Chapter 9

I only had a couple of more group sex experiences when I was thrown out of the group. It was Peg, the pilot's wife and Admiral's daughter, who exiled me. She was the entrepreneur of the group, calling Brandon to schedule "meetings" whenever her husband was out of town.

Steve and I were at a big cocktail party and Peg and her husband were also there. Peg and I affected not to know each other and I immediately liked her husband, Bob. He was an aw-shucks country boy with a shock of unruly blond hair, an engaging smile, and the quiet arrogance characteristic of men who do dangerous things for a living. I spent most of the party talking to him and he gave me what was more than a perfunctory kiss when we left the party. Peg seemed a bit irritated at the attention her husband paid me.

To make a long story short, at a later party, I ended up getting drunk and going to bed with Bob, a most pleasant experience. I was happily anticipating a return engagement. But the day after my little tryst with Bob the phone rang. It was Peg. "You fucked my husband!" she shouted.

I wasn't sure how to answer. "I ... uh ... well ... I was drunk," I tried to explain. I hadn't thought of it as being a big deal. Peg, after all, was regularly getting ass-fucked by five guys at our group sex parties, so I figured that her husband had some freedom also.

"Nobody fucks my husband!" she shouted. "Nobody!" She slammed the phone down.

About a week later, Steve said to me, "I've been invited to another group sex party at Brandon's.

"Well, that's nice. Will Peg be there? She doesn't seem to like me."

"Yes, Peg will be there. And you're not invited. Brandon said he was sorry but Peg told him not to invite you."

My pride was hurt and I was furious, mostly at Brandon for being a wimp. How could Peg dictate who Brandon invited to his parties? But, on reflection, I didn't really care much. Abbie had gone back to college. I had enjoyed looking at and playing with her splendid body. Peg, by contrast, reminded me of a bulldog. And I had to admit that part of my attraction to Bob was because he was Peg's husband so I wasn't totally innocent of malice. Moreover, and most importantly, Steve said he wasn't going to the party if I wasn't invited. That made me feel good – and he took me to bed that night. That made me feel even better, although Steve, much as I adored him, was not a great lover. His interest was more on quantity than quality. And, I later fucked Bob again I hope Peg knew.

My experiences with group sex didn't entirely end there. Steve would occasionally invite a willing friend or two over and we would all go to bed together. The following summer Abbie came back to Bangkok from college again and we three had some lovely experiences. I loved Abbie. I would have been the happiest woman to the world to go to bed every night with Steve and Abbie.

I continued working at the refugee camp from Sunday afternoon until Friday morning, spending Friday and Saturday nights at Steve's house. Under the terms of my contract, I worked eleven months every year and then took a month vacation. On vacation I spent a week in Europe then continued on to Kansas to see friends and family. I had good, although not especially close, relations with both my children and I adored my first grandchild. I spent two or three days with Carrie in Denver and always saw Sue in Kansas City. Along the way I usually met a man or two.

After my second year in Bangkok, however, my vacation included a mission of mercy in the States. I have an older brother named Michael. He's five years older than I am. He joined the army when I was 13 years old and I hadn't seen much of him over the years. He had been successful in the army, rising from private to lieutenant colonel during his 30 years of service, but the Army discovered that he had cancer on his retirement physical. He had spent most of a year in treatment for the disease. My mother stayed with him at his apartment in Los Angeles, but she needed a break and I said I would spend a week with Mike. I barely knew Mike and, frankly, I wasn't looking forward to the experience.

I was shocked to see Mike when I arrived at the LA airport. He had always been a powerful man, six feet tall and a rock-hard 170 pounds. Now, he looked gaunt and older. He was 30 pounds lighter, his face was drawn, his skin sagging and sallow. The chemotherapy had caused him to lose his hair, although he always kept his head shaved so that was no big change. Most of all he had a tentativeness about him. Mike had always been so confident, now he had a tic in his cheek and a distracting habit of pursing his lips while he talked. But he was in good spirits. "Chemo over," he said, with a show of heartiness, "And I'm on the road to recovery."

Mike had been divorced for many years and, like me, he had hopped in and out of a lot of beds. I could see the attraction women had for him. He had a way of giving a woman 100 percent of his attention – flattering, and also a bit intimidating. But, this time, as we met at the airport, and talked in the taxi enroute to his apartment it was clear to me that the terms of our relationship had changed. My take-charge brother was no more. I was in charge. That made me uncomfortable.

The first two days we were together we talked as we had not for many years and went out to a movie and I cooked decent meals for him -- my mother being a horrible cook, we joked. I slept on a pull-out couch in his one-bedroom, one-bath apartment.

My second night there I heard him shout in the night. I rushed into his bedroom to see what was the matter. He was having a bad dream, thrashing around in his bed, agitated and sweating. I shook him awake, "Mike, please. Wake up. It's only a dream." The bedside light was on.

His eyes snapped open and he looked confused. Then, recognizing me, he pulled me to him and sobbed on my breast. I sat down on the bed and cradled his head in my arms and on my lap. "It's the pain killers. And the chemo," he said. "I have terrible dreams. I'm afraid of the dark." He was still trying to catch his breath between sobs and his cheeks were streaked with tears. My soldier brother, always so sure of himself, was a big baby.

Mike was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts which gapped open as he sobbed in my lap. I noticed that he had no pubic hair. I had always wondered whether cancer treatment caused you to lose your pubic hair. Now I knew. I was wearing flannel pajama shorts and a loose tank top. Mikes head was resting in my lap and he was brushing against my breasts. I don't think the touching was deliberate. Mike was too wrought up from fear and sobbing, but as I sat there with him I couldn't help thinking that only the thinnest and loosest of fabric separated his mouth from my clitoris. I suppressed the thought.

I stayed with Mike until he was again sleeping soundly. I felt very close to Mike. He was no longer the stranger who was also my brother. We had a connection. I'm alone in the world and I wanted to be needed. Mike needed me.

The next morning I was standing at the stove cooking breakfast -- still in my pajama bottoms and t-shirt -- when he came out of the bedroom and hugged me from behind. "Thanks for last night," he said. "I'm sorry."

I turned around and pulled him to me and kissed him on the forehead. "You've been sick, silly boy. That's what I'm here for." As I hugged him, I couldn't help but feel his partial erection. "So," I thought, "he was not rendered totally incapable by the chemotherapy." I mentally chastised myself for the thought, gave him another squeeze and felt my nipples harden as my breasts pressed against his bare chest. I turned away, hoping he wouldn't notice their outline poking through the t-shirt, and announced that the coffee was ready.

We had a fun day and I began to believe that my brother was going to get well. That changed my outlook. Previously, I had pitied him and my stay with him was a family duty. Now, I liked him and was enjoying his company.

That night, we went to bed as usual, he in the bedroom, I on the sofa, but about two a.m., I was awakened by the sound of him sobbing and talking in his sleep. I rushed to him and sat down on the bed and, again, cradled his head on my lap. He was sweating. I got a wet towel and began to wipe away the sweat on his face and shoulders. He slowly relaxed.