Swinging in the 70s Ch. 01

"Hey, Dave," she said, "can Randy and I come over later?"

I recognized my sister-in-law's voice, of course, and said, "Sure." It was a Wednesday night and the most exciting thing we had planned was watching some silly sitcoms. The year was 1973 and if you wanted to catch a show you caught it when it was aired. VHS was still in the future and the internet was a computer guy's wet dream. "You're always welcome, what's up?

"Well, to tell the truth," she said in that musical voice of hers, "We want to talk to you guys about swinging."

Okay, as conversation stoppers go, that's a pretty good one, so I just said, "We'll be around all evening."

In 1973 my wife, Monica, was a Freshman and I was, technically a Junior although I was still taking Freshman level courses to fill in my core requirements. It turned out that the fancy tech schools I had attended in the Air Force translated into a whole bunch of college hours. Most of it was ridiculous, of course. I had three hours of Military History on my transcript, for example, based on, I suppose, successfully completing Air Force basic training. Because that's about all I had done even remotely military. Anyway, something like 120 college hours had been accepted making me, technically anyway, a junior. But I knew I had at least three years to go.

Monica and I married young. I was 20, and she was 19 when we went to the courthouse and got married by a judge. To this day, LO these MANY moons later, I still recall the final sentence of that archaic exchange of vows - To thee I plight my troth. Yeah, I had no idea what it meant but I said the words.

Shortly thereafter I became one of thousands of 1968 draftees who opted out of Vietnam by joining the Air Force. It took the Air Force almost a year to get me through the complex tech school and then we spent the next three years in Japan where I listened in on Chinese Communist radio communications and tried to figure out what the hell those guys were doing.

It didn't take long to discover that the Air Force would not be my career. I liked the work, but my tolerance for military bullshit was, effectively zero, hardly surprising for a 20-year-old baby boomer inundated practically daily with reports of how bad things were in Vietnam. Besides that, every cute girl I knew right up until I met my wife was anti-war, so if I wanted to date, that became my default position. But I lacked the commitment to burn my draft card, and thought too much of my dad to run to Canada, so I joined the Air Force instead.

My wife was a good Catholic girl, and the only one of five sisters who got out of the house not pregnant which was surprising because she wasn't a virgin our first time together. I, on the other hand, was always careful. No rubbers, I was a pull-out kind of a guy, but it worked. And besides, the girls I had been with, ((chuckles)) all four of them at the time, seemed to enjoy the sensation. But we were both of the generation that felt like we, well, we owned each other, you know? We were exclusive.

And that's how we lived. In the Air Force, while not something I thought of as terribly military, it was a life that tended to be nomadic for those who stayed in and was hard on marriages. In the group of which we were a part, there was a casual approach to adultery, what we called "wife-swapping" in those days. Monica and I kind of laughed about it but didn't participate.

When we got home we returned to Monica's hometown where the local campus of the state university system offered outrageously affordable schooling. In-state tuition was, in 1973, 85 dollars per semester, and that included textbooks. The story was that the long-time president of the university had contacts at the state legislature. But however it happened, I was happy to go to school full-time and live on the GI Bill.

We had been frugal, so we bought a used car for cash and found a little 10 X 50 house trailer that we could afford to pay for with cash too. And that transaction changed our lives.

My next-door neighbor in the little trailer park, and it was a nice place to live, a couple of dozen trailer pads cut into the woods, was another veteran and one of those guys who has a knack for meeting people. John knew everybody in the park, and that included his sister, Sandy, and her husband, Tom.

Monica and I were serious students.

Well, we were serious students eight hours a day. We both figured that was our job. We both carried 4.0 averages (yeah, on a 4-point scale). But it was a JOB for us, and when the clock on the wall said 5:01 the desk lamp would go out, the books would be set aside, you'd hear that satisfying "Pawhoosh" sound of a beer opening, and we'd fire up a joint.

We partied, at least in terms of drinking, smoking pot, and often having a few friends over, literally every night.

And the sex was good. Hell, it was better than ever. We were of that generation that pretty much stuck with the missionary position. But with all of the casual sex and the sexual innuendo in almost every conversation, we were getting more creative.

Monica was a tiny woman. When I met her, on a blind date as it happened, the attraction had been when her friend described her as "four foot eleven with a southern accent." The description had been accurate. She was 4'11" in bare feet, 34C-28-36, a slightly bottom-heavy hourglass, and cute rather than pretty.

In many ways, besides her height, she was Ms. Average, the perfect counterpoint to my Mr. Average (at that time I was 5'10", 165 pounds, and wore 30/30 jeans, a medium (15 1/2 X 32) shirt, and a 38R jacket. I saved a lot of money buying things that had been on the mannequin when displays were changed.

Monica was the same. She had dirty blonde hair worn short. Brown eyes, wide set, were I thought, her best feature. She had a slightly oversized nose, slightly undersized ears, a generous mouth, and freckles. Cute, not pretty.

With her clothes off, though, she was pretty damn nice. Her shoulders were broad, her breasts a legitimate C cup looked much bigger on her small body, her waist wouldn't qualify as "wasp-waisted," but gave her a nice hourglass figure, and her slightly oversized hips gave her a hint of a pear shape. She had good legs, slightly heavy in the thighs, GREAT calves, and cute little feet.

This was in the early 1970s and we were kind of reveling in our newfound role as hippies so I threw away her razor. She turned out to be one of those women with very sparse body hair. Between her legs, her mons veneris, that lovely Mound of Venus that presents a woman's sex, was covered with very straight, very sparse hair exactly the same color as that on her head. In her armpits, the hair that grew in matched that between her legs, and on her legs the hair was never very visible, even after a year without the razor.

Her pussy was a mere slit. We had no children so there had been none of the strain that makes women who have delivered vaginally dangle. I thought of it as a tidy little pussy and I liked it very much.

In many ways, though, her ass was her best feature. It was small but still slightly oversized on her small frame. It made the perfect inverted heart shape when seen from behind, the heart bisected by the line of her gluteal cleft, her ass crack. She showed incipient dimpling on it and since I'd seen her mother and sisters I figured that by 40 it would be a very big ass but for now it was a pretty ass.

All of which brings me to that weird phone call from Myra. I told Monica about it and her reaction surprised me.

She smiled.

"Oh, shit," I said, laying my palms against her cheeks when she tried to look away, "You're interested."

Her eyes were darting around, deliberately avoiding mine.

I held her like that, my palms against her cheeks, not allowing her to look away.

"You are, aren't you," I said, holding her as she tried to twist her face away.

She was crying now. Not sobbing, but tears and snot were running.

Monica is cute, but she's not when she cries. Her face was red, her eyes swollen, and her sinuses swollen giving her face a puffy look.

I kissed her, softly.

"Say it," I said.

She drew a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

"Yes," she said, her eyes meeting mine now, almost defiant, "I'm interested."

I kissed her again.

"It's okay," I said, "I am too."

We stood like that for one of those timeless times. It might have been a minute or so. It might have been an hour.

Finally, I pushed her to arm's length, smiled, and said, "For Christ's sake, wash your face. We have company coming."

That broke the mood. She giggled, kissed me a quick kiss on the lips, a snotty slick kiss, and headed for the bathroom.

She came back with her face clean and, I noted, made up, something she rarely did these days. She had changed into a new top, too, the clingy material irritating her nipples so that they were very obvious.

When Myra and Randy knocked I invited them in, offered beer, and lit a joint. We passed the pot around and drank our beers.

I won't try to replicate the conversation here. We talked for a half hour or so, talking about whether we were interested in swinging, wife wife-swapping. And the answer, as we all knew it would be, was, "Yes."

Finally, high and a little drunk, I stood, bent over, kissed my wife, and turned to her sister. "Myra," I said, "take me home and have your way with me." Top Gun was still decades in the future or I would have said, "Take me to bed, Goose, or lose me forever."

It was kind of funny, looking back on it. We had been talking for a half hour about doing this but when I made the offer, for an instant she got that deer-in-the-headlights panicky look we've all seen from time to time.

But it didn't last long.

She stood, kissed Randy, took my hand, and we left.

I'm pretty sure if our car had a bench seat she would have scooted across and spent the ride with her head on my shoulder. Instead, she found a rock and roll station on the radio and sang along in her clear soprano voice.

As we got close to their house she said, very matter-of-factly, "I'm nervous," and followed that with an appropriately nervous giggle.

I made a point of keeping my eyes straight ahead and replied, "Yeah, me too. Want to change your mind?"

She laughed and said, "Fuck no. I've wanted some of you since the first time I met you."

The last couple of minutes of the drive were spent in nervous banality.

At their house, we held hands walking to the door. She did the key, opened the door, and as soon as we were inside she threw her arms around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss.

It turns out, my sister-in-law is a world-class kisser. She's the Goldilocks of kissers. Just the right amount of pressure. Just the right amount of tongue contact. Just the right amount of contact of her hands on my back. Just the right amount of contact between our bodies as she did that thing a few women have mastered, molding herself to me.

And I like to think I gave as good as I got. My lips met hers, my tongue met hers, my body met hers. And my hands explored, not demanding, just exploring. I found the strength under the softness of her shoulders. I traced the little bumps of her vertebrae of her spine. I caressed the shape of her waist, still thick after giving birth a year before.

Oh, yeah. It was a VERY good kiss.

"Come on," she said, taking my hand and starting to turn away, "Before I lose my nerve."

I stopped her, and she turned back to me.

"Myra," I said, holding her eyes with mine, "I am many things but 'rapist' is not among them. You can stop any time."

She smiled and repeated, "Come on, before I lose my nerve."

This time I followed her.

In the bedroom, a surprisingly girly bedroom I noticed, with lots of pink, she turned and reached for the hem of my T-shirt and started pulling it up.

"No," I said, catching her hands in mine, "Let me do the work tonight."

She smiled, and she had a very nice smile, and said, "Okay."

Myra is the prettiest of the sisters. She has dark hair, not quite black, an oval face, hazel eyes, and a wide mouth with full lips. She's not beautiful, but she's pretty in that girl-next-door way that makes you think of Annette Funicello or, more recently, Marie Osmond.

She was dressed in that "uniform" of the young in the 1970s. I caught the hem of her T-shirt in my hands and started peeling it off of her. She lifted her arms to help and I kissed unshaved armpits while I held her helpless with her arms still caught in the shirt. It was the 1970s remember, and many of the girls were making the feminist "statement" by throwing away their razors.

She squealed and giggled but I held her, deliberately tickling with my tongue.

I released her, finally, laughing, and finished getting the shirt off. I threw it, dramatically I thought, across the room.

We had been swimming before, so I wasn't surprised by her shape. She was heavy-chested, fresh from giving birth and breastfeeding. Her waist had thickened with pregnancy and childbirth and her hips widened. She was, in other words, a woman where my wife, a few years Myra's senior, was still a girl.

Sometimes I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, or the brightest bulb in the chandelier, or, well, pick your silly metaphor.

It took several seconds before I realized what I was looking at.

She was wearing a nursing bra.

I touched the hook of the flap on it and met her eyes.

"Really?" I asked.

She smiled then, a beatific smile fully of pure happiness, and reached up, undid the hook, and pulled the flap down.

Her breast was heavy, her nipple a dark brown the color of a Hershey's kiss, and when she rolled it between her thumb and forefinger a drop of thick white milk formed.

"Randy liked it almost as much as Sam," she said, smiling. "I don't think I'm ever going to let them go dry."

I was about as hard as a 25-year-old healthy human male can be, and that's MIGHTY hard.

I reached around, found the hooks to her bra, and unhooked it. Her arms went, for an instant, almost instinctively, hard against her sides, holding it in place. But then she giggled, moved her arms, and let it fall free. Her breasts were heavy with milk and sagged dramatically. They both showed those drops of milk as it let down with her excitement. Large dark areolas framed large, darker nipples. It was a good rack.

I had promised to do the work, so I reached for the tail of her belt, gave a tug, freed it from the prong of her buckle, and let it hang free. Then I did the button and zipper before getting to my knees and taking her feet into my lap to untie the tennis shoes she wore. Shoes and socks off, feet tickled making her giggle and almost fall, I started working the tight jeans down. Her hips showed the changes pregnancy had worked on her body, and it was physical work to get the jeans past them but then they fell to pool at her feet.

Her panties were simple full-cut cotton panties, what Hugh Grant called "Grannie Panties" in Bridget Jones' Diary. I rolled them down, stopping at her knees, effectively hobbling her. To say she was generously endowed with pubic hair is an understatement. A thick thatch of curly almost black, very coarse hair spread from the hollows of her hips down her thighs an inch or so below her pussy. I bent forward, kissed it, and inhaled deeply, her womanscent, amazingly, making me even harder.

I finished rolling the panties down so she could step out of them and then said, "Up on the bed now, Myra."

I watched as she crawled onto the bed, interested to see that thatch of hair spread across the bottom of her ass.

It was a good ass at that. Like the rest of her body, it showed the strain of first carrying and then delivering a baby that weighed almost 10 pounds. It was round, the classic inverted heart shape, and showed incipient cellulite dimpling. She hadn't yet, and I thought maybe never would, lose the baby fat. Okay, if I'm being honest here, I HOPED she wouldn't lose the baby fat. It was a good ass.

I made a show of undressing for her. Monica always enjoyed a good strip tease and I had honed my skills. When I pushed the boxers down and turned, my erection was so damn hard it was throbbing and pointing straight up my body.

"Well, hello there," she said, her smile that of a child seeing a shiny new toy, "I can think of several things to do with that."

She parted her legs and pulled her knees back slightly, offering herself.

Her pussy, exposed like that, was so unlike any I had ever seen before that I just stared for a long moment. This was the first woman who had given birth that I ever saw, and her pussy absolutely fascinated me. First, it was the hairiest damn thing I'd ever seen, that thick, coarse, curly hair ran down the inside of her thighs before thinning out as it ran almost to her knees.

And she dangled.

Her outer lips were full, swollen with her excitement. I could see that even through the thick pubic hair. But it was her inner lips, those delicate, pink, labia minora that would seal me tightly when I was inside of her, that were the most obvious. They dangled, hanging loose in that frame of black, thick hair, and as I watched a thick string of very clear mucus, her natural lubricant, stretched until it touched the sheet under her ass.

I guess I was kind of hypnotized. I know I was fascinated.

She giggled, reached down, and used her fingertips to open herself up, offering herself in that way only a woman can.

And I accepted her offer.

I crawled up, kissed where she held herself open, and then moved forward farther to slip inside.

And, again, I was captivated by how different she was from any other woman I had ever been with. Well, let me rewrite that.

And, again, I was captivated by how different she was from any other girl I had ever been with.

And that was the difference. My previous encounters had been with girls. This was a woman, a mother, and I was reveling in the changes that status had wrought on her body. The saggy, milk-filled breasts. The thickened waist. The spread hips. Those beautiful stretch marks. And now, that stretched out, loose, pussy.

But suddenly she wasn't loose. She squeezed muscles I didn't know a woman had. All four of my previous encounters had been with, well, as I say, girls.

I gasped and she giggled.

"You like that, Davey?" she asked, "Or do you prefer," and she relaxed, loose again.

"Squeeze," I said and kissed her as she did it.

"Harder," I whispered into her ear.

She grunted, and I hissed as the pressure was so great it bordered on painful.

"Stay with me," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

I did, but barely. Her hips rocked slowly, and her body did that serpentine thing some women can do, moving almost bonelessly. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulled me down for a kiss, and came.

Her entire body went rigid and her fingers, at the back of my neck, dug in painfully in her ecstasy.

The instant she relaxed, I came, my body responding to evolution's demand, pumping sperm deep into her, seeking her egg.

She grabbed my ass with an audible smacking sound, wrapped powerful legs around my waist, and hissed a long, sibilant, "yessss."

I don't know how long we lay like that, locked together. Her fingers dug into my back suddenly and she said, "Can't breathe." We both giggled as I lifted off of her, managing to find the strength for that.

Beside her now, I snuggled closer, sharing a pillow, moving so close our lips touched and the tiniest movement became a kiss.

"We should do this more often," I said.

She giggled and said, "Okay, any time you want."

We kissed for a while, hands exploring and caressing, and drifted off.

That is how my first night as an adulterer, or a swinger if you prefer, ended.