple and George's tweeds were beginning to bulge.

Barb leaned forward, wedging her leather clad tits between the front seats. "Didn't Blake do some paintings as well as writing?" she asked, disingenuously. Barb was an art major. She knew damn well what she was talking about.

"Yes!" George almost yelled it. We had "played into his hands", or so he thought. "In fact, I have most of his prints -- well, not the originals, of course, but fine copies. Maybe some time I could show you... if you are really interested."

"Sure!" Barb and I chorused. "When could we see them?" Barb asked.

"Well... if you have the time now... I mean, if you don't have any other appointments?" he was tripping over the words. I know now that his aloof manner and the lack of rumor about him were due to his lack of self confidence. It looked to the world like arrogance and normal academic caste separation. We, of course, accepted.

His apartment was a room built above a private garage. It was one big room with a bathroom. He had about a million books, a stove and some cabinets tucked into one corner, a couch and a bed. When I say he had a bathroom, it really was only big enough for the toilet. There was an old claw foot tub with a chrome shower pipe in the corner where the toilet room was. A horizontal chrome pipe around the tub held a curtain. I loved it. It was all so Bohemian.

It took an hour to get George naked and into the bed between Barb and me. He brought out some wine first. The prints were framed and hanging on all four walls. We drank wine while he gave us the tour. Then we drank more wine while we sat on the couch and Barb and I got him talking about himself. Of course my skirt just kept "riding up". I also leaned over to adjust my sandal straps a lot.

Barb got things jacked up when she asked George if he smoked dope. (Again, remember it was the '60's.) He admitted he had "tried it" but said he didn't use it regularly. As he launched into a lecture about Blake's reputed drug use, Barb pulled her joint case out of her pocket. Without hesitation she lit one up and handed it to George.

He didn't hesitate either. He toked it and passed it to me. I took a big hit, holding it in the way they were doing. I coughed it out almost immediately. As it went around again I got better at holding it in. They showed the effects almost immediately. I felt nothing. We smoked another one. George and Barb were giggling and weaving back and forth. I felt the wine, but nothing else. I frowned. Barb was making a connection that I was supposed to be making.

George had removed his suit jacket and tie when we had arrived. Stoned, he ran his hands through his hair and said it was getting hot. It really was, too. He went to open a window and grabbed a pair of jeans. Instead of going into the toilet room to change, he stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain around. Barb thought that supremely funny.

She gave him a couple of minutes before pulling me over with her to the tub. We got on the floor and stuck our heads under the curtain. "Peek-a-boo!" Barb shouted and George slipped, toppling to his ass in the tub. He had dropped his slacks to his ankles and had been trying to pull them off when we interrupted him. All he wore were boxers.

Fortunately the fall didn't damage him too much. In fact when he found that he was okay, he giggled about it. Of course, when he fell, Barb and I jumped up to help him. We got him out of the tub, but he was still only wearing the boxers. He realized it and started to get shy. I decided it was time to take control of things or Barb would end up with "my man".

We went back to the couch and I sat next to George. Barb was on the other side. "I don't mind if you don't wear your pants. If it would make you more comfortable, I can do this." I pulled my blouse off, baring my little tits and big nipples. Barb cackled and untied her vest, shrugging it off. George almost gave himself whiplash turning from one of us to the other.

"Um... but I'm not just topless, I also only have my underwear on," George said. Barb stood up and started unbuttoning her bell bottoms. I stood up, too.

"There's just one little problem, George. I think you know what I mean," I said, unzipping the skirt. George just grinned at me. He knew then that I'd caught him ogling my pussy in the car. He blushed as the ribbon of material dropped to the floor and I stood there naked. The bulge in his shorts got bigger. Barb slipped out of her panties, too and we pulled George to the bed. I got on the bed and George started to follow, with Barb right behind him. As he started to lean forward, she grabbed the waistband of his boxers and jerked them to his ankles. He toppled next to me and she pulled them off his feet. Then she joined us.

We had a great time that afternoon. We all got fucked and sucked. George seemed particularly fascinated with my nipples. George got to see first hand two women loving each other. By 9:30, we were pooped. George fixed us some soup and French bread. Then he took us home.

The following week George definitely noticed me in class. I would stay afterward and discuss the lecture with him. There was no more sex for a while. Finally one day I got a note at the dorm. George wanted to make a formal appointment to see him in his office. I felt funny about it. If he wanted to fuck me again, he didn't have to do this. At the bottom of the note he had written, "Don't bring Barbara, please."

I knocked at his office door and was invited inside. He rose and closed the door behind me. When he sat back down he got right to the point. "Mindy, I've looked at your records. You have an A in my course. In fact, you have A's in most of your classes. Usually students don't pull the kind of trick you pulled unless they are trying to get a better grade from an instructor." He sat back and looked at me, his fingers tented in front of his face.

I know I blushed. I was also angry. "Well, George, I admit we planned what happened. But it wasn't a "trick", as you put it. Yes, we seduced you, but it seemed to be the only way I could get you to notice me. That is what it was all about. Don't worry about your reputation or any scandal. I'm not out to blackmail you. Barb isn't either. She just loves sex and getting high." His expression softened and he leaned his elbows on the desk.

"What do you mean, 'notice you'?" I explained that I had been attracted to him.

"I know half the coeds in school are attracted to you -- and even some of the guys, if you want to know the truth. But I'm not looking for cheap thrills. I can -- and do -- date younger guys. I am looking for something more. I picked you." I sat up straight (coincidentally pushing my erect nipples against the material of my tee shirt) and looked him in the eye. "If you aren't interested, all you have to do is say so." I waited, betraying none of the nervousness I was feeling.

He cleared his throat and said, "Well..." He coughed and looked out the window. He looked back at me and then down at my nipples. "Well," he said again, "if you mean you are seeking a... relationship... I suppose..." he looked again at my nipples.

"Here, let me make it easier for you," I said and pulled my shirt over my head. The cool air puckered my nipples even more. He swallowed hard. I stood up and walked around the desk. I unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He fondled my tits. I pushed his slacks and boxers to the floor and shoved his chest. He fell into his chair and I went to my knees.

After he came I licked him clean and licked my lips. I stood up. I knew I had him then. It was a powerful feeling. It was the first time I realized that I was in control. Probably, I always could have been with the guys I had dated, I just hadn't realized it. It wasn't what I had imagined. I had been raised to see the man as the one in charge. But if this was how things would be, then I guessed I could get used to it. The old stereotype was almost completely faded anyway. It was time for a new scenario.

George and I got married the following summer. Barb was my maid of honor and I invited her along for the wedding night and the honeymoon. George didn't object. She became our third wheel for the next year. She wasn't always with us, but she was a frequent guest in our bed.

When Barb graduated she spent a weekend with us to say good bye. She was going off to Europe and grad studies in Paris. She called and asked if she could bring her current boyfriend with her. George and I discussed it and we told her it would be okay. The guy wasn't a student. He had a gallery in New York.

We did it all that weekend. Well, maybe not "all". George and Toby didn't have sex with each other. They enjoyed the hell out of fucking Barb and me. They also liked sitting back and toking up while Barb and I ate each other out.

Once Barb left something went out of life for us -- or at least for me. I had dropped out of school and stopped taking my birth control. I wanted a baby. As things turned out it was a good thing I didn't get pregnant. Life got to be a grind. I worked for a publisher for three years. I was promoted to assistant editor. When George got a full professorship and tenure we made more money. If I continued to work, our taxes would just go up. Besides, I wanted to try writing something of my own. I knew that some things that got published didn't deserve it. Some of them saw the light of day over my objections. I was sure I could write at least as well as most authors, and better than some.

We bought a house out in Arlington Heights. It was not huge but it had a big yard. Since I wasn't working, most of the care and running of our home fell to me. The years went by. It was Mindy who made sure the car and van got serviced when they needed it. It was Mindy who mowed the lawn and dealt with home repair contractors. It was Mindy who balanced the checkbook and paid the bills. Hell, it was even Mindy who went out and bought the new cars. George didn't even like making phone calls to insurance companies, or doctors, or even the fucking plumber. I'd let myself become the strong one in our life.

I did write. I did get published. By the turn of the century I had three books out and two more in the works. It was my habit to have a couple of glasses of wine before George came home. As the years went by those two glasses became several. Drinking took a larger role in my private life. I "took care of business" and George worked. Whether he had affairs, I don't know and don't care. I didn't care at the time, either. Given the way our relationship began, he certainly had no reason to hide them if he did. I wished, that if he did have affairs, that he had shared with me. I was no prude, and he knew it. I was a child of the '60's -- a real flower girl, in spite of my disregard for drugs.

Just before our 30th anniversary, and six months away from the New Millennium, I sat one afternoon in the back yard. My bottle of White Zinfandel stood in the ice bucket next to my chair. I considered my life. I made a decision. I rose from the chair and went to the house. In the "family room" (I had to laugh: what family?) I went to the bar and pulled out the tequila. I poured a shot and sliced a lime from the little fridge behind the bar. Before I drank it I went to the stereo.

We had a CD player and new equipment. We also still had the old turntable and our 33 1/3 RPM LP collection. I put on a stack of my favorite oldies. I pushed the lever and heard the familiar whoosh of the record dropping to the rubber pad. I returned to the bar. When Eric Burdon's raspy voice started, "If you're going to San... Francisco...", I licked the salt from my hand, tossed the shot back and sucked the lime. I supplemented my wine with shots of Cuervo as I listened to Country Joe, Jerry Garcia, Bob Dylan and many more. It didn't matter when my vision blurred -- as much by my tears as by the tequila and wine -- because I could still pour and drink. I reflected on the contrast between what I had imagined my life to be and what it, in fact, had become. I blew my nose and capped the tequila.

Taking my wine I returned to the patio. I put a new "stack of wax" on the turntable and left the door open so I could hear it outside. I went back to sipping instead of gulping. I sat and "drank myself sober". I know it sounds like an oxymoron, but it happens. A lot of people will tell you the same thing. I decided I didn't want to be in charge if I had a husband. If George refused to shoulder his share of the daily burdens; if I was going to do it all, then why not just do it for myself? I knew he was supposedly the main bread winner. I knew, too, that my writing could have supported us without his salary. So, I asked myself, why should I work twice as hard while George reaps the benefits?

When George came home I set his dinner in front of him. I sat opposite and when he had finished eating I simply said, "I think we should get divorced." George looked up with a surprised expression. I recited the speech I'd rehearsed. I cited all my complaints. I told him I was tired of being the one in charge.

In the end, it didn't seem to matter to him. We used the same attorney and divided everything equably. There was no anger, no rancor, and no passion. In fact, I realized that was our main problem. There had been no passion in our life for a long time. It was done in another month. I put the furniture I wanted to keep in storage. I emptied my freshly opened bank accounts. I packed the van with everything else and filled up the tank. Then I got on I-90 and headed west.

I knew that what I did was unfair to George in some ways. He hadn't been malicious about things. It was just that when something needed to be done, it was me who did it. If I had waited for George to make a phone call or balance the checkbook, I'd still be waiting. I did what I did because I needed more life in my life.

I met Fred Coombs two months after I arrived in Portland, Oregon. I had landed a job with a small publishing house that touted mostly local authors. When George and I divorced, I had gone back to my maiden name, so nobody knew I was the Mindy McConnell whose fourth novel had just hit the New York Times best seller list. I was just Mindy Jardine, proofreader.

I happened to be waiting for the elevator one afternoon when a young man dressed in UPS brown shorts and shirt walked down the hall and stood behind me. The car arrived and I entered, turning to face the front. The man followed me and hesitated when he looked at me. He didn't say anything right then. I nodded at him when I got out and he returned a nice smile.

The following week as I was leaving work, he was just approaching the glass doors. I held the door for him as he wheeled his loaded handcart into the lobby. Before I could get away, he called to me. "Excuse me!" I turned and watched as he pulled a hardback copy of my new book from the bag hanging on his shoulder. I sighed. I had known it was only a matter of time. He turned the book over so I could see the photo the publisher put on the back cover. That was how he had recognized me.

I returned to the lobby, letting the door close. I scrawled my autograph and he introduced himself. "I love your books," he said. "I have them all." I looked at him. He was definitely younger than I was, but not a lot. His hair was casual, longish, sandy blond, with sunshine highlights. He was slender and well muscled. I pulled my mind back from where it was heading.

"Do me a favor, will you, Fred?" I asked, glancing around, glad we were the only ones in the lobby. "Please don't say anything about this to anyone. I'm kind of enjoying being incognito around here." He grinned.

"On one condition," he said. "If you let me buy you a drink tomorrow after work I'll forget I even recognized you."

I felt my cheeks reddening. Incredibly, this man, obviously some years younger than I was, was hitting on me! I stammered an acceptance, feeling what had become an unfamiliar heat spreading through my lower belly. He smiled and slipped the book back into the bag. Winking, he turned away and punched the elevator button. As I opened the door to leave I heard him begin whistling happily. I was feeling pretty good myself!

I drove to my apartment feeling light and airy. My ego had needed that little boost. I kept telling myself I must have misinterpreted things. Likely he was a budding author who wanted to pick my brain instead of my pussy. Still his face was in my mind as I rubbed myself to orgasm that night.

My office was small. There was no receptionist, since there was no public area. There were just six desks in the main room and the chief editor had a private office. When the phone rang, one of us picked it up. The next day, just before noon, I happened to be the one. "Mindy Jardine, please" the voice said.

"This is she," I replied, "How may I help you?"

"Oh... uh, hi. This is Fred. Fred Coombs, you know, UPS?"

"Yes, Fred, I remember clearly," I laughed. "It was just yesterday we met, remember?"

"Yeah. Well, anyway, are we still on for that drink?"

Were we ever! I thought. "Yes, of course. When I make a deal, it's for keeps," I said. I was glad he couldn't see me blush. I was recalling my fantasy from the night before, where he pushed me down and ravaged me. I was definitely not in charge of anything!

"Well, how about if I come by and pick you up? I'm off work all day."

"Well, I have my car. Maybe we should just meet somewhere." We finally agreed, he gave me the address and directions to a bar and grill he knew. I told him I'd be there at 4:30. We hung up. I left work at 3:00. I zipped home, showered and changed clothes. Wearing a tan skirt and a green blouse, I put on fresh makeup and dabbed the tiniest bit of Chanel on my collarbone. On impulse, I hiked up my skirt and slipped the perfumed fingers into my panties, ruffling my bush. If he got that far I wanted him to have a surprise.

The place wasn't crowded. It was a kind of upscale sports bar with hanging plants as well as several large screen TV's. There was no sign of Fred. I took a table near one wall and ordered a glass of wine. I was starting to get a sinking feeling and beginning to feel every bit of my 49 years, thinking I'd been stupid. I'd been stood up.

Just then a voice behind me said, "I'm so sorry I'm late!" Turning, I saw Fred. He was dressed in his UPS uniform and I frowned. "I know," he said, seeing my surprise. "I got called in at the last minute. I tried to call you at work but they told me you'd already left. But I'm here now, so..." He lifted an arm and the bartender brought him a frosty Budweiser. "Thanks, Tom," Fred said. He straddled the chair across from me and grinned. He raised his bottle and I clinked it with my glass. "Here's to new friendships," he said.

I laughed. "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," I demurred. "How the hell did you get in here? I can see the door from here." He used his chin to indicate past my shoulder. There was a glass door leading to a side street.