Jack Loscutoff and I weren't young lovers, and neither of us could awaken an orgasm in the other, although we greatly enjoyed trying. We still aroused ourselves to orgasm, privately, me every week or so.
What a contrast to my youth! When young, I produced oodles of orgasms daily, even some sitting at my school desk by means of a calculated swift twist on my desk's wooden seat. However, in my seventies, a twist wasn't enough, so I settled for sporadic orgasms.
When Jack died, my orgasms stopped. Days passed, weeks, then months. I worried a bit, where had they gone? But probing yielded nothing of consequence. I resigned myself. Maybe a 77-year-old woman with no partner just had none.
Four months and almost two weeks later, I made arrangements to transfer Jack's money, what was left of it, into my personal account. Thinking about that made me realize how much I missed Jack. Heaps, wads, loads, gobs and scads. Slathers of money meant nothing.
As I wept and longed for his body, my clitoris itched. It roused, stretched, lifted its hood, and peered up from its pubic bone. I appeased it, studiously scrubbing behind its ears until it joined me in a brief but intense chorus of gratitude.
Lying flat in bed, still breathing heavily, I remembered the time my brother-in-law accidentally interrupted my aunt in orgasm. She was 93. Perhaps ancient orgasms run in the family, I thought, drifting into blissful sleep.
Written by Marilyn Coffey, in 1973 the first writer in the world to produce a novel written in English that featured female masturbation.
So why should she stop now?