Halfway through our eighth decade, our productive years behind us, and still in lusty good health, sex is our favorite topic. Today, gratitude and excitement fill me as I remember my introduction to my first real-life cock.

Looking back over the intervening decades, across the lumpy terrain of social change, my lifelong bestie Ella and I see ourselves as two glowing outliers, tall poppies in a field of low grasses. Almost electric, our recognition across the masses at the year’s first high school assembly. The cord between us was immediately so compelling, it’s a wonder, living for sixteen years in the same, little city, sharing so many interests, that this was the first time our eyes locked. Solitaries, we mutually elected each other siblings, and so it has ever been since.

Six decades later, we two not-so-old-feeling ladies, in the last chapters of exciting lives, are living together again, amusing ourselves by (among other things!) recalling old adventures before we forget. Maybe someone will enjoy reading our stories.

– o –

From my carefully preserved journal, September 18th, 1964

I was right about Ella, the cellist. It’s like we’ve been friends forever. We got to Berkeley High by different routes, but there was something special between us. Talking with her is like a whole different level than any friend before, like intimate, like she sees inside! Our birthdays are exactly one month apart, so we’re almost birthday twins.

The deal closed in Orchestra when we were seated next to each other in the ‘cello section. “Why did you choose ‘cello?” I asked.

“Because I love the feeling of its vibrations between my legs,” Ella immediately replied.

October 1st, 1964

That lummox Brother Ben called us “sisters” today, then laughed his ass off. She was short, curvy, and coffee-colored, me so skinny and blonde. I love looking at her, and she keeps touching my arm when we sit together after school, so I guess she doesn’t mind. I wouldn’t want boobs quite that big, but I wouldn’t mind a little more. Slumber party Saturday, my house. As usual, Dad won’t be home, and I want to show my Mom to Ella.

October 4th, 1964

Just like Mr. T predicted! when he said that smart teenagers are sexier.

Mom and Ella took to each other like the opposite poles of a magnet, click! I think they’d like to adopt each other. After dinner E and I went to my room and played a record she brought, The Singles, one of her Momma’s, to explain why she’s named Ella. A warm Indian Summer night, the late low sun boiling through my big west window. Mom came in to listen with us as usual in her robe, nothing under, and pretty casual about keeping it closed. When Dad’s not home, Mom walks around naked, and so do I, ‘cuz the way our house is, on our west-facing hill, nobody can look in the front windows! I started out being embarrassed . . .but Ella skinned out of her sweats down to her bra and panties and said, “C’mon, Gracie, show us some of that delicious white skin! It’s HOT in here.”

“You are such a yummy color, Ella,” says Mom. “Doesn’t she make you feel albino, Grace?”

Yes, Ella wore her yummy chocolate skin so gracefully . . . and those globes! Makes my full-busted Mom look small.

Later, when E and I squeezed onto my narrow bed, we couldn’t help touching – she’s very touchy-feely – and I tingled in places where I didn’t even know I had places!

I awoke to a pair of green eyes examining me closely, and then E reached out and ran her forefinger down my nose. When she touched my lips, I don’t know why, I opened my mouth and licked her finger. Was that a faint taste of pussy? After just a moment’s hesitation, so I knew that was okay, she withdrew. I so wanted to touch her right back!

– o –

It funny how silent my journal is about the way our intimacy developed – some sense of propriety? Luckily, nowadays, memories of those high school years together are among our most vivid.

“Remember the first time I touched myself when we were alone together?” asks Ella. Do I ever! Of course, I masturbated; my mother gave me an article to read, showed me how, and shared her speaking handouts with me thereafter, to the point that I stopped being embarrassed. Yet somehow self-stimulation was more like a clinical release, something to do to reduce stress. Here was my luscious best friend, lying on my bed in a puddle of the afternoon sun, her legs spread and her hand inside her panties, and me staring, transfixed. “You care to help me with this?” ventures Ella.

Again, the colors: so different. Maybe I never really saw my own sex until I pulled Ella’s briefs down her muscular legs and saw her dark pink lips and clitoris peeking out of the black bush and brown surround. “Give me your hand,” Ella instructed, and she slipped my forefinger into her juicy slit and drew it up to caress her sensitive knob with my second fingertip. An electric shock went straight from my hand to my cunt, and I felt myself moisten. A weekend to remember: Mom gone to a conference, Dad away as usual, and all weekend just the two of us naked or scantily dressed, ruling the house. And now this!

Luckily, I had another hand that found its way of its own accord into my panties and plunged into my already wet hole.

“Yes, I remember that weekend,” says Ella. “I remember coming in every room of your house. You would come up behind me in the kitchen as I was chopping carrots, and run your hand between my cheeks and up my ever-ready slit, and . . . boom!”

“You joined me in the shower and showed me how my nipples were connected to my clit. I had an orgasm with the hot water running between my legs and you standing behind me twiddling my nips.”

“Oh, my goodness, Grace: those virginal nipples! Puffy, and so quick to pucker and pooch proudly out like pencil erasers. I remember how badly I wanted to suck them.”

“But you didn’t. Not that weekend.”

“What did it take us, a whole week before we went oral?”

“Maybe two? Sunday night, I remember, we vowed to slow down. I think I had a dozen orgasms that weekend, and of a wholly different order, earthquakes, the walls of my modesty tumbling down.”

“I guess so because you were the one . . .”

“Oh, sweet flower, your boobs were so bountiful, those areolae so tempting. You were pretending to nap in the sunny afternoon, impossibly firm and high-breasted. I so envied those orbs! I didn’t want to wake you, and tried to kiss your nipples so gently.”

“I know. I pretended to sleep, to see how far you’d go, how long I could keep up the charade. You knew, didn’t you, that I was playing possum when you reached down and slipped your finger into my slippery slit?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember, because the memory of my own lust to pleasure you was so intense. What I do remember is when your hand found my moist center and penetrated me. That was the first time anything besides my fingers had been inside me.”

“Grace, are you getting aroused talking like this? I am. Let’s go take a nap . . .”

Surely one of the enduring blessings of being a woman is that one’s ability to cum does not diminish with great age.